The first step through the door of the restaurant was a step into time, a step into tomorrow. Tyler would buy and operate this location within the year. Today he was another customer to Mark and his co-workers. Today, Mark and his co-workers were just some people working at a local restaurant.

Tyler paused at the door, stopping to take it in, looking along one wall, across the back, and up the other wall. The restaurant is rectangle in shape. Tyler stood with his back to the door he'd just passed through. The door carved into one of the short sides of the rectangle. Through the doors behind him lay the sidewalk with it's makeshift patio of rope railings and brown plastic furniture.

Inside, the tables and chairs, none really matching each other, were jumbled along the long right side of the rectangle. Across from him, on the opposite short side was a doorway with the bathrooms beyond. The left side held a transcient looking kitchen bordered by a counter of reclaimed lumber.

Homemade chalkboards hung over the kitchen with words like antijitos, fried tofu, and organic coffee barely holding on. Beer taps lined the edge of one kitchen counter and an old worn espresso machine absorbed Tyler's stare. It lacked the push buttons and electronics that distanced him from the act of making lattes at a summer job he held when he was 17. It asked to be handled in a way only experience could teach. It could be hit, banged and elbowed and would elbow back, not tapped, pushed, and persuaded.

He smiled at the espresso maker, a smile only he noticed. Realizing he was smiling at a worn out coffee machine, he shook his head and moved towards an unoccupied table for four. He'd have enough room to spread out Saturday's Globe while eating breakfast. Saturday morning breakfast's were his weekly meditation, his sanctuary. He spent most of them sleeping in until he felt the urge to get up. He'd slowly wander downtown, passing by Richardson's to pick up a paper. He'd choose one of the local greasy spoons to get some bacon and eggs. Some of them knew him by name, others didn't. His regular was the Apollo Eleven Restaurant.

The Apollo sat tucked into an old stone building. It's sign overhead was red with white letters spelling out the word restaurant in capitals. Looking closely, which no one ever did, you would find the words 'Apollo Eleven' in small type in the top left corner of the sign.

The Apollo was owned and run by a greek family. Cathy, the mom, was the cook. Her husband Chris seemed to just run around doing other stuff and their two sons helped out with the cooking. Their daughter, the youngest, waitressed from time to time.

You don't have to frequent the Apollo for long before Cathy figures you out. Tyler was only handed a menu if it was a new waitress and even then it didn't matter since Cathy would have already started poaching his eggs and frying his bacon. Tyler would tell the new waitress his order out of politeness only to hear Cathy finish off the words as the waitress placed the order.

There are few redeeming qualities to the Apollo. The front half has vinyl covered benches with tables and chairs in front running along one wall. The kitchen, Cathy's domain, ran along the opposite wall. With the kitchen out in the open, you always left the Apollo smelling of the Apollo. The back half was a bad Chinese restaurant hangover. The blood red carpet matched the vinyl padding on the seats of the chairs. The lighting was dim and yellow, like staring through nicotine glasses, and the walls were covered in mirrored tiles with gold scribblings.

"Hey, what can I get you?"

"Pardon?"

"Can I get you a drink or something to start?"

Tyler pulled his head out of the Apollo and back into his body, still sitting back at the Cornerstone. Coffee and a light breakfast. He flipped the paper open to the Style section to see how people looked and talked. He flipped through it all reading nothing while sipping his coffee. The paper was just a prop to keep people from wondering about the crazy guy eating breakfast alone. It allowed him to stop, stare and lose his thoughts. With a Globe spread in front of him, he fell on the academic side of insane.

His mind raced far from today. He was waking up from a long drawn out night. A night spent driving from town to town, from city to city, from mall to mall, from store to store. He was on a scavenger hunt but hadn't realized it. He sat contently for fifteen years while they explained the rules, what he was after, how he should act, how he should dress. He spent the next five years wondering when the hunt truly started. He spent the following ten years on the hunt itself. Now, here he sat watching a clear blonde girl set his breakfast down in front of him trying to politely avoid the article about the one year anniversary of 9-11 that she thinks he's reading. He's piecing it together.

"Refill on your coffee?"

"Sorry? Oh, yes please, sorry."

As the clear blonde girl walks away he sees the life they may someday have. Her smile showed it to him.