Decaf

I watched the coffee maker add its last few drops of sludge into the pot and tried to hide my disgust from the customers. The flavor was about as bland as this town, and after seven years of working in this diner I still couldn’t comprehend how anyone could voluntarily drink it. Or eat anything off of the carb heavy breakfast menu for that matter, aside from the almond croissant. It was inexplicably divine, and maybe one of the only options this place provided that wouldn’t guarantee a heart attack.

I became a prisoner at The Half Calf back in college when I did what every resourceful teenager from a low-income family does to try and further their studies without completely drowning in student debt – get a minimum wage, soul sucking job. My paychecks barely covered any of my required textbooks, but did allow me the luxury of purchasing beans and instant noodles for sustenance. I promised myself that I would only have to endure this torture until graduation; that it was temporary, but necessary. I envisioned tossing my cap in the air, and my soiled apron in the back dumpster. I couldn’t tell which action would be more satisfying; both signified my freedom in different ways. But instead of spending my final undergraduate year looking for a more glamorous job in a city that was miles away, I dropped out entirely. I spent that time with my mother and her terminal cancer, which is a major I don’t recommend anyone study. Every day I cleaned her frail limbs and mixed drugs into her food that wouldn’t cure her, but at least help one of us with their pain. I heard her last breath and she slipped as far away from me as that degree and those dreams. I returned to the only other thing I knew – the diner. Years past my sentence I’m still stuck here, and I constantly smell like bacon.

I hear the bells at the front door chime, and it’s conditioned me to forge a smile and greet whoever has entered. Sometimes I can’t help but think I’ve become one of Pavlov’s dogs, without the reward. Maybe a quarter tip on a ten-dollar tab, on a good day. I turned around to find an elderly man with stratus clouds for hair and bandages all over his fingers. There was a strong odor coming off of him that smelled more regal than offensive; I could make out notes of tobacco, patchouli, and perhaps sawdust. He came armed with a tattered little black notebook under his arm and what looked like a glasses case in his front pocket.

“Welcome, booth or counter seat?” I said in a voice I only use here.

“Whichever has the best lighting.”

His response caught me off guard; there weren’t a lot of unconventional requests made here. Maybe the occasional out-of-towner asking for something gluten free but nothing of this sort. I grabbed an empty coffee mug and menu then sat him in the back corner. The booth here was more faded than the four in front of it because the blinds had gotten stuck, and the sun had free reign on its fabric. He looked around the restaurant, looked me up and down, then nodded and took a seat. I couldn’t tell if he was studying me or judging me, but it felt harmless either way. I went to retrieve both equally watered-down coffee options for him to choose from and when I returned to the booth, the mysterious black book and small case took the place of the plate and silverware that were in front of him.

“Decaf or regular?” I asked in that same nauseating voice.

“Whiskey, if you’ve got it.”

I let out a laugh that was actually genuine. He pointed to the decaf pot with a mischievous grin and I almost felt bad serving him this motor oil. He leaned over the cup and gave it a whiff with his oversized nostrils, then looked back up at me in horror.

“I know,” I whispered. “Neither are any good, I’m sorry.”

“I’ll take some company instead.” He whispered back.

As rough as his appearance and hands were, there was something really gentle and endearing about this man. I appreciated his clever comebacks and casual demeanor whenever I checked on him, even if an hour later he still hadn’t opened the menu or asked for anything else. The banter kept him full and if I let him stay awhile, he promised there would be “twenty in it for me”. The money was helpful, but admittedly I was just happy to be serving someone who resembled a sitcom grandfather instead of a grabby truck driver or pack of wild children.

My shift was halfway through and I could now slip into the back of the restaurant to be alone with my thoughts and grease stains, at least for thirty minutes. My usual and rather dismal routine involved sitting in my car chain-smoking menthols, wishing I could just peel out of the parking lot and never see this place again. Even if I did decide to be reckless one of these times and speed off, I wouldn’t get very far with just a plastic lighter and a few crinkled tips in my pocket. Instead, I’d reluctantly turn off the ignition and my imagination. Each day felt a little heavier and my greatest fear was that I would die in the same town I grew up in, holding a pad with someone’s order for a Western omelet.

I put my mother’s denim jacket on over the boxy polyester uniform – this was usually enough of a visual cue to let customers know “out of order” and “do not disturb” once I walked back into the dining area. I grabbed two almond croissants out of the plexiglass display case and sat down across from the witty old man with hands like a mummy. The small case from his pocket was now laid open on the table, revealing its contents to me. No glasses, just a few stubby pencils and some spare bandages. He carefully moved his notebook aside then raised the pastry from the plate. Before taking a bite, he held it up like a champagne glass and waited for me to join him for a toast.

“May my final years be better than this coffee.” He said with a smirk.

We tapped our croissants and I watched powdered sugar cover his shirt like a sweet bib as he took the first bite. He took another three and after tasting the filling his entire face lit up.

“I thought the best ones came from Stohrer, you’ve been holding out on me!”

“Is that another diner out of town?”

“Try out of this country. One of the finest patisseries in Paris, my dear.”

“Sorry, I’ve never even left the state.” My response made him raise his eyebrows.

“You gotta get out more.” Pieces of slivered almonds fell from his lips as he mocked me. He licked the exposed tips of his fingers then wiped them on his wool trousers. He picked up the black notebook and skimmed through a few pages until he found what he was looking for.

“Scoot over. We’re going on a trip.” He said as he plopped down next to me.

“Okay, but make it quick.” I joked. “I’ve only got another fifteen minutes left.”

“There,” he tapped on the page. “Paris.”

I looked down to see a pencil drawing of a stone street lined with little shops. Each one had an awning and if you looked a bit closer, you could make out the various goodies presented in their windows. I couldn’t believe the amount of detail and how realistic these soft renderings were; his wrapped fingers must be overworked after using them to log his travels all these years. I continued to flip through and admire them, wishing I could see just one of these places in his graphite diary in person. Some of the sketches he scoffed at – either the destination was disappointing, or he was unhappy with the pencil strokes. Others seemed to bring back pleasant memories for him, and I’d wait a minute before turning the page. It was selfish, but I wanted nothing more than to keep this book. I wanted to look at these places every break and learn more about this stranger and where he’d been, because it was as close as I’d ever get to traveling myself.

The manager on duty pulled me out of the clouds and back down to the diner’s linoleum floor. I was supposed to resume my shift a few minutes ago, even though I wasn’t ready or done looking yet. He stood up to let me out of the booth, then stuck his tongue out at the woman before she walked back to the counter. I smiled, then let out a sigh and followed her with heavy feet. I brought the denim jacket into the employee restroom and spot cleaned the sugary spots. I had to be careful with this memento but couldn’t clean it so much that it lost her scent. I missed her, and really wished I could tell her about the man and his drawings. I didn’t have anyone to tell, really. I rinsed off my hands and crossed my fingers that these next few hours would go by as quick as possible. This place really was the worst.

I walked back out to the restaurant and my heart sank – he was gone. I saw the slip on the table and some cash for his decaf, but no wispy hair or pencils in sight. I scurried past two tables trying to order food and pushed through the front door to scan the parking lot, but still no trace of him. The bells on the door rang aggressively when I came back in and it drew more attention to me than I wanted. I grabbed a rag and sauntered over to the vacant booth in disbelief. Just before I started wiping the remnants of our exchange off of the table something caught my eye. My wish had been granted; the black notebook was left behind on the seat. This kindhearted gesture was too much for me, it must be an accident. I didn’t really expect him to give me something so valuable. I opened it up to a dog-eared page that didn’t exist before. This drawing was unfinished, but it was of me holding a coffee pot. I seemed so out of place amongst all of the architecture and beautiful landscapes that came before me. Just below the image was a handwritten note that read “Go on an adventure, kid.” I heard it in his voice and let out a laugh. As I shut the cover something fell from the pages under the booth seat and I quickly dropped down to find it, afraid I tore something out by mistake. My fingers groped the floor and found the piece of paper and I froze – it was a check for $20,000. My entire body was trembling but I knew I needed to get up off of the floor and get a better look at it in the light, because it couldn’t be real. But it was, and the longer I held it in my hands the more certain I was of its purpose.

I left the rag and remaining powdered sugar on the table and walked towards the back, ignoring the manager and the customers’ offended looks. I tossed my apron in the dumpster and put the denim jacket back on as I walked towards my car, determined to see this plan through. I reached into my pocket to make sure the check was still there next to my plastic lighter, both items warm and secure. This was enough to finally slam my foot down on the gas pedal and leave the diner behind.