Happy Birthday

There’s a moment in time when the exhaustion of grief can easily become insurmountable anger. Anger that eats your soul, hardens your heart, dries your tears. Anger that comes as a relief from the constant pain of loss. Anger that can loudly advise the world of one’s scars. Anger which substitutes grief, in such a comforting way. Grief can be so internal. Anger, so external, like the necessary release of a pressure valve.

At first, I didn’t understand his anger. Constant, fierce, it heralded his arrival, entering the room before he did. He would look both at you and through you, trying desperately to connect, but pushing you away at the same time.

‘It’s my birthday next week,’ he announced angrily, to no-one and to everyone, as he marched past me into the café one morning.

‘Your boyfriend is here’, Evie chuckled under her breath, screwing up her freckled nose as she pushed past me and went into the kitchen. I watched her strawberry curls bouncing happily on her shoulders as she breezed past, escaping his venom.

‘Thanks,’ I grunted back at her through gritted teeth.

He walked with purpose, his stocky legs stomping as he strode through the café towards a table – his table – in the back corner. Luckily for me, it was empty. He didn’t take kindly to sitting anywhere else. He scraped the chair noisily across the floor as he positioned himself with his back to the wall, the window to his right. He tugged at his bike pants as he sat down, his muscly tanned legs stretching out beneath the table as he lay back in the chair, waiting, impatient, ready. The sun shone quietly through the window, juxtaposing against him and the whirlwind that came with him. The whirlwind that was him.

‘Morning John,’ I said warmly, calmly, as I placed a glass of water in front of him on the table. He moved it to the side immediately, in one fast, angry swipe.

‘It will be next week,’ he muttered loudly, not looking at me, his words tumbling over each other as he hurried to speak. ‘It’s my birthday next week.’ Spittle stretched between his chapped lips, his silver hair hung loosely to his shoulders, yellowed from too much sun and too many cigarettes. ‘Not a good morning today though, is it? Why would it be?’ He glared at me, daring me to give him a reason to be happy. He barely took a breath before he continued his diatribe. ‘Not a good morning today. It’s not my birthday today, is it?’ He glared out of the window, not caring to hear my reply, not interested in my opinion, not capable of looking at me any longer.

‘How old will you be next week John?’ I ignored his ire, familiar with his routine. ‘I’m guessing….forty?’ I said carefully, lightly, tiptoeing around his bitterness. He was clearly in his late fifties at best. Drinking, smoking, and his nomadic lifestyle had added years to both his face and body.

‘Forty?!’ he snorted as he turned back from the window to look at me. ‘Forty?’ he stared.

As he studied my face, I saw his eyes twinkle. Briefly. Unsure if I was playing with him, I watched him search my face. Was he happy? For just a second? Happy for some banter? Happy to talk to someone? To connect? But quicker than it had arrived, the sparkle left. His face darkened and he looked toward the centre of the table, tapping it vigorously with his index finger. He was finished with talking.

‘Coffee!’ he barked at me, thumping his finger firmly in the centre of the table. ‘Coffee.’

‘Sure thing birthday boy,’ I smiled, turning quickly back toward the kitchen.

‘Nina,’ Evie whispered to me as I joined her behind the coffee machine. ‘You're so good with him,' she screwed her face as she shook her head. 'I can't do it. He’s such a grumpy bastard. And he spits all over me when he talks…..’ she winced as though she'd just eaten a lemon.

I watched him rub his dirty palms over the clean table, removing imaginary crumbs. He obsessively wiped, back and forth, back and forth, until his coffee arrived. From behind the coffee machine Evie watched him, a sadness shadowing over her cheery freckled face.

‘He's always so angry,’ she looked over at me with concern. ‘I wonder what pissed him off?’

‘Or who…?’ I offered.

Side by side, making coffee, we watched him carefully. Abruptly, dramatically, he reached around and grabbed his satchel, rummaging through it with the grunts and groans of a professional wrestler as he hunted fervently for something. A notebook. He placed it neatly on the table, below the glass of water. Evie and I watched silently as he smoothed his hand slowly over the neat black cover and reached for a pen from his shirt pocket.

‘What does he write in that bloody thing all day?’ Evie lowered her voice again as she concentrated carefully, pouring milk into his latte. ‘He’s been scribbling in it for weeks.’

‘How to dispose of your dead body?’ I offered helpfully as I reached for a saucer.

‘Don’t make me more afraid of him than I already am,’ she whispered as she made his coffee foam into a heart shape, stepping back to admire her work. ‘Maybe he is plotting to bump me off. He told me he didn't like yesterday's coffee.....’

‘He will bump you off if you keep putting hearts on his coffee……’ I scolded her as I grabbed a spoon, quickly stirring his cup. ‘You know he hates them.’

Peeking over at John, he sat with pen in hand, hunched over like a schoolboy doing his final exams. Fervently writing, he stopped intermittently to glare through the window at a random passerby, muttering to himself before continuing to write. He his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, his baseball cap pulled firmly down on his head. He was dressed like he was about to go on a zoom call, business on top, bike pants below. And that notebook. That black notebook. It was strange.

‘I’ll ask him,’ I announced.

‘You won’t…’ Evie’s green eyes widened.

‘I will,’ I repeated confidently. ‘I’ll ask him. And he’ll tell me.’ I put his coffee on my tray and added two biscuits onto the saucer and raised my eyebrows at Evie, smiling sweetly as I headed to his table.

‘None of your business,’ he snarled as I put his coffee where he was jabbing his finger. ‘Here! Put it here!’ he barked. ‘And mind your own business….’ he yelled at my back as I hastened to the kitchen.

Evie was stifling laughter as I locked eyes with her. In the background, we could hear him still muttering to himself, throwing angry words in my direction.

‘…….busybody……………..stick nose, that’s what she is……………a stick for a nose……….coffee………peace and quiet …..”

'Awks,' shrugged Evie.

‘This weeks unsolved mystery.......’

Evie smiled at me ruefully. ‘You were game to try.’

As the morning tumbled on, John finished his coffee and grabbed his satchel, stomping toward us, dumping a handful of change onto the counter.

‘Count it!’ he pointed to Evie. ‘Count it.’ He stared her firmly, demanding an immediate tally. Her eyes widened as she turned off the steamer and hurried over to his pile of change.

‘Yes, perfect John, perfect. Thank you. Here….’ she pushed $2 back across the counter. ‘Keep this for next time.’

Like a flash, the money was in his pocket and he turned and left.

‘Nice,’ I smiled at Evie. ‘He might smile twice today now!’

‘And I’ll live another day!’ she twinkled gleefully.

Not more than 15 minutes later, Long Black walked in. Evie and I had argued over who should ask him what his name was, but somehow not knowing made him all the more exciting. He was a tall, handsome, around 30, always impeccably dressed and a good tipper. He looked at me and smiled as he held up a black notebook.

‘I found this,’ he waved the notebook at me. ‘Outside, just near the step,’ he pointed it towards the door. ‘I’m thinking perhaps a customer dropped it?’ He offered to me across the counter, smiling warmly.

‘Yes,’ I reached out my hand toward Long Black, wrapping my fingers around the notebook, our fingertips touching. ‘Thank you, I’m certain that’s John’s. He was here this morning.’ My face burning hot, I looked away, breaking his gaze as I studied the notebook intently, turning it over in my hands.

‘Yes, he was writing in it,’ Evie added authoritatively, smiling widely as she nodded slowly.

‘I’ll see that he gets it. He’s usually in every day.’ I nodded at Evie and she nodded back.

‘Every day,’ she repeated.

Long Black turned his head to the side, his eyebrows furrowed. ‘Is that…um….the guy in the bike pants?’.

‘Yes, that’s him,’ Evie smiled. ‘John does love a sporty pant!’ she cheered.

He frowned, pointing at the book. ‘Because……er….I did open it…..to see if there was a name in it…or something.’ He paused, his eyebrows knotting above his clear green eyes. ‘Are you sure it’s his?’ he asked, pulling his head to the side.

‘Pretty sure….?’ I looked at Evie and back at Long Black. ‘He was just here, writing in a black notebook. Why?’

‘Um…..it…..er……I read some of it.’ Long Black nodded solemnly. ‘Because there’s no name in it….I was trying to see who owned it. So I read a bit of it.’ He paused, shaking his head softly, surprise on his face. ‘Have a read,’ he tapped the notebook, looking back at Evie, then at me. ‘I don’t think it’s his,’ he shook his head. Grinning politely, he shrugged his shoulders. ‘If it is….well, you gotta let me know.’ He smiled, tapping it again pensively. ‘But I don’t think it is,’ he repeated as he turned and left.

Evie and I looked at each other, both reaching for the notebook as it lay on the counter. In a brief tug-o-war, I twisted and pulled, snapping it out of her hands, running into the kitchen. ‘One of us has to stay out front,’ I sang back at her.

‘Bitch!’ I heard her mutter. ‘You’d better speed read!’ she hollered.

Outside the back door of the café, I moved two of the milk crates towards a sunny patch against the wall, making myself a stool. Turning it over in my hands, I studied the cover. It looked new, pristine, untouched. But the pages, they were full. Full of words in neat, cursive script. Full from top to bottom, every page, covered. The author had clearly been the student of a private education, with perfect strokes and impeccable penmanship. Penmanship from another time and place. But it wasn't just how it was written that was a surprise.

It was what was written.

Pulling my apron over my head, I rushed back to Evie.

‘I need to go,’ I said breathlessly, pushing my apron into her hands. ‘I need to find John.’

Confused, her eyes wide, Evie stood speechless, taking my apron as I waved the notebook in front of her face.

‘This…..,’ I gulped, searching for the words as I waggled the notebook centimetres from her freckled face. ‘This…’ I shook my head in disbelief. ‘This is going to change John’s life.’

‘Giving it back to him will change his life?’ Evie called to me as I headed to the door, confused.

‘Giving it back to him won’t change his life,’ I sang over my shoulder to her as I grabbed my bag, zipping John’s notebook securely into the side pocket. ‘Getting it published will. He’s about to come into some serious money.’

‘What does it say?’ she called out behind me.

‘Later…’ I called back as the door closed behind me.

I needed to find him. I needed to find John.