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I was a chef in a diner that was open all night. One night, actor Clint Eastwood walked in and ordered a cheeseburger.
I never thought anything about it, but when I woke up next morning and came in to work, the cheeseburger was still there. The Eastwood Special.
I thought about the uneaten cheeseburger all day, and wondered why he hadn't touched it. I had a lot of work to do, had to clean the kitchen and bathroom, but the thought played on my mind.
Heading to the library, I looked for a phone book but couldn't find his address.
"This is strange," I frowned. "Why isn't his address here?"
I asked the librarian if she knew where Clint Eastwood lived.
The librarian crossed her arms, "Clint Eastwood? I think it's in the phone book. Why do you need to talk to him?"
"I need to find out why he didn't eat the cheeseburger."
She pulled a book off the shelf and handed it over. It was the secret phone book they didn't let the regular customers read. I was told to open it up at the K's to find him.
I couldn't believe it—there he was.
"Why is it under K?" I frowned.
"Because that's where you look first."
There was something odd about this whole thing. The sudden appearance of Clint. The cheeseburger, favored by all that came to the diner, being left without a single bite in it's bun. Now the strange phone book that didn't make sense.
She gave me a pen and paper and sent me on my way.
I had decided to write him a letter. My words, as polite as they were, were looped with a hint of curiosity and sadness. After I reached the end, I signed it and posted it.
I waited.
And waited.
The letter came back, stamped 'Return to Sender'. I posted it again but once more it came back, this time stamped 'Addressee Unknown'.
I marched to the post office and demanded to speak to the manager, who told me that it was impossible to post the letter. Things were getting even more weird. I had to get closure. The only person that could help me was the librarian.
"Your phone book is wrong!" I slammed my fist down on to the desk as the librarian perked up an eyebrow. "I tried to write to him, but the postman keeps saying 'no such person, no such zone' and my letter keeps coming back!"
She sighed and checked her phone book again, giving me the cryptic clue that he lived in 'J'. When I demanded an explanation, she got off her chair and walked away. I had reached a dead end. Defeat was inevitable.
I spent the rest of my life in that diner, scrubbing the kitchen and making cheeseburgers. Every dish came back empty, singing the praises of the burger that had caused me so much soul-searching.
I grew old and died while scrubbing the toilet, slipping on the wet floor and leaving behind a mangled corpse and a question that would never get its answer.
You know what they say. Some things are just never meant to be answered, just like some things are never meant to be cleaned.