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| Needs a window behind it... |
But that did not change the fact that he was making less money. His justification? He was going to die anyways. Might as well use the extra cash.
Clark dreamed of college, of all those things that the public at large told him to buy. He thought occasionally of a big house, perhaps a picket fence. But he had lived out of the loop for so long growing up, the product of hippies, that the coffeehouse was more of a career move than a interim placement. He eventually developed a series of responses for older patrons who asked, “what’s next for you?”
Everyone seemed to buy the marriage or the college bit. Occasionally, if the group was young men or women, he would add he was waiting for his big break in modeling. He was not much to look at, but they never seemed to catch the joke when he spit it out like cold coffee.
He also never really minded the Saturdays and the Sundays. Since the quitting-smoking bit hit the Joint Java House, he decided to learn to love them a bit more. The customers were now ruder than the smokers, but more did arrive and so did the trade off. He did realize that the daily counts were not that much different before and after the law took effect. The only thing that really increased were the amount of people who said ‘venti’ instead of ‘large.’
The lunch crowd clears in an hour. He liked the way they came in, filling every booth and seat from the back to the front and left in the same order. During the week? Nothing. Saturday and Sunday? Everyone must need some kind of fix.
JJH was always a coffeehouse, even though it had been built in the fifties. You could tell. The tables were not the rehashed used-shop kinds, but instead, steady booths and decent sized café tables that held up inside and out. Just inside the front door was a huge piece of furniture. That booth was designed for larger groups, or, by the way it looked out on the main floor, mobsters. Strangely, it’s occupancy was low. His boss would find the space needed outside of the loft-office on the hardwood, the wifi keep her connected to the books. Once and awhile a drunken party would hit the space trying to sober up before electing to just call a cab for the night.
Clark was embarrassed when he noticed the light blue silhouette of a tall man lean out.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t realize someone was there! Let me get you a menu!” he yelped from a nearby four-seater he was wiping. The man did not turn to look at him. Just nodded slowly, crinckling the back of his neck. Good, this means he’s waiting for someone.
Clark ran to the back, wiped down a menu and then returned to the front. The food was terrible, but the coffee menu was all that people looked at anyways.
The man had switched to the other side of the table, as if to get a better view of the empty street.
“Here you go. You think want a coffee off the bat?”
The man twisted his head, leaving his torso aimed at the front of the Joint. He pressed his bottom lip into the top on, curving the area under his nose. His eyebrows rose at the same time and a smile worked its way out. The rest of his body flowed to join the direction of his head.
“Yes. A large one.”
“We can, hey,” Clark noticed, “hey, have we met? Is this your first time to the joint?”
“I have that kinda face. No, can’t say I have. But, then again, do you think that your coffeehouse is any different than others?”
“Yeah, it’s different! It’s got me!” Clark twirled his mug, creating a pinstripe splatter on his shirt. He winced when the damage was apparent.
“Ah, I see. Guess that’s the attraction, then.”
They both rolled their eyes for different reasons.
When Clark returned with a mug and the carafe, the gentlemen seemed to have moved once more. “Bad lighting?”
“Excuse me?”
“The lighting? In the booth? Is it bad?”
“No. Why?”
“Why did you move?”
“I was called away.”
“Oh, did you find the bathroom okay?” He moved his head back towards the rear of the Joint.
“Something like that.”
Clark wished the guy was a smoker. At least the tip would have been better than the repartee. When the older women at table four decided to go, Clark felt a bit dejected. It was him and the corner booth alone. No distractions. The barista and the cook were discussing politics. He failed at finding his paperback. And he hated folding napkins.
He headed back to the table to justify taking a small break.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Clark got a clearer look at the man. He was chunkier than he first realized, the lower parts of his body caught off by the high rise of booth’s table. The visitor had moved to the end of bench now, but did not make any indication on if he planned on leaving. His shoes were boring leather-fare, worn but comfortable. He had on black shorts made of denim and a wrinkled polo shirt. But the clothes covered up someone who appeared massively clean. His hair was clipped to it’s severe edges, as if recently cut; the smell of perfumed soap still floated away. His teeth, when the illuminated, were brisk and white, their bottoms lined up as if pressed from ivory.
“Ah, okay, I was going to take a break and I’ll be right back.”
“Excellent.”
“So?”
“So.”
“So? Do you need anything?”
“I need someone to talk to.”
“Excuse me?”
“I need, I need someone-oh, never mind.” He returned his gaze to the front window.
“I,” Clark looked back to the kitchen window. The barista was now giving the finger to the cook. He figured the cook was probably returning the gesture back to the barista, but he was out of sight. “I can take my break here then.”
Clark was not the friendly type, he mentioned to himself repeatedly. It was a rouse, brought on by years of working in public service. Over the years, men and women would try to give him their phone numbers or would become dissatisfied if he did not sit and talk to him. He learned that being quaint gave better tips. And the distance meant that he grinned all the way home without worry. He surprised himself when he slid it on the vinyl, “L” shaped booth. The air underneath pressed the stranger vertical about an inch.
“You don’t have to, really, don’t, you can go on your break.”
“Oh, so that’s how you’re going to be then! Alright, don’t worry, I don’t charge a dime. But if you’d rather, I’ll get you another cup,” Clark feigned and hoped the customer would take the bait.
The visitor grimaced as if trying to cover the pain of stubbing his toe, uncertainy riding through his body.
They sat and stared at each other.
“You know, I once had a lady here completely elaborate how she kicked her ex husband in the nuts after her divorce was final. She had made a copy of her housekey, snuck into his, their, house and moved a chair to face the front door. When the bastard came in with his new honey, she stood, walked over and cracked the schmuck in full view of the street. Never filed charges. I never saw her again.”
“And this is supposed to make me feel what, exactly?”
“One, you’re supposed to realize that it is sometimes easier to talk to strangers. And two, that this booth doesn’t really feel alright. Dang, I guess it is pretty lumpy, isn’t it.”
“Hadn’t noticed.”
“I have. Look, you don’t have to talk to me. I’m working a double, you looked like you could have someone to talk to. I feel like talking.”
“Probably too much caffeine from the coffee?”
“Probably. True. Didn’t think of that.”
“Well, I’m just, well. Let’s just say, I lost a friend today.”
“Lost as in ‘lost?’ Or lost as in, um,” the coffee in his system had given him energy and he bit his lip, “passed away.”
“Something like that.”
“Dude, I’m sorry. Then who are you waiting for?”
“I’m not sure.”
