The Eastland Water Spirits

At that moment, heartbreaker Victor was in the kitchen preparing to hose down a heaping bin of dirty plates and silverware from the day’s first wave of customers. He was sick of this job - so sticky and stinky - but was helping out his Tía Ana with her new business and making a few bucks before classes begin. He was OK with it. Except the hours, especially since he was still hung-over from a late night out with his cousin, Andy the cook.

Victor grabbed the coiled hose to rinse the caked filth. People are such slobs, he thought. He glanced out to the dining area and saw the two Asian American women. Sisters? He had seen the younger one before. Might be time for a trip to the dining area, maybe bring the fresh-brewed hazelnut to the sisters. Dump the apron and stupid hair net. Right after this bin of dishes. He clenched the faucet spray handle but nothing came out. Instead of hearing the high-pressure water stream, he heard a gurgling noise from deep in the drain, a subterranean groan.

As he stared into the end of the hose, a purple spray spewed out, hitting Victor in the face. It was cold like needles, an icy mist that left a purplish residue on his face. It did not stop when he released the handle, just continued to billow throughout the kitchen.

“Yo, Victor, what the hell?” Andy yelled as purple fog flowed unabated from the faucet.

“I can’t stop it, man! It got me in the face,” Victor yelled back to his cousin, inhaling another deep lungful of whatever emanated from below. Victor was more than stunned: his throat clenched, he could not speak. His fingers froze into place and within seconds he was immobile, hunched over a bin of filthy plates, his least-favorite thing. Semiconscious, his apron bathed in purple, he watched helplessly as the steam engulfed his cousin, Andy, and Andy’s new girlfriend, the new cook.

Andy thought he was seeing things after their night of tequila. He saw Victor freeze in position, but as he walked over to help, he too felt the icy fog and inhaled it. For a brief moment, he noticed a sweet odor - what was it? - then he also was immobile, staring down at a sizzling bison-burger he was grilling.

The purple steam would not be denied as it glided silently through the kitchen, down the hall, through the alcove and then gingerly into the dining room. The three elderly guys from Chinatown were seated next to the kitchen - their regular spot - and were the first customers to be hit. All three took deep breaths of the rather pleasant smelling smoke, felt a chill and lapsed into paralysis.

Greeting patrons at the door, Ana heard a ruckus in the kitchen and felt the temperature drop before she saw the violet smoke enter the dining area. She turned to see it hit the hipsters, then the Guatemalan cabbie and his two sons, then Beth and Beth’s sister, who had just started in on their waffle and churros.

There was no time to run or scream, it moved so furtively and quickly. Ana watched it come to her, as if seeking an exit, then it whooshed by her and the arriving customers, leaving them all paralyzed. With her fingers froze around a handful of menus, Ana stared at the purple mist as it left the diner, headed to the riverbank and disappeared.

Jen was floating through some sort of greenhouse, purple flowers everywhere. Chilly, but such a pleasant fragrance! Lavender? She was staring at a tulip. Echoes, distant noises, voices. She was numbly semi-conscious - look at Beth frozen over her waffle! - but was seeing other images, too. Some buildings, they look familiar. For a second, she was lucid enough to muse if this was a flashback from her wild college clubbin’ days. Trance-like, ecstatic, frigid, purple, aromatic, reverberations, nausea. Orchids? Someone talking to her.

Ana’s son Andy was the first to snap out of it. Victor had taken a direct hit of the purple stuff and was a frozen statue over the bin of dirty dishes. Andy rushed over to his new girlfriend who was also paralyzed, felt nauseous and vomited an ocean of purple puke. He stared at it, shocked. It was glowing! Glowing purple, like a neon sign for a dive tavern. Almost radioactive. Andy was suddenly alert…was there a chemical warfare terrorist attack? He stumbled out to the dining area and saw every customer frozen: the old Chinese guys, the cabbie and his boys, the tattooed hipsters, the two Asian American women, his mom.

Then, one-by-one, each person defrosted and upchucked glowing purple neon vomit.