The monotonous grind of steel rolling along the railway filled the passenger car with a low metallic hum. On most nights, the small talk amongst riders was loud enough to drown out the sound, but that wasn’t the case tonight. Only a few people were scattered about. A few rows away, a six year old lay sprawled on the empty seat beside her mother, whose vacant stare suggested she was as disconnected from the world as her daughter. In the back of the car sat a twenty something, his eyes glued to the cell phone held in his hands. If the train had been more crowded, I would have struck up a conversation or eavesdropped on someone else’s while I stared out the window at the landscape as it zipped by. I would have noticed that the train wasn’t moving in the usual direction. Instead, the steady vibration of the speeding train, combined with the whoosh of its movement, lulled me to sleep.

When the train stopped at its final destination, the conductor shook me awake. Discombobulated, I tried to get myself together before standing to exit the train. The lights in the adjoining cars were turned off. He and I were the only two who remained. My apathy towards leaving irritated the conductor, whose face was twisted in a disgruntled grimace. He was not happy. While my eyes adjusted to the lights, he prodded me with an exhaled sigh of impatience. It was time to go.

The lights in the train switched off as soon as I stepped onto the platform. The conductor exited behind me and hurried towards the parking lot. My surroundings unfamiliar, I called out and asked for help.

“I got off at the wrong stop,” I shouted. “Where am I?”

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he continued walking. After pulling out of the parking lot, he leaned out the opened window and flipped his middle finger in my direction before driving off.

“So much for customer service,” I thought.

I looked around but didn’t find any recognizable landmarks or signs. The sun was about to dip below the horizon for the night but the street lights hadn’t yet turned on. I was surrounded by dusky shadows. In the distance, a neon sign flickered, advertising the Metro Diner. The phrase “24 hours” was also illuminated so I headed in that direction. After arriving at its parking lot, I learned that most of the lettering on the sign was burned out.

I stepped inside and looked around, to make sure the place was still accepting customers. The restaurant was dimly lit and appeared to be closed, even though many patrons remained seated inside. If nothing else, I hoped they’d allow me to recharge my cellphone or call a cab. As I entered the diner, a party of six exited.

The hostess looked towards the entranceway and said, “Good riddance.”

“They must have stiffed them on a tip,” I thought before asking if they were still serving meals.

“Didn’t you see the sign?” she asked, pointing towards the parking lot. “Table or booth?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

She looked at me confused, as if unwilling to make the selection, and said, “Well?”

“Booth.”

Ignoring my request, she rolled her eyes and guided me to the counter near the kitchen. After ordering a chicken salad sandwich and a cup of coffee, I plugged in my phone and looked around. Although there were light fixtures throughout the restaurant, the dimmer switch was set low for ambiance, I assumed. No one seemed to notice or maybe they were used to it. Between the conductor and hostess, I hadn’t felt welcomed at all, so thought better than to ask if they were trying to conserve electricity. Besides, I still had to figure out where the train dropped me off.

When a waitress other than the one who took my order placed a large glass of iced tea in front of me, I said, “That’s supposed to be coffee.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

She retreated into the kitchen leaving the iced tea where it sat. Four pots of coffee were on the counter opposite from where I sat. I felt taunted, both by the coffee and the waitress. The pots were beyond my reach, plus I didn’t see any cups, so I nursed the iced tea until my coffee arrived. The sugary sweetness of the tea jolted me awake, as much if not more than the caffeinated coffee would have. Ten minutes later, when she dropped off my plate, she again forgot the coffee. To compound the issue, instead of serving the sandwich I ordered, the chicken salad was wrapped in a tortilla.

“This is supposed to be a sandwich, not a wrap.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” she explained before disappearing again.

I looked around to see if anyone else was having problems with their orders. None of the plates delivered to the other tables had been returned. When it came to my waitress, in the competency lotto, it seemed I had lost. Fifteen minutes later, the waitress was still nowhere to be found so I settled on eating what was given to me. I greedily bit into the wrap only to find it wasn’t chicken salad. It was a Mediterranean veggie wrap. I was beginning to understand why that group from earlier didn’t tip the staff.

With my phone charged, I loaded the maps app to figure out how best to get home. When the name of the city popped up, my jaw dropped. It was someplace I didn’t want to be. Metropolitan Hamlet. I had heard of the place but never visited, with good reason. A century earlier, the founding fathers decided to experiment with the governance of the town. Everyday was Opposite Day. Anything said or done was to be interpreted as the opposite of its original meaning. Hello meant goodbye. Opened meant closed. An obscene gesture of contempt was a welcoming greeting of acceptance.

When the waitress dropped off my bill, I ordered another glass of sweet tea, to confirm the accuracy of the map. She brought me coffee.

“It’s on the house,” she said while scribbling the additional charge onto the bill.

I finished my coffee and trudged towards the cashier. When asked how the meal was, I rolled my eyes and said nothing which said everything without uttering a word.

After entering the charges into the cash register, the girl behind the counter said, “$ 15.45”

In an attempt to beat the system, I responded using the vernacular of the area. The amount charged wasn’t going to be paid from my wallet. Based upon my interpretation, the diner owed me, not the other way around. With my hand held out, I pointed to my palm.

“Yes. I’m paying you. I’m paying you.”

“The meal was free,” she said with disgust.

I shook my head from side to side in agreement and walked out the door without paying. The hostess offered cheerful words of encouragement as I exited.