Editor’s note: “The Day I Met John Pork” is a short story fan fiction purposely designated to the humor section of The Eagle’s Cry–a more experimental section in nature. “TDIMJP” is not in any way tied to journalism and makes no attempt to capture reality in any way, nor does it feature anyone actually living or dead.  Enjoy.

“The Day I Met John Pork”

I’d been living away from Daddy’s ranch in South Dakota for almost eight months. 

The New York City nights were cruel, and the people even crueler. I’d been just getting by paycheck to paycheck as a single 20-year-old woman ever since I moved into my apartment on West 78th. It was a small, dank, cramped room, with barely enough room for me to stretch my legs across my bed. Inside, a door led to barely anything but a toilet, tiny shower, and sink.

I would lie awake at night imagining life back home, and how I could possibly bear this life without my own, favorite pig farm…but I was usually disturbed. After all, the whole building shook violently when the subway rumbled by.

I woke up bright and early to take in the nature of Central Park and then headed off to my tiresome job waitressing at a diner in my neighborhood. The establishment featured a big, glowing sign displayed in the front: “City Diner,” with only usually half the letters illuminated or blinking.

I work from 7am to 11pm. I open the diner and close it. It’s not easy work, but I get by. The Diner greets me with a sizable inhale of cigarette smoke as I walk in. I have regulars who keep me company and make me feel welcome.

One man is named Paul. He served in Vietnam and now stays in an apartment by himself that he inherited from his father, the former Attorney General of New York. He lives with his two cats—Mittens and Spot—and refuses to sell his very valued apartment. He doesn’t have much going on, but he is kind-hearted and genuine. He has aged, wrinkly skin, and is only about 5’5 now that he is hunched over. You can tell he could’ve used to be about 6 foot. He sports a flat cap everyday along with his cane to help him get around. You can tell Paul cares about fashion, but simply cannot find the time to put in too much effort in it nowadays.

Another regular is Lucille. Lucille is a divorcee who works long hours as a judge’s secretary. She hates her job, and she hates her boss even more. But she has to pay the bills. Any money she has to spare, she spends it on our omelets. She has two kids, who live with her ex-husband because he simply earns more than she. She is angry at the world, she is quiet and reserved, but I can tell she keeps coming in just to have company. The entire diner has this despondent feel. Full of booths and tables designed for groups, but generally sat in by people on their lonesome.

The mellow, boring tunes played by the jukebox in the corner and old-timey, bland decor definitely doesn’t help. It’s clear to see no one comes here for a grand old time. Our food isn’t bad, but it’s not to die for. I certainly have gotten tired of eating it over these last few months. When a new customer happens to stumble into our humble diner, I rarely have a suggestion when called upon that I truly would suggest. It simply is a middle-of-the-road establishment.  

That day, my life in the Big Apple changed forever.

An illuminated figure wandered through the narrow door frame of the City Diner. He was about 6 feet 5 inches tall and had to duck to fit under the door. He had rosy pink skin with broad shoulders, a firm frame, and a large, rounded snout. He had these floppy ears which cutely ebbed like the tide with every stride he took. He had four fingers on each hand, and a cute little tail which looped like a rollercoaster. This figure, seemingly a man, glowed like a firefly among house flies in the diner. He quickly glanced around the establishment, seemingly searching for clues on how the vibe was. Unimpressed, he eventually locked eyes with myself, and quickly turned to make a beeline for an open barstool in front of me. He took a seat and peered upon me. From the moment he had walked in up to here, my heart had sunk and my blood had run cold.

This gorgeous creature spoke. “The name is Pork. John Pork.”

I was awestruck, but I managed to mutter meekly, “Hello John. W-w- welcome to the City Diner. What can I hav- I mean- get you today?” Smooth, right? My cheeks blushed and shined a bright rosy shade of pink quite similar to his skin. He was already in my head, and we had barely met. He had a complicated order, especially for a new customer.

“I’ll take ham and cheese on an everything bagel, with five pieces of bacon on the side. I’ll have a tall glass of orange juice, and your grits. Are they good? The grits?”

They were nothing like Daddy’s grits back in South Dakota, I’ll tell you, but they were solid. “They’re pretty good, sir. I would honestly recommend them.”

“Great, those too.” Pork finished his order.

“Coming right up, John” I said. I walked away. He stopped me.

“One more thing darling, I’ll also have a big bowl of plain, raw oats.”

“Yes sir, I’ll be sure to add that, sir.” I started towards the back again, relieved that I could now find a moment to prepare myself and regather my jumbled feelings. His warm presence reminded me of my life at home, back at the ranch, and this sudden rush of emotion nearly overwhelmed me.

I hung the order up by the cooks, and think of what I should say to him next. Perhaps I introduce myself to him? I couldn’t let this entity of everything I desire slip out of my hands.

“Your order is coming right up in a few,” I told John. I just wanted an excuse to learn more about him. “So, John, where are you from?”

“Wherever the wind has taken me,” John said.  I could tell he wanted me to propel the conversation further, so I gave in and ask, “so where did the wind pick you up from?”

I thought I’d succeeded, as Mr. Pork continued: “I am originally fro-” as he was speaking, a rude customer interrupted, “Helloooo? My eggs, miss?”

“I’ll be right back, Mr. Pork. Your eggs are coming right up, kind sir!”

I continued to the stubborn man down the counter. His order was ready minutes later, and I yearned for this to be the meal of his dreams. “Thank you, darling,” John said as I placed his plates down gently on the counter.

He started with the bacon, grabbing all five pieces at once and crammed them sloppily into his mouth, the grease glistened on either side of his face, painting a lovely, grotesque scene. Then he went and grabbed each side of the oats-bowl and lifted it. He hastily lowered his snout until his whole face was covered by the bowl, and begun chowing aggressively. In between his short and rapid gasps of breath when coming up for air, he squealed loudly and excitedly. Oats flew everywhere: on the counter, the floor, the chair, everywhere. Even knowing I’d have to clean it momentarily, I did not care. I’d never felt more of a desire to clean up after a customer in my life. I had other tables to tend to, so I left him to devour the rest of his meal alone.

By the time I arrived back, there was but not a crumb, even a spec left. Only the fragments of a shattered bowl remained, scattered across the metallic counter. It was apparent to me he even consumed a few of the napkins. Alas, my infatuation with John Pork was still boiling over. This was the man for me.

His bill came to a total of $27.58, and I handed it to him before making my way to my other duties within the Diner. I came back and he was gone, the only remnants being five 100 dollar bills…and his phone number. 

I gave him a buzz the following evening after my shift, and he answered instantaneously.

“Hello, who is this? Is it you, from the Diner, darling?”

“Yes sir, you left your number, along with a hefty tip, and you truly caught my eye.”

“I’m flattered, darling. How would you like to go out tonight? I know a few nice places.”

“I would, but I work until 11 all week besides Sundays, John.”

“That’s alright with me, darling. I’ll pick you up at 11:01, and we will have a wonderful old time, darling.”

Well alright, it’s a date, John.”

“Lovely, darling.”

John just seemed to know the way to a woman’s heart. Just as he promised, I walked out of the diner at 11:00 after closing up for the night, and there was John Pork, around the corner under a dim, blinking street light head, swankily leaning upon the door of his red, freshly waxed, 1963 Chevy C-10 pickup truck.

“Hello, darling, you look grand.”

“Thank you, John. I am a bit tired. Long day today.”

“That’s alright, darling, you look gorgeous. I know of a grand bar, just a few blocks away, if you care to join me.”

“I do, John, I really do,” I said softly, in what I hope was a seductive tone.

“Off we go then, darling,” he said as he chivalrously opened the door on the passenger side. It was quite a spacious vehicle. Very impressive. The model, although old, ran as if it were brand new. The inside was well-maintained, and he clearly had made some adjustments to the original make.

“Do you work with trucks, Mr. Pork?” I inquired.

“Yes, I deal and repair vehicles of all types, darling. And also, it’s John. Mr. Pork was my father,” he added.  “How do you like this line of work, waitressing and all?”

“Well, I feel it’s my only option.” I spoke to him about the long, grueling hours, and the regulars such as Paul or Lucille.

“I find it truly fascinating you have such an indomitable spirit, darling. It is marvelous that you painted the town on my arm tonight. It is obvious such a lovely young lady deserves a night out, even if it is just for one night.”

He pulled into a parking spot, seemingly reserved. He got out, opened the door for me, and unaware of where exactly he had taken me, I was anxious. “Allow me to welcome yourself to Nomad Bar,” he said, in a grand, exhilarating voice.

“Nomad Bar?” I said, more to myself. Nomad Bar was possibly the most lavish of its kind in the whole city. This was no place for a girl like me, with such humble, rural beginnings. I mean, I was even still in my waitressing clothes!

“No, John. I’m afraid I cannot accompany you at such a pla-”

“Nonsense, darling. With how easy you are on the eyes, you’ll fit right in. Believe me, darling.”

I walked in, nervous, but John trotted in like he owned the place. The way he strolled, with his chest high and out front, his shoulders back and broadened, his chin high and proud: he just embodied the word ‘confident’. Everyone knew John Pork in the Nomad Bar.

“Hey Johnny boy!” yelped the flamboyant bartender, who I later found out to be named Mauricio. “Welcome, Mr. Pork.” He emerged from the crowd by a large bouncer with a name tag saying Bruce, who gladly escorted John and me to the front of the long line at the bar. John ordered an Old Fashioned on the rocks. I ordered water…on the rocks. It had been a really long day, and with the fun, lively music bumping on ginormous speakers, my head was pounding.

John somehow intuitively picked up on my pain, and quickly moved us into an expensive VIP room in which he seemingly had priority. I asked him how everyone knew of him, how he was such a prime concern of everyone in this bar.

“Well, darling, a few years back now, I bought the place. It was one of my earliest investments. It’s grown into quite a favorable one, to put it mildly.”

Wait. This man owned Nomad Bar? I had an idea that John might’ve been wealthy, but not this wealthy. “So, John, what other financial assets do you have besides this bar and your automobile shop?”

“Well, I do own a few private islands along the northern Australian coast, but I rarely visit them, darling. It’s such a hassle.”

Islands. Private islands. I couldn’t believe it. What was he doing with a silly little South Dakotan farm girl like me? “That’s… Incredible, John,” I said in my most seductive voice. I then placed my hand gently on his chest. My hand slowly meandered toward his big, broadened shoulders and then began to search for his biceps.

He lets out a noise I can only describe as a soft, gentle oink. The room grew warmer. I started to perspire.

As for the rest of the night and what happened next, I won’t get into detail. I woke up like completely normal on Sunday, my one day off. My goodness, it seems of such a blur. Was it even real? I still wonder to myself for the rest of the day. My day to take my laundry into town, clean up around my apartment, run other errands. I was back to my mundane life. I was now without John, and something was missing.

A part of my soul. 

I got home at around 8 o’clock pm, totally exhausted. Another tireless week awaited me, and it was best I got to bed early. Alas, I heard a buzzing from my nightstand.

I check my phone, and I was in awe once more.

John Pork is calling…