Lonely Night for Nighthawks
By Nick Brown

A quarter past midnight the door swings open. The cook, busying himself by stacking glasses, glances at his wristwatch. The late customers are early tonight. Smiling at the paradoxical quality of that statement, he approaches the customer who just sat down at the counter. Setting his fedora down, the man grumbles that he'd like a cup of coffee: black. From under the counter the cook produces a marble white mug and fills it at a cylindrical coffee dispenser, a scent of dark coffee briefly floods his nostrils as well as hot wisps of steam. He slides the mug to the man across the counter who nods and emits a tiny "Thanks," never looking up at the cook. 

The cook was used to this kind of attitude from the late crowd. If you're here at night it's either because you have nowhere better to be, or this is the best place you can go to. He returns to the back of the diner, rearranging cups, glasses, and making sure each pepper-shaker had a twin salt-shaker to go next to. Deciding he'd best leave the gloomy customer alone, he drifts back into the kitchen.

From outside, the diner casts an eerie glow out onto the pavement. An unnatural sickly green pours out from the fluorescent lights, illuminating the corner. Above the diner an advertisement for Phillies Cigars ("Only 5 cents!") is barely visible in the glow. The name of the establishment completely shrouded in shadows. The night: still, dead and lonely. This part of the city was like that, not full of bustling night life like the rest of The City That Never Sleeps. That factor made this desolate block a haven for the less sociable night owls. A night like this was no exception.

Across the street a woman sits with her hands in her lap. She sits on a bench with her eyes downcast, her shoulders sloped and sad. A crisp and steady breeze blows her dazzling red dress, the same red as the lipstick she had smeared on earlier that night. She had run away from dinner with her boyfriend three hours ago and she still has yet to return to her apartment. Now her eyes, puffy and red, are all but out of tears. A cabbie rolls by, catching the woman's attention as she looks up at the dull yellow of the streetcar and then the sick green of the diner lights. Her mouth is agape at who she sees inside.

A second man in a fedora sits down at the counter, at a stool on the smallest side of the triangular counter. He's younger than the first patron, with a big pointed nose like the beak of a bird. The cook peers out of the kitchen sees that he has a new customer, then hurriedly gets up from his game of solitaire and greets his latest guest. This second man with the beak asks for water. A tad surprised at this request, the cook replies "Certainly," grabs another opaque mug and fills it up at the kitchen sink. Sliding the mug to the man the cook said "On the house" and then rolls his tongue around, as if saying something so cliche actually left a bad taste. But he isn't about to charge a man for water. This young man with the beak actually looks at the cook and utters a more respectful thanks than the first customer. The cook notices just how young this new customer is, and how sad and tired his eyes look. As a rule the cook never pesters his customers about their lives, especially not the night crew, but with this man he just had to know. 

With a sober expression, the young man tells the cook his girlfriend ran away after he had proposed at dinner. Shocked, the cook asks why. The man swallows hard before saying he'd been drafted and would be heading for the Pacific in less than three months. She had just found out about it earlier that day. He is very sympathetic towards the man but at the same time is glad he was old enough to not face a draft. Deep down he is even a little glad the man had his potential fiance run away, seeing as the cook never had a wife or even a serious lover. He heads back into the kitchen but not without first reminding his patrons that if they need anything they just have to call for him. 

But before he can return to his game of solitaire the diner's door opens once again and a cool night breeze blows in. Along with it enters a beautiful woman with auburn hair and a short crimson dress. Gliding across the checkered floor she takes the stool next to the younger man drinking the mug of water. The cook walks back out and asks her what she would like, and she asks for coffee with plenty of sugar and cream. For the third time the cook produces a mug from under the counter and fills it with rich black coffee from the countertop contraption and plenty of milky cream and white sugar. Handing it to the woman she expresses her thanks and hands the cook a dime, 3 cents more than a cup of coffee costs at the diner. "The rest is your tip" she assures him. 

Tucking the silver coin in his back pocket the cook notices the woman hasd to be the young man's lover. Slyly, she grabbs the hand of the man next to her and the two give each other a sideways glance. Realizing they'd made eye contact, they avert their eyes and stare down at the table, but their faces start to form a slight smile. The silent, gloomy man down the counter finally speaks, "You two should consider yourselves lucky." He swirls his coffee around in its mug before setting it down. The cook agrees. Then, peering out the window the cook says, "He's right. It's a lonely night for us nighthawks."

You read the article, now see the video!

Check out the light installation from the Writing feature "Thinking in Pictures." It resides on the corner of 125th street and Park Avenue in Manhattan, in the second story windows of an unsuspecting building. Commuters on the elevated train tracks beside it can see it daily. But for those of you living outside of the infamous metropolis, check it out below.

In Issue 1, we asked you to send us your Arabian Nights Stories. Congratulations to Samantha Heppermann! Here is yours!

The Immortal Camel
By Samantha Heppermann

"My dear Scheherazade," said the king Schahriar, "will you please tell me the story of the prince you were talking about last night. It sounded interesting, and you promised me that you would tell another one of your enchanting stories. If you refuse I might have to kill you, and that would be a great shame.
            "I guess I shall tell you the story. Now listen closely," said Scheherazade, "this is the story of a camel and a greedy prince.
            "There was once a very wise and kind king. He was over a hundred years old and greatly loved by the people of his kingdom. Even though the king was at an advanced age, he was still the healthiest person in the kingdom. He had ruled the kingdom for half his life, and still had a strong heart and participated in the army with a fierce fist.
            "The king had a very successful life, and had the perfect family, or so he thought. His wife was the loveliest woman in the kingdom, and she loved him very faithfully. They had a boy who had the face of an angel, and was most generous. He seemed to deeply care about the kingdom and the king was at peace knowing that his son would succeed him. No one knew though, that the prince had a great amount of bitterness in him. He hated the way his father ruled, and thought the kingdom should be more of a dictatorship. He would also be very cruel to those who were not beautiful as he was; the prince believed that his angel-like face gave him authority over all the ugly. The prince should have been throw out of the kingdom, but only his personal guards knew of his bitterness.
            "One night the prince arranged a secret meeting. He and a few guards in the kingdom's army were there. He was trying to devise a plan to kill his father, but none of the guards would do it, so the prince thought of a plan himself. 
            "The next night the prince was going to sneak into his father's room, capture him, and send him to a far away country.
            "I will be king soon!" thought the prince.
            "As he was walking to his father's room, a genie jumped out at him."
            "BOO! Leave you naughty prince!" screamed the genie.
            "The prince was greatly startled by this. He forgot all about his plan and ran all the way back to his quarters.
            "Back in his room the prince was enraged."
            "That stupid genie. Now my plan is ruined. I will summon my own genie and demand him to punish the genie that scared me. Rise genie!" said the prince.
            "What is it your highness?" said the genie.
            "I demand you to punish the genie that ruined my plan," said the prince. 
            "Oh, I am afraid that I cannot do that my highness. A genie cannot harm one of its own kind. It just cannot be done. But, before you get too angry, I can grant you something else. I can grant you a camel. This is not an ordinary camel though. When this camel dies, you will be able to follow through with your plan to get rid of the king," said the genie. The prince thought about this for a while then finally decided that this was a good idea. "I must warn you though, this camel is ..." said the genie. 
   "I do not need your warnings," said the prince, "now be gone." Then the genie left and the prince was left alone with the camel. "That silly genie. This will be easy. I shall simply have the camel executed in the morning and then I will be king," said the prince and then he went to sleep. What he prince did not know though, was that the camel was an immortal camel, and if he ever tried to kill it, an extra 100 years would be added on to the happy king's life.
            "So, for 100 days and 100 nights the prince tried to have the camel killed. The prince never succeeded, and the camel and the king still live on today, happily ruling their kingdom. The prince left the kingdom and determined to have a kingdom of his own but that is the beginning of another tale."
            "Oh Scheherazade what a lovely story, will you please tell me another one, about the prince," asked Schahriar. 
            "Another time Schahriar, another time."