Stealing Wishes
Books by Shannon Yarbrough
THE OTHER SIDE OF WHAT
STEALING WISHES
Stealing Wishes
Shannon Yarbrough
TOSOW PUBLISHING
SAINT LOUIS
STEALING WISHES
© 2008 by Shannon Yarbrough
www.shannonyarbrough.com
ToSow Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except in brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-0-6152-1361-3
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For John
It’s been a long time since that first cup, but I still look forward to coffee with you every morning.
I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee.
~Carly Simon,
You’re So Vain
If I could make a wish, I think I’d pass.
Can’t think of anything I need.
~The Everly Brothers,
The Air That I Breathe
One
This is something you may or may not know.
In 1939, Christopher Isherwood wrote a book called Goodbye to Berlin in which he said, “I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking.” His novel was made into a play and later a film in 1955 under the name I Am a Camera. The play inspired a stage musical called Cabaret in 1966, which inspired a film in 1972 of the same name.
Isherwood died in 1986, so he lived to see all of this take place. True life inspired his words, which inspired a film, which inspired a play (more words), which inspired another film. And now, it inspires my words. This is my true life.
Isherwood
was right when he wrote those words. I too am a camera. Where are
the candid shots of me? No one has ever taken them. Turning the pages
of my photo album one might ask, "Where are all the pictures of
you, Blaine?"
There aren't any. I am the one behind the
camera. The photographer—No! The camera! Yes, I was at that pool
party, that birthday party, that July 4th picnic. I snapped that
picture of you with the bunny ears. I snapped you making that big
splash, and the one with your trunks down. I told everyone to smile
cheesy for the camera, to look my way on the count of three. "You
have such a good eye. You should do this for a living," I'm
told.
But I don’t. Cameras are just a leisure pursuit.
We all have something we are good at that we’d rather be doing, but instead we flip burgers, or wait tables and pour coffee. We put on a suit and go to an office, or we drive heavy machinery. We all want to be firemen or teachers or doctors when we grow up. No kid tells the class they want to be a telemarketer or a housecleaner. A harsh reality shatters our dreams and just maybe a twist of fate puts us where we want to be, instead of in front of the stove or behind the desk. Some of us still dream.
We wouldn’t call it work if we got paid to do what we really wanted to do, would we? I’d love to get paid to be a photographer, but then I probably wouldn’t enjoy taking pictures as much. And so I am a camera, but draw a paycheck for working behind the counter in a coffee shop. When I’m not pouring coffee, I take pictures.
Do you know those events in life when something extraordinary happens like a home run, a first step, the perfect catch, or a pretty snowfall? It’s one of those moments that you want to remember forever. It deserves a page in the scrapbook. It’s a story you’d have to show to everyone at the office to get them to believe it. What do you always say just as it happens?
“I wish I had a camera right now!”
In my life, I always have the camera. I am always equipped to capture those vital and momentous threads of life that our mind can’t and won’t hold onto. I’m prepared, but the trouble is my life is often lacking those threads that hold it together. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve experienced something meaningful that was worth capturing on film. And even then, I probably left the lens cap on.
Instead, I take pictures of other’s memories-to-be, mostly when they aren’t looking. Everywhere I go, I am surrounded by them, but people are too wrapped up in their lives to be paying attention. In the park there’s an old man daydreaming on a park bench, a little girl in a pink dress feeding pigeons, or a black alley cat in a bush stalking a squirrel. These are my memories, the ones that matter to me now. No birthday cake candles. No winning touch downs. No beach vacations. Just life, raw and not overexposed.
At some point in this life, I will have to face the digital eye myself. But when? Will I be a John Doe on a cold chrome laboratory table all puffy and bruised beneath the slow flash? Is this my close up? Am I ready? At the parlor, my casket might as well be closed because when I'm six feet under there won't be any Polaroids to thumb through to remind you what I looked like.
You probably think you now know all you need to know.
Not yet.
Two
The alarm clock is on the dresser across the room and it is set for 5:32am. If it was on the nightstand, I’d hit the snooze button and risk getting up at an odd time which would ruin my entire day. If the day doesn’t start correctly, it’s not worth getting out of bed for.
That’s only happened once since I started working at the coffee shop eight years ago. There was a power outage in the middle of the night that reset my alarm clock to twelve o’clock twelve o’clock twelve o’clock, so it wasn’t my fault I was late. My boss told me not to worry about it, but I beat myself up for weeks after that and have never been late since.
I do tend to wake up in the middle of the night, only to get out of bed and check to make sure the alarm clock is still set for the correct time. I know it is because I check it at least twice before getting into bed, but my mind assumes some imaginary ghost might creep into the room while I’m sleeping and change the alarm.
Or maybe it’s that I’m afraid I was a bit too sleepy and my mind deceived me when I was getting ready for bed. Maybe I set the alarm for 5:23am instead of 5:32am, although that’s never happened before. It shouldn’t matter if I got up early, but that’s nine minutes early. I’d have to stay in bed at least one more minute, not daring to get up an odd number of minutes before I was supposed to. But, if I waited a minute then it might actually be 5:33am and I’d be late already. I’d have to call into work sick.
I’m usually awake five to ten minutes before the alarm goes off. That happens to most people, I’m sure. It’s your body’s way of preparing itself for what’s to come. Your mind is always early, but if by chance I forgot to set the alarm clock then my mind would probably not wake up at all. My mind knows the alarm isn’t going to go off, so there’s no reason to wake the body to let you know the alarm isn’t set. Your mind already knows the alarm isn’t set, because it forgot to remind you to set it before you went to bed. Your mind likes to play tricks on your body. It’s sort of like when skinny girls order a latte at the coffee shop and refrain from putting sugar in it because they think they look fat.
So, I check the alarm twice before bed and once in the middle of the night, and although I sometimes wake up a few minutes early I keep my eyes shut and I do not look at the clock until the alarm actually goes off. I know on some days I wake up two minutes before the alarm sounds, and on other days I wake up as much as seven minutes early. Not being able to control those few minutes of drifting out of my sleep because my body is ready to get up would drive me crazy, so I just pretend it doesn’t happen. Although I am usually already awake, when the alarm sounds at 5:32am I open my eyes and get out of bed to shut it off just as I should. There’s no reason to let the alarm think it’s doing a bad job.
My alarm is a long sustained beep that repeats over and over again. Beep… beep… beep. I never understood those people who have a clock radio and use it as an alarm, waking up to music playing or to the voices of their favorite morning radio show. I couldn’t grasp waking up to something different everyday. My mind would probably wake the body hours before the alarm, just in anticipation of what was going to play when the alarm goes off. What would the alarm surprise us with this morning? Who’s to say I’d even wake up? What if at 5:32am the radio program was observing a long moment of silence? My alarm would actually be going off, but I’d hear nothing but silence. Can you even hear silence? What if that moment of silence lasted longer than a minute and the music didn’t resume until 5:35am?
You guessed it. I’d be two minutes late and have to call in sick.
Today, as always, I’m on time. I immediately set the alarm clock again for 5:48am allowing myself sixteen minutes to use the bathroom, shave, and shower. Sixteen is half of thirty-two, so if there is something that I know I’m going to probably do twice a day I prefer to take sixteen minutes to do it each time. Since I’m awake, I practically have my morning routine down to an art form without having to check the clock twice.
I usually finish in the bathroom before the alarm sounds letting me know my sixteen minutes are up. If I do take the full sixteen minutes then the alarm sounds at 5:48am. That leaves me fourteen minutes to get dressed before 6:02am. I prefer to be out of bed and ready for work by that time. If I spend a few minutes less in the shower on any given morning, I can sometimes beat the bathroom alarm by two minutes. This gives me sixteen minutes to get dressed instead.
I don’t mentally prepare myself for this sixteen minute interval to take place everyday. Remember, I use the sixteen minute time frame only if there’s something I know I’m going to do twice a day so that the total time doing it adds up to thirty-two. Getting dressed in the morning also entails brushing my teeth and combing my hair so twelve to sixteen minutes is plenty of time, but undressing in the evening and brushing my teeth before bed only takes about four minutes.
Taking off my clothes is the opposite of what I do in the morning and takes no time at all, and I rarely comb my hair in the evening. So, the only act I’m doing twice a day here is brushing my teeth which I do for a minimum of three minutes both in the morning and at night anyway. Splitting thirty-two minutes between these two routines just doesn’t seem feasible to me. I guess I could set the alarm and take longer to get undressed at night, but that seems a bit absurd. I’ve heard of people changing clothes several times in the morning, trying to get their outfit just right. I’ve done it myself before when I was too many minutes ahead of schedule. But how many times do we undress in the evening? There is no wrong way to take our clothes off, is there? So if I’m too far ahead of schedule in the day it’s much easier to make up for it in the morning by taking a minute or two longer to ready myself for the work day ahead.
At 6:02am, I go into the kitchen to make breakfast. I eat hot oatmeal with a banana for breakfast three times a week and cereal with cold milk on the other two days. I’m not counting weekends here. I alternate these each week, having oatmeal twice and cereal three times on the second and fourth weeks of the month. I go through thirty-two bananas a month, sometimes using one whole banana and half of another if I’m only having oatmeal twice that week. I go through five boxes of oatmeal because three plus two equals five. I’ll tell you more about five later. And for cereal, I make it a habit of buying three boxes and two gallons of milk each month.
I don’t want to spend too much time telling you my thoughts on the calendar and the way if affects my schedule. Let’s just say I wish each month had thirty-two days, instead of most of them only having thirty-one. It would make things much easier. April, June, September, and November are even worse. We won’t mention February.
Three
While eating breakfast, I sit on the sofa and watch the morning news on Channels 2 or 3. I’d much prefer to watch Channel 32 but it’s just cartoons all day long. Okay, so I watch it sometimes. I leave my apartment at 6:32am to walk to work. Did I mention that my apartment number is also thirty-two? How cool is that? I live on the second tier (of three), and there are thirty-two steps to get to the ground landing. My apartment building is on Roosevelt Avenue, and yes, Roosevelt was the 32nd president of the United States.
You are probably thinking, “Blaine, there’s no way your entire life can revolve around the number 32, right?”
That is correct. But, if you add three and two together it equals five, remember? I prefer not to get involved in intervals or derivatives of five. Five is an odd number, so I only use it when my daily life does not mold itself to my much preferred number of 32. Five is my safe number. For instance, the coffee shop where I work is five blocks from my apartment, but I can walk there in a total of 160 steps. 160 divided by 5 equals 32.
Did I forget to mention that I am 32 years old?
The coffee shop is called The Latte Da. I am one of only three employees there including the owner, Sallie. Even though I don’t have to be at work until 7am when the shop opens, I usually arrive a bit early because it doesn’t take 28 minutes to walk five blocks. When we open right at 7am, there’s usually an early morning rush so it’s nice to have a few minutes to prepare for them. Although she has never said anything, I know that Sallie appreciates my promptness.
Being a coffee barista is challenging. Pushing the last legal drug, caffeine, can be quite an art form and customers take their sippable art quite seriously. I can’t remember the last time I poured a plain black coffee. There’s Hazelnut, Southern pecan, Cinnamon, Aztec cocoa, Hawaiian blend, Mexican blend, Breakfast blend, Sumatra, and about a dozen other flavored coffees on our menu. I don’t think the word “plain” exists in coffee vocabulary. Then there are the flavored syrups customers can add to their drink for (you guessed it!) thirty-two cents extra, of which The Latte Da has thirty-two flavors. So, your Hazelnut coffee becomes Cherry Hazelnut. Your Breakfast blend becomes Caramel Breakfast blend. Your Cinnamon coffee becomes Cinnamon Apple.
And that’s just coffee.
I haven’t mentioned the mochas, lattes, cappuccinos, and macchiatos. When you add a shot of espresso to milk or water, a chemical reaction takes place creating a new Italian-sounding name that is somehow responsible for dividing customers into social classes. If you step up to the counter and order a “half-caf grande soy mocha with a shot of caramel, shot of almond, extra shot of chocolate, with little foam and hold the whip cream,” people respect you.
For those who are not so rehearsed in the argot of ordering, there’s the simple latte. It’s nothing more than a shot of espresso in steamed milk, but just uttering the word “latte” has been known to build confidence. Newcomers have stood to the side for up to ten minutes perusing the menu like it was a flight schedule in a Chinese airport, only to step up to the counter and order a small latte. They breathe easy knowing the nerve-wrecking task is done. It’s up to Blaine, the barista, to finish from there. I savor the look on their face when they take that first sip and expect to taste some sugary, chocolate, ice cream kiddy goodness. Their eyes twitch, their lips pucker, their head shakes, and I just point them in the direction of the condiment counter where they will poison their purchase with six packets of Sweet n Low.
“You should have made a suggestion,” Sallie used to tell me.
“They didn’t ask.”
The truth is I don’t want to be the one responsible for them not liking what they order. If they at least picked it out themselves, they are at fault and probably won’t feel so bad about spending a lot of money on a latte. Who is to say they are going to like what I suggest? The first time I ever tried sushi I hated it. That was probably because I tried what the waiter suggested, which was also the most expensive thing on the menu. It ended up costing him part of his tip, but I at least went back and tried it again. I just ordered something different and found a dish I liked. It works the same with coffee. How else are they going to learn?
Sallie always likes to ask every customer if they want to add a flavor shot to their drink because it increases sales. She calls it up-selling. If one hundred people add a flavor shot, it adds 32 dollars to our sales for the day. I concentrate more on asking people to purchase a bagel or doughnut. Bagels and doughnuts are one to two dollars each. If one hundred people purchase a pastry, that’s anywhere from one to two hundred dollars added to our daily sales.
“Every dollar counts,” Sallie chimes.
That’s true, but customers are picky about their coffee. We see the same faces in here everyday and they order the same thing. I don’t even have to ask half of them what they want. If it’s a quick fix, I can practically have it ready by the time they reach the cash register because I know who they are and I know what they drink. When it comes to coffee, the majority of people don’t like change. It’s pretty much that way with anything that soothes our thirst or hunger.
It’s also part of our daily routine in life. Customers like coming in everyday on their way to work and getting their Caramel Macchiatos or Almond Joy Mochas. They like getting to see Sallie or myself because they like the way we make their drink. They trust us. It practically guarantees repeat business when the customer is satisfied. If some business lady has come in everyday for the past two years and ordered a non-fat cocoa every single day, why would I suggest a shot of banana syrup if she turned down the up-sell the day before?
“She might change her mind today,” Sallie has said.
And what if she does change her mind? What if she tells us to go ahead with that shot of amaretto or banana today? What if she gets in her car and sits the drink down in the cup holder to answer her cell phone? She drives off and gets on the freeway to go to work. She finishes with her phone call and reaches down for her non-fat banana amaretto flavored cocoa and takes a sip.
She hates it and spits it out all over the windshield, and now she can’t see. She’s doing sixty on the freeway and reaches for a napkin to try to wipe the windshield, but she spills the rest of the hot cocoa in her lap. She’s wearing a black mini skirt that day to impress her boss so the cocoa burns her legs.
Without thinking, she pushes down on the gas pedal because she’s shaking her legs wildly from the sting of the hot drink. She swerves in traffic because she still can’t see out the cocoa covered windshield. The car changes lanes wildly and hits a couple of other cars. She crashes into the concrete median and six other cars pile up. Four people are killed instantly, including the business lady. Was her 32 cents worth it? What does Sallie think about all of this?
“I’m glad we have hot beverage warnings on our lids.”
Four
You should probably know that Sallie claims to be bisexual. Not only is she my employer, but she is also my best friend. I do not know if Sallie has ever slept with a woman, nor do I want to know. Sallie and I tried to have sex once several years ago, but it didn’t work. I don’t mean “it” as in my penis; I just mean the act of having sex with one another never happened.
It was “couples night out.” We call it that because neither one of us ever go on dates, but we still want to go out and have fun. So, we just go together and do whatever dating couples would normally do. We go out to eat, we go to bars, we go dancing, or we go to movies. It just depends on our mood.
On this particular night, we had dinner at a college bar. We both like pub food and beer, so we’ve hit almost every joint in town by now. There have been very few bars that we’ve visited twice. I could probably count those on one hand. After each of us had about a pitcher of beer, it was still early and we decided to go dancing. I took her to a gay bar called Backstreet, which is within walking distance of my apartment, where the walls vibrate to techno and 80s pop remixes all hours of the night.
Our beer buzz aided in the naughty dancing beneath the disco ball and bright blinking lights. Most gay people look better in the dark, and why do they always rub on one another on the dance floor? Is it a lack of rhythm or a desire to be the first fully clothed porn star? I bump into more protruding penises and boobs that way it seems, and no one cares. I zig zag my way off the dance floor like a kid going through a turnstile to get on a ride at the county fair; I say excuse me whenever I bump into a tit or a tent. I turn back to acknowledge them to their face and mouth an apology. The girls flicker their eyes at me like they think I am hitting on them. The guys flash a coy grin and flicker their eyes too when all I want to do is get through the humps and bumps to take a piss.
Sallie follows because she needs to pee too. The bathrooms are co-ed, after all we are in a gay men’s bar that doesn’t cater willingly to straight women. There are no doors on the stall so she needs me to stand guard while she squats. I hold her purse with my back turned to her. Other guys and girls come and go past me, but I’m not embarrassed standing there with her faux croc purse in my hand. Club goers with fag hags know this routine all too well. I hear the toilet flush behind me as she finishes. She stands at the mirror and reapplies lipstick and mascara while I take my turn at the urinal.
“Need me to hold anything?” Sallie jokes.
I ignore her.
After the bathroom break, we head to the bar and each do two shots of tequila before ordering drinks. Sallie prefers to drink wine or martinis, anything that comes in a glass with a stem. I prefer what Sallie calls a girly drink, anything with fruit or an umbrella. Besides beer, give me a beverage that is orange, red, pink, or teal with a kabob of pineapple and cherries and I’m a happy man. We sit and people-watch through two rounds of cocktails and then get back on the dance floor to bump and grind with strangers.
Dancing seems to be a much safer form of sex these days, and the answer to a voyeur’s prayers. You can do it with as many people as you want all in one night, or stand against the wall and watch. The consequences are minimal, but if you participate your rhythm may tarnish your reputation nonetheless. Sallie and I circle around her heels and purse in the corner, like African tribe members worshipping the spirits of the animals sacrificed for her apparel. Two shirtless young men approach us, invading our tribal circle but we let them because they are gorgeous. They gyrate and trade sweat between us. One of them reaches for Sallie and pulls her between them to simulate a ménage trios dance move.
Feeling left out, I position myself behind the guy in the back. I rest my hands on his waist and swish my hips back and forth to his beat. He reaches for my arms and wraps them around his slick washboard waist. The front of my shirt is now clinging to his cool wet back. The salty smell of his hair and of his Calvin Klein cologne invades my nostrils. The room spins. If I had my camera, I would have taken our picture because this is definitely a moment no one else would believe in the morning.
What happened next is fuzzy in my brain. Remember, the mind plays tricks on you. Maybe I just dreamt this, but I want to say that the four of us ended up on the bar’s patio to share a joint and a heavy make-out session. On other days, I remember us taking the boys back to my apartment for a hot forgy. But in reality neither of those things happened.
Our two hunky jocks were lovers and they wandered off when the song was over. We watched them couple off to grope each other and tongue wrestle. One can only imagine the pornographic romance they created in their bedroom that night! Sallie and I went to the patio to inhale the second hand smoke of other joint smokers. Neither of us likes weed enough to purchase it for ourselves. Some time after 3am we walked back to my apartment. I made us pancakes.
Still drunk and high, we sat on the sofa and at some point heavy kissing followed. Attempting to pick up where the dance floor left off, we fumbled toward the bedroom leaving behind a trail of bar-soaked stinky clothes. Naked, I climbed on top of her like a kid racing up a hill. Not knowing what to put where, I assumed everything would fall into its proper place. But by then Sallie had passed out beneath me. I leaned back to look at her snoring face. Reality slapped me across the face and I turned over and quickly passed out myself. This was a night Sallie would never remember. And one I would never mention, and so my mind changed it.
Five
You could say a camera also tricks the mind. Over or under exposure of film can cause smoky images that look like cemetery fog, or maybe a finger or camera strap got in the way of your perfect shot. Even the flash reflected off of microscopic particles of dust makes us think we see orbs or alien ghost lights floating on walls or around people. When the photo develops, we see what we want to see, what we want to believe. A smart photographer could make these spoofs seem intentional, bending the light and using simple techniques to capture the essence of his subject in motion; all with the correct use of the flash and the shutter.
A fast shutter speed will freeze your subject and a slow shutter speed will make it look blurred as the subject moves. You can also combine flash with a slow speed to get movement and blur all in the same shot. Suddenly, your ghosts have become photogenic, but still unseen to the naked eye. The camera lens can see them. But no one is perfect. My hair still gets in the way and ruins the shot I was hoping for, or I suffer from a slow finger and the bird flies away.
Any novice might throw those mottled photos in the trash, wanting only the unsullied snapshots worthy enough for the family photo album. I keep every photo I take, the ideal images and not so ideal. Cameras don’t trick the mind. If anything, they help the mind remember. But who wants to remember the mistakes they made, unintentional or not?
Six
In a 1973 interview, Christopher Isherwood said, “It seems to me that the real clue to your sex orientation lies in your romantic feelings rather than in your sexual feelings. If you are really gay, you are able to fall in love with a man, not just enjoy having sex with him.”
I covet my friendship with Sallie. She is the only person in this city who I don’t get tired of seeing everyday of my life. She understands me, and she likes to think that I understand her. She says I do, but I’m still not sure. Of course, I love her like any friend should love another. I could spend the rest of my life with her, and not get bored. It’d just be easier, I think. But Sallie needs a man who can love her both romantically and sexually, and I just don’t think I can do that. She wishes she could change me, my sexuality. She’s even said so.
“I wish you could just be straight,” she’s said a thousand times before.
“I wish you could just be a man,” I always replied.
“If I knew you’d never leave me, I’d wish for it on my next birthday.”
“You’d wish for me to never leave you or you’d wish to be a man?” I ask.
“Both.”
Neither of us has slept with a man in months, much less felt romantic towards one. Maybe that’s why Sallie considers herself to be bisexual. If the right man (or woman) comes along, she’ll take what she can get. Being bisexual or homosexual really comes down to the actual sex part. That’s why sex is part of the word.
I’ve never had sex with a woman, nor have I ever wanted to. I think the liquor and the dance floor were to blame for what almost happened between Sallie and me that night. But then again, nothing happened. I prefer to have sex with men. Well, I guess I shouldn’t say “prefer”. Preference makes you sound like you have a choice in the matter, so I should say I want to have sex with men. I like sex with men.
It’s the relationship part, the part outside of sex, that I just can’t see myself being good at. I never wanted to come home to someone, kiss them good-night, and lie down in bed next to them for a lifetime. And then there’s my obsessive compulsiveness. How would I fit someone else into my routine? Date 32 men all at once, perhaps?
Relationships and romance are easy to ignore. You can just choose to be alone in life, I guess. It’s the sex part that’s a little trickier. Our bodies all have desires, and sooner or later it’s nice to have someone else in the room to satisfy them. If sex wasn’t the issue, I think I’d choose Sallie.
Seven
Once I’ve walked down the 32 steps outside the apartment, I take 32 steps to get one block down Roosevelt to Madison Avenue. From there, I turn west and take 128 steps down Madison four more blocks to get to The Latte Da. Sallie is already inside stocking the pastry case. She usually arrives at work at 6am to bake fresh pastries and to start making coffee. I have a key so I let myself in. She looks up when she hears the bell on the door chime announcing my arrival.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” she says with a big toothy grin.
Sallie has a very bubbly personality, so I think nothing of her cheery mood.
“What’s so good about it?” I grumble.
“Well, you aren’t going to believe it but I have a date tonight!”
I knew eventually one of us would mutter those words. Neither of us is good at keeping secrets, and we tell each other everything. So, there was no reason for her not to tell me her good news. I always knew she’d be the one to find a date first. It’s easier for women, I think, although that doesn’t explain why neither of us has had a date in over two years. But that’s in the past now. This very moment changes everything. Sallie has a date. I haven’t decided yet how happy I am for her, or how jealous. I pretend to be interested.
“What’s their name?”
Notice I said their instead of he or she?
“His name is Charlie.”
“So, it’s to be a man between us,” I reply.
I draw us each a shot of espresso. Our typical routine right before opening is to do a shot, but based on today Sallie will probably tell me next she prefers cold milk. I hand her the shot glass. We toast and empty the glasses. The hot bitter liquid stings my taste buds almost as much as Sallie’s announcement. I remain quiet as I prep the espresso machine during those last moments before the café opens. Sallie has finished with the pastry case and counts the cash register. There are two or three people already waiting outside the door.
I expect Sallie to offer up more information about Charlie. She knows the sudden news of her date has shaken me, so she is quiet. I know that men will come and go in both of our lives, but our friendship will still be the thread that brings us back together. Rather than forcing her to keep the words bottled up that she so badly wants to spit out, I speak up.
“How did you meet Charlie?”
“I arrived at work this morning and was fumbling with the front door a few minutes like always. I hate that damn lock. I dropped my keys and knelt to pick them up. When I stood back up he was just standing there. He startled me because it was like he just appeared out of nowhere…”
He appeared out of nowhere. The first encounter is always magical. She could have met him last night at home on a sex hotline and just be making this entire story up, but the first encounter always has to be magical. I think I would believe her more if she told me the sex hotline bit. Do women even call hotlines for phone sex?
“…He asked me what time we open. I told him. Then, he introduced himself and said he was new in town.”
A newcomer. That was bad because there was no way to find out his deepest darkest secrets from anyone else who might have dated him, or someone who might be related. We’d have to find out everything on our own. I say “we” because if Sallie continues to date this guy steadily, she’ll learn only what she needs to know as they get to know each other. It’ll be the sugar-coated goodness that his Mommy taught him. He’ll open the car door and doors to restaurants for her. He’ll clean his apartment and take out the trash, hide the dirty clothes under the bed. He’ll buy her a toothbrush for when she sleeps over; he’ll scrub his toilet, and probably send her flowers for no reason. She’ll fall for him. Girls always do.
I’ll learn the other stuff that Sallie looks over. Blinded by love, her glassy eyes won’t see past the fluff. They’ll be married with a bun in the oven before she learns he dropped out of college, or has two DUI’s, maybe he even spent time in prison. She won’t know that he doesn’t floss or clean the toilet. He leaves dirty clothes on the kitchen table, or only vacuums when company comes over. By then, it might be too late for Sallie. But I’ll know. I’ll make it my personal vendetta to learn all that I can about this Charlie guy and warn Sallie before she says “I do.” Hell, I’ll even take pictures!
“He’s coming in later to take me to lunch, so you’ll get to meet him,” Sallie finishes.
I drop a shot glass. It shatters on the tile floor.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m going to lunch with him today.”
“Is this the date?”
“I guess you could call it that. I’m calling it that. So, yeah. Yeah. It’s the date.”
“No pick me up at seven? No choosing shoes and dresses, or how to fix your hair? No make-up tips? No movie? No restaurant—“
“Blaine!” She interrupted my rant, “I haven’t been on a date like that since high school!”
“Sallie, it’s 6:45 in the morning and you have frosting on your blouse. There’s flour in your hair.”
“Maybe Charlie likes frosting.”
Eight
Maybe he likes frosting, she says? Maybe he likes kitchen knives and handcuffs. I couldn't fathom going on a date with someone without first asking for a resume, reference check, and a urine sample. Sure, I'd be willing to sleep with them without the urine sample first, but a date is a commitment.
“It's just a lunch date,” Sallie says.
Those are the worst kind. You only have an hour so besides a meal, any form of entertainment is out of the question. Sallie goes to lunch at noon, which is the exact time the rest of the city goes to lunch too. A nice sit-down restaurant where the waiter comes to your table and hands you a menu is out of the question too, and Sallie isn't dressed for a place like that anyway.
So, they will probably resort to fast food. Sallie will order a diet soda and a side salad consisting only of some wilted lettuce and a slice of tomato. Charlie will order a greasy burger with a large side of fries. They'll chat about their likes and dislikes and discover they have nothing in common. Or they'll find out they have everything in common. It'll be the best date ever, one that Sallie will record in great detail in her diary when she gets home after work. She'll even swipe his straw wrapper or a napkin to press between the pages as a memento. That's what is so bad about such unplanned and sporadic first dates that actually work out. Who wants to spend your whole life with someone and look back one day and remember that first meal you shared together was a greasy burger and a side salad?
“These days, that's all the time you need,” Sallie says, “I'll definitely know by the end of lunch if I want to ever see him again.”
And that's exactly why I don't date! Unbeknownst to Charlie, he'd have one hour to impress Sallie if he wanted a second date. What if Charlie felt the same way about Sallie? Sallie would be putting forth no effort whatsoever to pique his interest, waiting for him to grab her attention instead. Both would end up thinking the other is a total bore and have their eyes glued to the clock anxious for the lunch hour to be over. When in reality, each one of them could have been the perfect match for the other, but they'd never know it.
Relationships are more like coffee than we’d expect. Sweet. Strong. Dark and bitter.
Nine
The morning was a usual blur because we were so busy. Before either of us knew it we had made it to the breather. The breather is what we call that short period of time after the morning rush finally dies down but before the lunch crowd starts coming in. It doesn’t last very long, but it gives Sallie enough time to restock the pastry case before she goes to lunch.
She also usually empties the register and makes a midday deposit, but today she puts the till in a bag and takes it to the safe in the office because of her date with Charlie. I make fresh coffee and wipe down the counters, and make a quick sweep of the prep area with a broom. We have been so busy before, and so clumsy, that the floor behind the counter becomes painted in a gooey mashed mix of coffee grounds, milk, and pastry crumbs. It pays to invest in cheap shoes for this job.
Auden, the only other employee at The Latte Da, arrives at noon to relieve Sallie for lunch. He works the afternoon with me behind the counter, leaving Sallie to run errands or do paperwork in the office. Auden is somewhat of a typical coffeehouse punk kid, only older. He has skillet black greased hair spiked with a twist of purple in the front. Sometimes it’s blue or pink. Both ears are pierced several times, and I speculate that other body parts may be too.
His forearms are covered in a fairytale of tattoos. Quite literally. There’s Little Red Riding Hood being chased by the Big Bad Wolf; Humpty Dumpty sitting on a wall surrounded by knights on horses, and an array of other Grimm characters all connected by a winding beanstalk that seems to grow out of one knuckle reaching all the way up his arm and under his shirt. His wardrobe on any day consists of only black and white colors, leather boots, and a wallet on a long chain.
At first, he scared me. Anyone brave enough to step outside of society and to step into public looking like Auden quickly gains a reputation of either being a Satan worshiper or a punk rocking druggie. Auden is neither. He has a degree from the local art school and is well versed in literature. Sallie believes he brings a certain flare to the shop that boring people like us lack, and Auden is quite reliable. She trusts him enough to close the shop down by himself in the evenings. He also keeps the evening business going which usually consists of other colorful punk kids just like him.
The Latte Da is like some odd bar that has eccentric after hour parties that no one knows about. We don’t advertise them. Patrons only hear about them by word of mouth. There’s a gay bar on Madison like that. From seven to midnight, it’s a dive bar playing Melissa Etheridge on the jukebox with middle-age lesbians playing pool or pinball. There’s a sixty-something retired butch, who likes to write poetry and hosts cook-outs, serving beer on tap behind the bar.
But somewhere between eleven and midnight, the lesbians have all gone home and the entire bar changes. The overhead yellowing lights are dimmed and neon lights flicker. A mirror ball drops out of the ceiling and the jukebox is unplugged. The thump-thump-thump of techno music vibrates speakers overhead. The pool table is lowered into a pit, now concealed beneath a dance floor with tiles that light up when you step on them. The dyke behind the bar morphs into Duke, a shirtless hunk with a German accent who lets you put tips in his G-string while he shakes martinis. Go-go boys dance in cages suspended from the ceiling!
Okay, so The Latte Da is not quite like that. Our morning patrons are businessmen in suites with cell phones and brief cases, or Moms in track suits who just dropped the kids off at school and are on their way to aerobics class or to meet a girlfriend for tennis. Everyone is on the go! Stay-at-home Moms struggle getting strollers in the door or hold up the line trying to invent a sweet concoction for their four year old. Junior is destroying the condiment counter while Mom snaps her fingers at him and threatens to count to three. Sallie gets pissed and blows hair out of her eyes while watching Junior make a picnic blanket on the floor out of paper napkins. I pour the kid milk.
“I wish you had a kid’s menu,” the snooty bitch says with a roll of the eyes.
“I wish you had a sign on the door saying NO KIDS ALLOWED,” the man behind her quips out loud to us.
My thoughts exactly.
Sallie and I just glance at each other and laugh to ourselves.
By noon when Auden arrives, the line has slowed down and the tables are filled with medical students on laptops. Good-hearted old men sit in the window and read their morning paper. The cheese danishes and cherry cream struddles are almost gone. Sallie replaces them with cornbread muffins and fresh baked cookies. We serve a different soup each day for the small lunch crowd. A black preacher comes in everyday just for the soup, and to sit in the back and prepare his sermons.
By 5pm, the boring students have all gone to class and the old men have taken the bus to Bingo. Students from the art college meander in with portfolios filled with canvases under their arms. Each knows Auden by name. They nibble cookies and leftover bagels, and sip soy lattes and caramel mochas. They push the tables together to set up shop and sketch drawings with an array of colored pencils and oil crayons thrown across the table. Others hang out in the overstuffed chairs and chat about the project they were assigned in pottery class that day, eagerly seeking the opinion of their peers. They are a young crowd, too young to get into bars and too smart to smoke cigarettes. They have dreams of becoming furniture designers and graphic artists.
Laced in the fads of the day, they all share things in common but each is different. The first year students wear tennis shoes and rubber friendship bracelets. Second and third year wear dark eye shadow and bright red lipstick, both the boys and the girls. Fourth year students have facial hair and wear khakis with cotton shirts. And they’ve probably been fourth year students for at least two or three years now, clinging to the acceptance that only other creative students like them can provide.
“They become their art,” Auden says, “and as they progress their art changes.”
“And so do they?” I ask.
“Exactly.”
“What were you like your first year of college?”
“I’ve always been this way.”
I felt like Auden was hiding something, like a painter who paints a picture on a stretched canvas but is dissatisfied with it and paints over it. Only he knows what’s underneath. I wish I knew.
Ten
Auden restocks the straws, napkins, and stirrers when he arrives. I’ve finished my mid-day prep work behind the counter so I go over to help him. Sallie has removed her apron and gone to the restroom to “freshen up” before her date arrives. She’s done a good job of keeping calm all day. On the inside, I know she has been a nervous wreck and is probably now pacing the restroom or trying to look a bit more appealing by applying what little makeup she keeps in her purse.
“Sallie has a date,” I tell Auden.
“What? With who?”
“Some guy named Charlie who she met outside when she came to work this morning. He’s supposed to be picking her up shortly.”
“Outside in front of the café? There are only homeless people outside that early in the morning.”
“That’s where she told me they met. Just this morning,” I say. I respect the way Auden calls this place a café.
“They are going to lunch together? Today?”
“Yep. He’ll be here any minute. She told me to let her know when he comes in.”
“What is she thinking?”
“I don’t know, but she’s in the restroom now preparing herself.”
“Preparing for doom is more like it. Spur of the minute dates like that never work out. Never!”
I half expect her to emerge from the restroom looking like some effeminate boy who snuck into Mommy’s bureau. Sallie has scorching red hair and pale freckled skin, and she is actually quite eye-catching with little make-up on at all if any. The cosmetics in her purse consist mainly of free samples handed to her by mall clerks just trying to push a product, or some cherry red lipstick and blue eye shadow leftover from playing a hooker on Halloween two years ago.
As if the heavens are in our favor, the only couple in the shop gets up to leave. I nod at them with a thank-you and rush over and dust crumbs off their table. I glance around to make sure everything looks orderly as if Charlie was a potential investor who we want to impress. I just pray that we don’t get a sudden rush of customers before he comes in because I want to meet him. Auden and I both will size him up, smile to his face, and then talk bad about him once they leave.
Our backs are to the door as we finish with the condiment counter. I glance up at the clock above the cash register and notice it’s one minute till noon. Suddenly, the door chimes behind us and we both turn in unison to see who is coming in. Just after a quick glance we turn back to one another, eyes bulging in disbelief.
Eleven
“Hi. I’m here to pick up Sallie. Is she around?”
Before me stands a young business man in an expensive suit, but he seems very relaxed in his attire as if he probably wore it every day. He was no different than any lawyer or real estate agent that walks through the door every morning for a hot beverage, except that Charlie was quite striking in appearance. He had neat blond hair that was short with high-lights and deep blue eyes that gave me goose bumps when I looked in them.
He was a bit shorter than me in stature, but probably the same height as Sallie. His shoulders and chest were broad beneath his crisp shirt and polo jacket, so he obviously spent time at the gym. His skin was evenly tanned and without a single blemish. His shoes were shiny and polished; there was an expensive gold watch gleaming on his wrist. He was the epitome of either new money or the beneficiary of daddy’s fortune.
“Sure, can I tell her who is here?” I ask.
“I’m Charlie.”
“Hi, I’m Blaine.”
Charlie extends a hand and we shake. It’s a firm handshake that almost hurts. I stand in front of him for a second, lost in some trance and rubbing the immediate soreness of my palm brought about by his grasp. He smiles and twitches his eyebrows, probably calling me some rude name beneath his breath.
“Sallie will be out in just a minute,” Auden calls from the door to the stock room in an attempt to snap me out of my hypnotic state.
I smile and nod at Charlie to dismiss myself and then rush to the stock room.
“Well, what do you think?” Auden asks.
“He’s gorgeous. I can’t believe it.”
“What? You can’t believe that someone like him would be interested in Sallie?”
“Exactly.”
“Why not? Opposites attract,” Auden says.
I don’t really believe that. People only say opposites attract to hide the fact that they have nothing in common with the person they ended up with. If dating was perfect, we’d all want to be with a clone of ourselves. That is, unless we absolutely hate everything about ourselves. If so, then we are destined to end up with someone who absolutely loves everything about themselves. The opposite!
But what does Auden know. I think he claims to be bisexual too, but he probably hasn’t dated anyone seriously since high school. He probably takes out personal ads in both the men seeking men and men seeking women columns. Maybe he goes on blind dates, and he’s even tried those dating hotlines they advertise on television. I don’t know.
So, what’s his real excuse? I’ve never asked, but I imagine he’d reply by saying something profound like, “I just haven’t found Mr. Right, or Mrs.”
Notice I put Mister first. His preference, perhaps? I don’t really know. I’ve never looked at Auden that way, or really wondered about his personal life outside of the coffee shop.
There’s a back door in the stockroom that we keep locked that leads into both restrooms. I knock on it to let Sallie know that Charlie has arrived. She doesn’t answer so I call out to her, “Charlie’s here!”
“Five bucks says he’s a lawyer,” Auden says.
“I was thinking real estate.”
“Maybe a doctor?”
“Nah, doctors wear scrubs or lab coats to work. If he was going on a lunch date, he wouldn’t change into a suit.”
“True, but what kind of businessman calls himself Charlie? Wouldn’t he say his name is Charles if he wanted to seem so professional?”
“Good point.”
“Maybe he’s an accountant then?”
“Again, why the suit?”
“Maybe he’s head of his own accounting firm,” Auden says.
“He’s a professor,” Sallie says from behind us, finally emerging from the restroom like a beauty queen who just stepped on stage.
She looks radiant. Her hair is pinned back. Her complexion is warm, not painted, with just the right amount of make-up. Her white shirt is tucked beneath her skirt, with no remnants of frosting or powdered sugar lingering down the front. She’s even rolled the skirt up a bit to show some leg. A piece of cloth from a Christmas window display is tied around her waist as a scarf.
This is the Sallie I once knew. It’s the Sallie that used to get up early in the morning to fix her hair in hopes that Mr. Right would walk into the shop that day. It’s the Sallie that would laugh above the crowd at the bar and toss her hair to get a guy’s attention, the Sallie that would bat her eyes at customers who left good tips. This Sallie was fun. She’s always been fun, even after she gave up and stopped caring, after she stopped looking like this every day. This Sallie went dormant and the single, middle-aged lonely Sallie materialized. And it seems that Sallie I once knew has just been hiding in the restroom all this time.
“A professor of what?” Auden asks.
I’m speechless, still amazed at how she turned that tree skirt into a sash.
“English literature. At the university,” She says, “Well, how do I look?”
She does a turn and giggles. It’s a giggle I haven’t heard in years.
“You look great,” Auden says.
“What do you think of Charlie?” She asks.
“He’s hot. You’re hot. Look at you, Sallie,” Auden says with a grin.
“Well, Blaine, aren’t you going to say anything?” Sallie asks.
She slaps me on the cheek bringing me back.
“What?” I shake my head.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“I’d fuck him!”
It’s the first thought that blurts out of my mouth. I’m so embarrassed, but Auden and Sallie just laugh.
“Not until I’ve had him first,” she coos.
And like that, she sashays out the stock room door and greets Charlie with a smile. He looks her up and down and smiles with approval, giving her a compliment. Like parents standing at the window who just met the boyfriend for the first time, Auden and I watch as he offers our girl his arm and opens the door for her. He ushers her down the sidewalk and they fade into the afternoon light.
“Wow, it’s like a fairy tale,” Auden exclaims.
“Do you have this one tattooed on you as well?”
“Prince Charming and Sleeping Beauty. Between my shoulder blades.”
Auden raises his shirt and I admire his picture book back before going back to work. The vivid memory of his inked skin coats my brain like a fascinating day dream. I wish I could have touched it.