A Life Well Lived

Jules brushed his hands roughly across the front of his jeans and pulled the cuffs down over his weathered brown loafers. With a small dollop of hair tonic, he ran his fingers back through an unruly thatch of wavy brown hair. He straightened his collar, peering in the mirror with furrowed brow, not feeling convincingly presentable. The rumble of the garbage truck on the street below signaled that it was time to head out, or risk missing the Q bus. Standing with one hand in his pocket and the other gripping the rail above, he gazed out of the window as the city came to life with the ambient noise of car horns and sirens and the indistinguishable chatter of fellow passengers. He struggled to find even a modicum of enthusiasm to push his way towards the door as the bus approached his stop. That journalism degree is certainly paying off, he thought, twisting one side of his mouth up into an indifferent grin. Being a copy editor wasn't very exciting, but it was a start. Having left the tranquility of Northern Kentucky to work in Manhattan after college, it didn't take long for the reverie of big city life to evaporate, leaving only the crushing reality of student loan debt and a growing distaste for ramen noodles. He shared a flat in Queens with a Macedonian expat and a nightclub promoter who frequently interrupted his slumber by burgeoning through the door at 3am, often accompanied by friends in various states of inebriation.

He stood at the exit doors, gripping the handrail extra tight to avoid falling into someone as the bus jerked to a stop. The doors creaked open and he bounded forward, launching into a brisk walk. The crisp November air stung his cheeks, and he rubbed his hands together between exhales of warm breath into them. Even a block away, he could already smell the familiar husky aroma. Every morning before work, he stopped at his favorite coffee shop for a cup of decadent French roast. His income didn't afford him much extravagance, but he relished this small treat.

He deposited a dollar bill into the tip jar and grabbed his coffee from the counter with both hands, it's warmth instantly soothing. With a splash of cream, he moved the wooden stick in slow, deliberate circles. A quick smack to the side of the container ensured that the sugar, clumped together from the humidity, would dispense just the right amount. The first sip was always the best, whetting lips chapped by the cool dry morning air. He could feel it travel down his throat, permeating warmth throughout his torso. Sitting on a cinderblock planter box under the window, he'd watch the steady frenzy of foot traffic file past. The woman in fluorescent yoga pants, artificially blonde hair in a ponytail, power walking with her arms wildly animated. The old fella with the fedora across the street, newspaper rolled up under his arm, unlocking the door to the barbershop. The click clack of expensive Italian shoes, as men in exquisitely tailored suits hurried off to board meetings and morning appointments. And finally, the distinct thump of a bad wheel on a folding cart. It was him. Jules would often sneak a peek at the basket, full of recyclables or takeout food containers. Frayed bungee cables held a dingy flannel rolled up on the top. He'd saunter by, shuffling his feet, never looking up from the ground. His face was deeply creviced and dark from the sun, in stark contrast to his white, wispy, shoulder-length hair. A Louisville Cardinals stocking cap was pulled snuggly down over his ears. He passed the shop every morning, eventually dissolving into the flow of people. But not today. Just past the double doors, he paused and slowly looked up towards the entrance. Customers hurriedly exited, holding hot coffee in one hand and a cell phone or a briefcase in the other, sidestepping, clearly annoyed that he was occupying such premium sidewalk real estate. Jules watched with bemusement. Each time a customer would exit, the rich aroma of roasted coffee beans, nutmeg and cinnamon would waft outward. Jules understood it's allure. The old-timer reached into the pocket of his oversized polyester slacks and pulled out a few lonely coins. He studied the coins for a few seconds, before putting them back in his pocket with a shrug and shuffling forward again.

Jules watched him lumber down the sidewalk, feeling a bit guilty for enjoying the innocuous pleasure of cheap coffee. Compelled, he leapt forward and tapped the old guy on the shoulder. "Wait here, I'll be right back." Jules approached the counter, greeted by the same bespectacled young woman who had served him just 10 minutes before. A constellation of red freckles graced her mocha skin, and up through the band around her forehead her hair exploded into a dense mass of artfully messy, tight curls. She was cute, he thought.

"Couldn't stay away, huh?" she teased. In all of the times he had seen her, it was the first time they had spoken beyond the basic courtesies of "good morning" or "thank you."

He smiled sheepishly. "I just wanted to grab another coffee please, for him" he said, pointing over his shoulder at the old man on the sidewalk.

Jules scanned the glass case full of croissants and bagels with a finger on his lower lip, finally announcing "and a ham and cheese croissant, please." Both smiling now, they held each other's gaze for a moment before he dropped another dollar in the tip jar, turned and exited.

Returning to sidewalk, he held the coffee and croissant out. "Please, take this." The old man didn't look down at what Jules was holding, nor did he reach for it. Instead, he studied Jules's face for several seconds. His eyes were a steely turquoise, recessed behind unruly gray eyebrows. Jules pushed his hands out further. "Please." The old man gently grabbed the cup and the bag. "Thank you, son" he muttered softly with a low, gravely resonance. They both stood there in awkward silence, until Jules motioned towards the planter box. "Would you like to sit?" And so they sat, drinking coffee and watching the passersby. Neither spoke. Jules noticed how the old man held the coffee just as he did, with both hands, close to his chest. Each time he lifted the cup to his lips he closed his eyes. Realizing he was going to be late for work, Jules rose and straightened out his jacket. The old man looked up at him and nodded with a wink. Jules nodded back and wished him a nice day. The old man curiously watched him walk away, disappearing into the drove of pedestrians.

The next morning, Jules approached the coffee shop and ordered his usual. Freckles was working again. They made small talk. Life in the city was hard, and worlds away from Kentucky. But he grew to love the orchestrated chaos of it all. The culture. The shish kabob street carts. He felt like he was home. Such pleasant thoughts were interrupted by the familiar "thump thump" of the old man's cart approaching. As he passed, he turned back and caught Jules's gaze, raising a dirty, tattered glove to give a little wave to the kind stranger he had encountered the day before. Jules waved back, stood up and gestured him over. Without waiting for a reaction, he went back into the shop where Freckles dispensed a fresh cup. It was on the house, she said.

And so they sat, again drinking coffee on the cinderblock planter. The old man asked Jules for his name, extending a hand creased with sun spots and callouses, fingernails yellowed and brittle. But Jules did not hesitate to grab it and squeeze heartily, just as his father had taught him. "When a man offers you his hand, you shake it firmly and look him in the eye" his father used to say. His name was Otis Westermeyer. "Are you from Kentucky?" Jules asked him, pointing at his Louisville Cardinals stocking cap. "That's my alma mater." Otis chuckled, explaining that he was from Vermont, and how he had found the stocking cap on the ground at the train station. "It keeps these old ears warm."

The next day, as he approached the coffee shop he noticed that Otis was already sitting in the usual spot, gripping a cup in each hand, one outstretched towards Jules.

"You didn't have to do that" he said, thanking him as he took the cup from his hand.

"I didn't pay for this, son. Thank the lovely young lady behind the counter."

And so it became a routine of sorts; two unlikely friends sharing coffee, impervious to the hustle and bustle of the city around them. Jules learned that Otis had served in the army during the Korean war. After 18 years in the army, he worked for the carpenter's union as a shop steward, marrying his high school sweetheart, Mary, in the summer of '53. Whenever he spoke about Mary, his eyes would narrow into an endearing twinkle. She died in 1979 from lupus. They had a son, who died in a motorcycle accident just shy of his 19th birthday. He had no immediate family. He lived on a small pension, spending his days perusing the neighborhood, taking the ferry over from Staten Island. Jules hadn't acclimated much socially to the city and was happy to have a friend. Sometimes Freckles would take her break and come out to join them. Her name was Maya, and she attended NYU. Otis was a treasure trove of history, sharing stories about seeing Charlie Parker at Minton's, traveling across Europe with Mary, and about the Korean family who delivered bulgogi and rice to his army unit and taught him about tolerance. Otis had lived quite a life, and in it's twilight he remained humble, wise, grateful and kind. He was well-spoken and articulate. Jules grew to enjoy these daily meetings.

The following Spring Jules secured a position writing for a national publication. His morning commute took him to midtown via the MTA red line, no longer riding the bus that dropped him off near the coffee shop. Otis and Maya were thrilled for him, and despite it being out of his way, he assured them he would still make the trip to visit. But as life goes, intentions often give way to the logistics of reality, and he never quite found the time. After 6 weeks, he conceded to his nagging conscience and deviated from his normal route. Maya's face lit up as he entered the shop. As they talked, he'd glance out occasionally at the sidewalk.

"Looking for Otis?" she asked, diverting her gaze down at fidgeting hands. "He was sick, Jules. He never mentioned it to us. He passed 2 weeks ago." Jules stared at her in stunned silence, overcome with a sense of guilt. Maya embraced him, and through a comforting whisper told him how Otis often asked about him. "He left you something" she said. She returned a moment later, holding a small black notebook. Jules removed the string tied around it. It smelled musty, like the old books at the school library back in Kentucky. He flipped through the scribbles and references to appointments.

"I don't understand."

Maya flipped to a dog-eared page. On it was a series of numbers, and a phone number with a Vermont area code. "Otis asked me to tell you to call. I don't know why, but I promised him I would."

Still confused, Jules dialed the number. "Local UBC 349" the voice on the other end answered. Jules provided the information. "Sir, Mr. Westermeyer was a union member for 35 years. He had a $20,000 life insurance policy. You are the beneficiary."

Jules and Maya stared at each other incredulously. Outside, a convertible Buick drove by playing Charlie Parker.