The Wild Night at the Miracle Mile

“Order 35 up!” Chester shouted, sliding the last plate onto the platter. Marge smiled her thanks, wiping her brow before picking up the heavily laden tray.

“Get Sandy on the phone,” she called as she pushed out of the kitchen. “And Hei. We need all the help we can get.”

“If I get the chance,” Chester said, waving his spatula. “Do you know how many orders we have?”

“Yes!” Marge said, pushing out of the kitchen. “I was the one who wrote them down!”

Tonight was not a good night to be short-staffed. She racked her brain, but couldn’t think of any particular celebration that would warrant such an influx of patrons. She carried the tray past a group of four, standing awkwardly in the foyer and looking for a table. “There are tables out back that might still be open!” she said, ducking past them. “Good luck!”

“Thanks, Marge,” one of them said, raising a hand. She glanced back. The face was familiar, but there were too many other things on her mind for her to remember what his name was.

Marge stopped by table 35, smiling at the five friends gathered around it. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she apologized, picking up the plates and putting them in front of their respective guests. Marge may have struggled remembering names occasionally, but she never forgot an order.

“No worries, Marge,” one of them, Bergeron, said, smiling at her. Here in the Evernight, his wereform was uninhibited, giving him a long snout and thick, scraggly hair across his body.

There were two other lycanthropes at the table, with similar features to Bergeron. One of the others was a Mer-Person, with webbed hands and feet, while the final member seemed to be a human. Marge, however, knew better. She gave Carina a wink, acknowledging she liked the shape-shifter’s form. Carina gave a small smile, and Marge cheered inwardly. Carina was a hard case, but Marge was winning her over.

“You kids enjoy,” Marge said, tucking the tray under her arm and reaching for the notepad stuck in her apron. “I’ll come back through to top off drinks…” she looked around at the throng of gathered patrons. “Well, at some point. You know where the tap is if you desperately need it.”

“That’s right,” one of the other werewolves, Proud Hunt, said. “Make us do the work.”

Marge tapped him on the top of his head with her notepad. “Don’t make me kick you out, Hunt. You know I will.” But she was smiling with fondness.

She moved onto the next waiting table, smiling as she took the order. They were a group of djinni – air elementals. For a second, she looked at the Miracle Mile through their eyes. It was modern, with metal chairs and wooden tables that looked like they were from Ikea. And, if Marge wasn’t mistaken, there were plants hanging from the ceiling.

With a small, slightly forced, smile, she let the view revert. The comforting chaos of the bright red and white greeted her and she left the table, back for the kitchen.

Chester was, in Marge’s opinion, the fastest and best cook the Miracle Mile had ever seen. Sandy was a close second, but she rushed things, especially breakfast staples like waffles and pancakes. However, in the time it took for Marge to take an order, he had already finished one and was working on a second. Maybe it was magic – maybe it was skill. Regardless, Marge was glad for it.

“Any word from Hei or Sandy?” she asked as she added the order to the queue and switched trays.

“Hei’s on his way,” Chester said. “Sandy didn’t pick up.”

That was something. Hei could help buss the tables, if nothing else. They needed another cook, though. “Okay. Keep trying,” Marge said, spinning out of the kitchen.

And so the night went, with constant trips to and from the kitchen, exchanging orders for food and vice versa.

“Have you noticed that no one is leaving?” Marge asked Hei in one of the brief moments that they passed each other.

“At least they’re giving up their seats,” Hei said, shrugging.

It was the true. The patrons who finished their meals were outside on the back patio, gathered around the fire pits, chatting. “But why aren’t they leaving?”

“Because the Miracle Mile is the coolest place in the world?” Hei asked. He scratched his youthful face, as if he had a beard. “If I didn’t work here, I probably wouldn’t leave, either.”

Marge rolled her eyes, turning back toward the kitchen. Two new figures had sat down at the barstools in front of the counter, smiling at her. “Busy night?” the first man asked, shrugging off his heavy leather jacket.

“Oh, Elliot,” Marge said, shaking her head. “You have no idea.”

“I might have some idea,” Elliot said, laying the jacket on the counter and scratching the back of his neck.

“And how are you, Chesterfield?” Marge asked, pulling out her notepad.

The second man was a world of difference from Elliot. While both wore white collared shirts, Chesterfield’s was covered by a tailored blazer and matching tie. He had calculating eyes that darted across the room, a small smile twitching at his lips. “I can’t complain, Marge,” he said, landing on her face. “Looks like you might have some things to vent about, though.”

“I’m not falling for that,” Marge said, wagging a finger. “We don’t complain about business, Chesterfield. You should know that.”

“I worked here for… What? A summer?” Chesterfield asked. “You act like it was my full-time job for a lifetime.”

“No,” Marge said, “That’s my lifetime that you’re talking about.”

“Now, Chesterfield,” Elliot said, looking over at the shorter man, “Remember that this is not the time to ask how long that’s been.”

“Poke my buttons,” Marge threatened, “And I’ll poison your food.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Elliot said. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

“What can I get for you, besides some humble pie?” Marge asked, lifting her pad.

The two ordered, and Marge flitted back to the kitchen. When she returned, there was a new face standing at the door. She had seen all types in her day – the mysterious stranger hooded in black, the college freshmen who were loud, but cheerful, werewolves, humans, elves and all the rest.

But this person was different. They wore a patchwork quilt of a shirt, tucked into heavy cargo pants. One half of their hair was short and spiked, each tip a different color. Meanwhile, the other half was long and wavy. It was a solid brown, but Marge had a suspicion that it, too, was dyed.

The strangest part, however, was the automaton standing next to them. It was about waist high, made of a large box-like body with multiple thin legs underneath. Marge couldn’t see any kind of optical features, but it seemed to maneuver without any issues.

“Good evening!” she said as she walked up. “I think I saw a table open up in the back, or you can take a seat at the counter.”

“Oh, I’m not here for food.” A wink, a pull of the long brown hair. “This is the Miracle Mile, right?”

“Yes,” Marge said, “But if you’re not here for the food, then…”

“I’m here to feed everyone else,” the stranger said, motioning to the automaton. “Not their stomachs, but their hearts. Not with food, but with emotion. I am here to feed them with music.”

“What?” Marge asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m so sorry,” the stranger laughed. “I forgot to introduce myself. I am Amira Routhnaut, but most people call me Jongleur. I am a musician and artist. I travel throughout the world to give concerts, and I have decided to perform here, at the Miracle Mile.”

“Huh,” Marge said, too stunned for words.

“I assume that’s why there’s such a collection of people tonight,” Jongleur said. “It seems far busier than normal?”

“You’re supposed to get permission,” Marge started, but Jongleur cut her off.

“If you decline, I will just remove myself into the Evernight, just past your land. The crowd will follow. Or, on the other hand, you can host the dopest concert this side of the dawn.” She smiled, then walked past, the automaton trundling after her.

“Dopest?” Marge asked. “And wait, I haven’t given permission!”

Amira paused, turning back to face Marge. “Please?” she asked. “It would mean the world.”

Marge stood for a second, studying her face. “Routhnaut,” she finally said. “Your father…?”

“Yes,” Amira said, looking off slightly. “That’s why this would mean the world.”

Marge sighed. “I won’t be a spoilsport this time. Go ahead. But next time, honor your father by calling first, please.”

Amira’s face lit up, and she threw her hair back over ear, a grin spreading across her face. For a second, the forceful artist that had walked in the door was replaced with a fresh-faced adventurer, and Marge felt her heart soften slightly. But still, there were precedents she wished this child would have followed.

As Marge watched her stride through the Miracle Mile, the automaton began to split apart, revealing that each section hid a specific function. Four of them stretched out into light bars, flickering with different hues. Three others, much larger, tilted the faces of speakers up, though there was no yet any music. The central piece lifted higher, discs and dials spinning to the surface. Marge didn’t go out very often, but even she recognized a DJ’s controller when she saw one.

“So it wasn’t just an idle rumor, Marge?” someone asked, stepping up next to her. Marge tilted her head to see who it was. The round face of Theresa LeFesse smiled back up at her past thick brown curls. “I had heard Jongleur was going to be here, but I didn’t actually believe it.”

“Then why did we come?” said the satyr next to her, scratching the base of his horns. “You told me you were sure she was going to be here.”

“That was to get you here,” Theresa said, a slight frown on her face. “You wouldn’t have come otherwise. But you need to try the waffles. They’ll change your life.” She smiled at Marge, adjusting the large brass goggles barely restraining her hair. “Good to see you!”

“Good to have you back,” Marge said with a smile.

Theresa quickly became all business, grabbing the satyr by the arm and pulling him forward. “Let’s go. Waffles await, Derek!”

Marge watched them go, letting her eyes wander the room. The crowd was slowly beginning to drift toward the back patio, where Amira was greeting cheering fans.

“Welcome to The Miracle Mile,” she was saying. Her voice was amplified through her automaton speakers, which were scattered around patio for maximum effect. “We gather here, one of the last bastions of peace in our troubled world, for a time of rest and enjoyment.”

There was a cheer, and Marge felt a twist of pride. It was true. No matter who you were, differences were set aside when in The Miracle Mile. Even more than that, it didn’t matter where you were. The Miracle Mile didn’t care for national borders or cultural delineations. It appeared where it willed, when it willed. If it was there, you were free to enter.

If only all the Evernight was like that, she wished. Her mind drifted to the days, long, long before. Marge released the memory with a sigh, pulling her hair back and pulling out her notepad to get the next order.

The orders were different now. Most people were not interested in full dinners, but rather a side of fries or chicken tenders – something they could hold while joining the crowd.

Amira was still talking, explaining her father and his connection to the Miracle Mile. Not only had he been a stalwart regular, but Murray Routhnaut had been one of the original anchors for the Miracle Mile to not get lost in the Evernight.

The music was starting now, Marge noticed. It was subtle, overshadowed by the resonant tone of the performer, but it was there, tracing through the crowd. A few people were beginning to sway back and forth, most likely unconsciously. Marge smiled at the display of joy, returning to the kitchen to deliver the new orders and serve whatever was prepared.

“Oh, Sandy made it!” she said to the second form bustling on the cook line.

“Yeah,” Chester said, “Because one of her friends told her Amira the Jongleur was going to be here.”

“I turned my phone off,” Sandy defended herself. “I wouldn’t have known if Betts hadn’t told me in person.”

“Sure,” Chester said, under his breath. “Well, don’t expect to get out there too often. We’re swamped already, and it’s only going to get worse.”

“Why don’t we close the kitchen once the concert gets started?” Marge said suddenly.

The room grew shockingly quiet, except for the hiss and pop of cooking food.

“Close. The. Kitchen?” Chester said, blinking.

“Sure,” Marge said. “We weren’t expecting this. And people aren’t going to want too much anyway.”

“You want to stop serving food,” Chester continued, “At the Miracle Mile. Is that… Is that possible?”

Marge shrugged, loading another tray. “I think it’s reasonable. What do you think, Sandy?”

“I think you’re right,” Sandy said, almost too quickly.

Chester hrumphed, but didn’t object. “It would be nice,” he said. “Teach them some manners, too.”

“Well,” Marge said, “That’s not really my reasoning, but if it gets you to agree, I won’t argue.” She swept the tray up and left before Chester could make another comment.

The music was more prominent now, but it was gentle, like dipping your foot in the water before jumping in. The music swelled slightly, orchestral with a hint of electric zipping through it. Amira was swaying and nodding her head, one ear of a headphone pressed tight against the side of her head.

Marge smiled as she laid the plates down, looking behind her, where Hei was putting handwritten signs on the counter. Kitchen Closed for the Duration of the Concert. He grinned proudly at it – he had clearly agonized over the lettering, but it was neat and legible.

As Marge cleared the dishes from another table, she glanced outside, raising her eyes in shock. The parking lot was filled, and there were still more cars pulling in, pulling around onto the soft earth beyond the gravel. “The landscaping is going to be a nightmare,” she muttered as she turned back to the kitchen, but not before she noticed the brightly painted Microbus pulled close to the building. “Stef and Izza are here?” she said aloud, looking around the crowd. But in the throng, there was no way of picking any two individuals out. “I’ll need to see them before I leave.”

A fire elemental stepped past her, his flaming hair turning into a hat, which he tipped in her direction. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

Marge nodded in return, lifting the plates above the counter and sliding back into the kitchen. She could hear the music in here, now pulsing as Jongleur played with sounds that shouldn’t belong together, but worked anyway. As she stepped back out, she saw the light bar automaton sections had begun to modulate and spin, filling the patio and the back of the diner with bright and cheerful colors. As the music picked up, they bordered on psychedelic, but it fit, somehow.

Suddenly, the music dropped, and a low, rolling voice said, “Serrus. Shadowstrum.” The lights turned to alternating patterns of white and dark blue, falling down toward her direction. Marge raised a hand, blocking the light, then turned to see what the light was illuminating.

A dwarf stood in the doorway, turning out a complex rhythm on a guitar that looked twice as big as he was. Marge jumped out of the way as he walked forward, toward a cheering crowd.

”Little High,” that same low voice said, “But Never Low!”

The audience went wild, moving out of the way to let Serrus walk through. Amira grinned at him, playing a dance beat under his riff. Before now, it had been hard enough to distinguish individuals in the darkened space, but as they turned into a dancing mob, it became nearly impossible.

Marge shook her head, coming back behind the counter, where Elliot and Chesterfield still sat, watching the surging dance group. “Not your thing?” Elliot asked. “I feel like you’d be able to cut a move or two.”

Marge threw him a stare, and Elliot fell silent, a smile playing at his lips.

“I know the kitchen is closed,” came the voice of Theresa LeFesse, who was taking a seat next to Elliot. She looked up at his massive form, comparing their relative sizes. Then, keeping him in her peripherals, she said, “But can I get some water? Dancing’s got me sweating more than the Colossal Dragon Fire Wings sale you had here that one time.”

Marge laughed, nodding. “I’d love to get you a glass,” she said, reaching under the counter for a cup.

As she came up, she found the fire elemental sitting next to Chesterfield. “Evening again,” he said, a small torso appearing in his hair and bowing.

“I can’t imagine you want water,” Marge commented, and the elemental laughed.

“No, just resting,” he said, looking down the line. “Nice to see you all.”

“Theresa,” the curly haired girl said. “Who are you?”

“Travis Bentham,” he said, with a wave of his hand.

“You used to be a comedian, didn’t you?” said another voice. Marge’s face split into a grin as she set the water down in front of Theresa.

“Stefan!” she said, turning and raising a scolding finger.

“Hello, Marge,” Stef said, his arms open wide. She gave in an awkward over-the-counter hug, then moved to the girl standing just behind him.

“And Isabella!” she said, embracing her, too. “You’ve been gone for too long.”

“We missed you, too, Marge. But we’re just here for some bottled water,” Izza said, her expression masked as always. But Marge could see the hint of a smile peeking through.

“Of course,” Marge said.

“To answer your question,” Travis said, leaning forward across the counter to see Stef better, “I’m still a comedian. I just don’t get paid for my jokes.”

He paused at the end, as if he was expecting laughter, but the only person who chuckled was Chesterfield. “You’re hopeless, Travis. I don’t know why we try.”

“At least someone appreciates art,” Travis muttered. “Did you see any of my shows?” he said louder, directing the question at Stef.

Stef shook his head, making an expression. “I don’t pay to hear jokes,” he said. “I make too many myself for it to be worth it.”

“And trust me,” Izza said beside him, “No one pays to hear him.” She accepted the water bottles from Marge with a slightly wider smile, fishing for her wallet.

Marge waved her off. “On the house,” she said.

As they smiled thanks and headed back for the concert, Elliot raised an eyebrow at her. “Why don’t you ever give me anything on the house?”

“Because,” Marge said, “You’re a pain, so I might as well get something for the trouble.”

Elliot laughed, nodding his head to Travis. “That’s how you tell a joke.”

Marge pulled away, looking at the dancing crowd with a smile. “Ah, to be young again,” she said, though whether it was audible or not, she didn’t know. Her mind drifted again, remembering a time when she was in the middle of a crowd of dancers. Different music, and a different place. But the same joy and excitement.

She came back to reality with a smile on her face, then, with an acknowledgement to the people sitting at the counter, slipped back into the kitchen to make sure there were no more orders.

---

“But you didn’t know who the others were? Didn’t realize the roles they’d play?”

“Of course not. We were a bunch of nobodies in a crowd of people. I think Marge knew, thought.”

“Why’s that?”

“Just before we left, she got this faraway look in her eyes, like she was seeing past us all and into our destinies. And then she smiled, like she saw the outcome of it all. No, we didn’t know what was going to happen. But I like to think Marge did.

“I think…. I think I have to believe that she did.”