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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v080) (the March 2010 Issue) This is also available from our printer as a a $7.47 paperback book (5.5" x 8.5") perfect-bound w/ b&w pages

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Coffee Shop

Jon Say

    One-thirty in the morning.
Thursday.
Friday, now, I guess.
First cold night of the season.
Can’t say first cold night of the year, it’s only 30 degrees and everyone would have been happy for that any day from January to Spring.
But from summer to fall into winter, 30 is cold.

    I slip from beneath the warm flannel sheets and pull on a comfortable but still cold pair of sweatpants, a familiar sweater, and choose the heavier of the two coats hanging by the door.
I pull a fleece hat down over my ears and step out into the crisp, razor clear night air.
    I shove my hands deep into the pockets of the coat, the warmth of my body starting to work within the layers.
I walk.
It feels good to move, it helps drive back the voice in my head saying I’m going to pay for this tomorrow, I should be asleep recharging my body and brain for when the relentless cycle of activity and commitments comes to life with the daylight.
    But two glasses of wine wasn’t enough to turn off the machinery in my brain, and two hours of tossing back and forth in an inviting bed wasn’t either, so I walk.
In the cold.
Letting my mind wander while walking down the street is easier than doing it in bed.
Closed storefronts, some with their signs still lit in promising neon, give my eyes something to focus on and my brain a distraction from the worry.
What do I have to worry about, really?

    Yellow light spills out of the all night coffee shop and dispels the chill over at least a small semicircle.
I push through the glass door, a bell ringing as the top of the door bangs into it.
I sit at one of the stools around a horseshoe counter, away from the door so I won’t feel the cold draft should it open.
A fat, bored waitress with her hair pulled back from her face so tightly that it hurts my head doesn’t bother to take a writing pad from the pocket of her mustard stained and colored polyester uniform dress as she stops on the other side of the counter in front of me.
Her name tag is askew and reads ‘Angel’.
I find that funny and almost smile.
    “What’ll it be?”
    “Coffee.
Black.”
    “That all?”
    “Yeah.”
    She doesn’t seem disappointed, pleased, or like she is going to do anything about it but bring the coffee.
Thick brown mug, steaming.
I lift it to my lips, blow over the surface, breath in the aroma.
Put it back down without drinking.
    The bell clangs again, much too excited about its job.
I look over at a stooped figure in a dark blue peacoat, dirty pants of unknown origin, an unshaven face with the particular weathered look that is reserved for the homeless.
He shuffles over and sits on the stool next to mine, not looking at me.
The horseshoe now has two occupants, and they can’t seem to stay away from each other.
His odor precedes him by two stools.

    Angel tries the same opening line with him and he orders coffee, black.
Angel has it down cold, and as she sets another brown mug in front of him he is pulling coins out of both pockets of the peacoat and pooling them in his left hand.
With his right index finger, he counts and recounts and re-recounts the coins.
There isn’t any fingernail on the finger.
He puts exactly seventy five cents on the counter and only then does he pick up the mug and hold it with both hands.
    He stays like that, mug held close to his face, warming his hands, inhaling the strong scent.
He finally sips, doesn’t put the mug down.
He turns to me, as I figured he would eventually.
    “Don’t like the coffee?” he nods at the full mug in front of me.
    His voice is surprisingly clear and strong.
I look at his face and his eyes are alive, piercing blue and dancing with amusement.
    “Don’t know yet.”
I pick the mug up and sip.

    “It’s fine.
Good, actually,” I say.
    He nods in agreement.
    “Best coffee I’ve found,” he confirms.
    He looks closely at my face, my coat, my sweatpants, my shoes, my hat laying on the counter next to my coffee, and back at my face.
    “Car break down?” he asks.
    I shake my head.
    “No.
I walked.”
    He nods, and for a minute I’m certain he’s going to say ‘Me too’.
But he doesn’t.
    “What are you doing here?” he asks bluntly.
    I’m not irritated by the rudeness.
It’s actually a lot easier to deal with than small talk.
    “Can’t sleep.”
    He looks at the coffee.
    “That decaf?”
    “No.”
    He nods.
The amusement in his eyes grows.
    “Might not help,” he says, a smile curling the edges of his mouth as though the steam rising from his mug was painting it there.
    “Sometimes, I find that coffee actually makes me tired.
Go figure.”
    He sips again from his coffee, and again, and again, and when he puts the mug down its half empty.
    “Why can’t you sleep?”
    I look over at him.
It’s a fair enough question, but you’d never ask it.
    “Can’t quiet an unstill mind,” I say.
    “Got the mental illness?”
    “I don’t think so,” I reply.
    He looks at me closely, shakes his head quickly.
    “You don’t look like it,” he agrees.
    He brings the mug up and when he sets it down it’s empty.
I look around for Angel and see she’s bent over a glossy magazine on the other side of the horseshoe, back to us.
    “What’s the reason for the disquiet?”
    His question startles me.
    “Worry,” I surprise myself by answering.
    “Anything specific?”
    I wonder why he cares.
I’m glad he hasn’t spiraled off into the injustices that become the purview of the insane.
    “Just vague things, I guess.” I shake my head.
    “Anything vague ever happen to you?”
    I look sharply at him but he’s smiling.
    “Coffee!” I almost shout at Angel.
She hauls herself to her feet and starts ambling towards us, grabbing the pot along the way.
    “You want something to eat?” I ask him.
    “Toast,” he replies gratefully, with a nod.
“Rye, if you’ve got it,” he says to Angel.
    “Uh-huh,” she says, and rummages under the counter.
She produces a half loaf of rye bread and drops two slices into an old toaster.
    “What was the best thing that happened to you today?” he asks.
    I sip my fresh coffee, thinking.
He sips his fresh coffee, watching me.
    “Watched a parade on television with my little girl,” I reply.
“Nothing that important, really.”
    “Little girl knew she had a Daddy that would watch a parade with her,” he says.
“How important is that?”
    I concede the point with a tilt of my head and shoulders.
Angel dumps a plate with the rye toast on it in front of him.
Two prepackaged pats of butter and a knife join it.
    “Want some?” he offers the plate to me.
    I hold up a hand and shake my head.
    “I’m good,” I say.
    He carefully opens the butter and spreads all of it on the toast.
He scrapes the inside of the plastic squares twice before licking the knife clean.
He dips the edge of the toast into his coffee to soften it and raises it to his mouth.
    “What’s the worst thing that happened to you today?” he asks before biting into the toast.
    “This,” I say.
    He chews carefully, as though it hurts.
    “So was today a good day or a bad day, net?”
    I chuckle.
    “Net?” I ask, amused.
    “You assume intelligence deserts a man when he becomes homeless?”
His tone is reproving, but the humor hasn’t left his eyes.
    “I apologize,” I say.
    He waves a hand.
But he is waiting for an answer.
    “Good, net.”
    “Then appreciate it,” he says.
    “I do,” I say.
    “Then why are you here?” he asks.
    I sigh.
Drink some more coffee.
He waits again, patiently.
    “Worry,” I repeat, knowing it’s not a sufficient answer.
    “Do you love your wife?” he asks.
    “Keep asking questions like that and you’re bound to lose however many teeth you’ve got left,” I say.
    “Some questions need to be asked.
Particularly if you aren’t asking them of yourself,” he replies.
    “Yes, I love my wife.”
    “Do you love your daughter.”
    “Yes.”
    “Are you terminally ill?”
    “No.”
    “Is your marriage in trouble?”
    “This is ridiculous.”
    “Then I can count on seeing you here again?”
    I shake my head, mostly to myself but he sees it and smiles.
    “My marriage is fine.”
    “Then you aren’t appreciating the ‘good, net’ enough.”
    I look out the glass storefront of the coffee shop.
The street is quiet.
The traffic signal is in its late-night flash pattern.
Yellow for the side street.
Red for the main street.
    “Okay.
How?” I ask.
    He dips the toast in the coffee.
Bites.
Chews.
    “Spend more time thinking about the reasons things are ‘Good, net’ and the vague things won’t be able to keep you up at night.”
    I regard him sardonically.
    “Yeah?
How’s that working for you?” I ask, sarcasm hanging in the air like his unwashed scent.
    He cocks an eye at me.
    “You would be unhappy if you were homeless, so you think all the homeless are unhappy.
But which one of us is doing the smiling?”
    I study my coffee.
His toast is gone.
His cup is empty.
He slides off his stool and starts to trudge towards the door. He reaches it, turns to me.
    “Thanks for the toast.”
He smiles warmly.
I lift my hand.
He turns and pulls the door open, the bell clangs.
He walks into the night.
    I lift my mug and empty it.
My brain registers the screaming tires before my mind can identify the sound and I flinch instinctively.
Empty mug in hand, mouth open, I stare as the black blur of SUV swerves and rolls, tumbling over and over through the intersection in a cacophony of breaking glass, jagged screeching metal, smoke.
It bursts into flames as it comes to rest on its side, crushing the homeless man beneath.
    I fumble for my cell phone, punch 9-1-1.
I report the accident and location to the dispatcher.
He assures me that an ambulance is being sent immediately.
I hang up, knowing it is a coroner who is needed.
    Angel is standing, hand over mouth.
Staring at the flames.
Sirens in the distance.
I sit, she stands, as the fire department, police, and EMTs do their job.
    The police come in.
Talk to Angel.
Talk to me.
Thank me.
Tell me I can go.
    I walk home, hands again deep in my coat pockets.
Retracing the route I’d come only an hour earlier.
    I look in on my daughter.
She sleeps the sleep of the four year old.
I kiss her head.
Use her pillowcase to wipe away my tears.
    I climb into bed.
My wife sleeps peacefully, never knowing I was gone.
I hug her.
She stirs.
Doesn’t awaken.
    I close my eyes.
And sleep.

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