James woke up gradually, feeling
the world come slowly into focus; which it did, except for the orange blur
sitting in the window at the foot of his bed. He lifted his head and
looked at it. Orange blur—blink—orange cat. It sat in the flowerbox
with placid disregard for his petunias (like some savage Titan flattening
trees with its ponderous bulk, oblivious) and stared him in the face with
a green intensity. James sat up and scratched his head. The long
empty feeling of a Saturday morning began to wash over him and suck at his
stomach. Traffic sounds drifted in the window.
He had no classes to teach today, which meant that he had nowhere to go;
the day was blank as a desert horizon. Having brushed his teeth (top,
front, back) and dressed in a yellow buttondown shirt and grey pants, he
backed carefully out of his parking spot and began to drive to the coffee
shop.
Red light. A flood of people streamed in front of the car, crossing.
So many. James thought that they were like islands, or towers:
each one tall, proud, unapproachable, untouched by the waves that lapped
around their feet. Mostly the people stared straight ahead, but sometimes
those on the edge of the stream looked in his direction. When their
eyes swept across him he experienced an almost physical sensation like a
cutting wind. A stocky black man carrying a potted daisy stared him
in the face, dark and vatic. A youth, dredlocked with metal studs
glinting from various locations in his face, shuffled by, pants flapping
like sails, giving James a sidelong glance; James thought he heard him growl,
and fancied dark forms swooping around his head. He shivered.
A young woman dressed like a gypsy fluttered and glinted by, a smile on her
sandy freckled face; James thought she winked. He felt a warm skittering
in his head and adjusted his collar.
He pulled into his customary parking space behind the coffee shop and got
out. The sidewalk between him and the door was nearly empty.
That’s lucky. He concentrated: left, right, left on this square;
right, left, right on the next. Sometimes he timed it wrong and had
to shorten the third step. Once he nearly ran into a middleaged businesswoman:
she stopped short, drew herself up haughtily, raised her eyebrows; James,
startled out of concentration, felt scrambled and said “Oh,” and looked back
down at the sidewalk, intent once again.
He reached the door and pulled it open; the bells jingled. He ordered
his coffee: café-latte-grande-please. The counterboy looked
up, snide and sardonic, then glided away to fill the order, haystack hair
sticking out in all directions.
James avoided the counterboy’s glare (he was a dark and sultry island, James
thought; with piles of compost, and barbed wire) and paid with exact change,
for which he had picked through his change cup that morning in preparation,
to avoid unnecessary complication. Having acquired his coffee he sat
blankly at one of the sleek tables, hand curled around the styrofoam cup
with an slight unconscious tension. His loose gaze hovered somewhere
in front of the picture window. His thoughts were occupied with an
accustomed set of worries, but today there was something else taking shape
behind their swarming: something pointed and waxy and orange.
He glanced nervously around the shop, thinking momentarily of the staring
cat – had it followed him? – but there was nothing in particular to be seen.
The shop was cool and dark: sleek, granitecolored countertop and tables;
chrome pipes glinting from behind the counter. The only other person
was the counterboy, who bobbed and glided back and forth in the trendy black
uniform to which he managed to impart his personal grunginess.
James saw that there was no cause for alarm; his gaze became blank once more,
his head pointed once again in the direction of the window. He became
aware of the tightness of his grip, and relaxed it a bit. There.
He settled back into his reverie.
“Hey,” said a voice. A wave of acid washed through his veins.
It could be nobody but the counterboy. Me? He turned his
head slowly, hoping that by his slowness he could somehow retard the sudden
electric quickening in the atmosphere; but without even waiting for him to
turn completely around, the counterboy said, “I’m goin’ in back to take a
leak. Anyone comes in, you can tell ‘em that.”
No. Waitstop. The coffee, turning into acid, sloshed
around in his stomach. James felt as is he were watching a gruesome
horror movie for the second time, powerless to change anything. The
boy had already disappeared, leaving James with nothing to do but stare at
the softly swinging door through which he had gone. But I can’t
be expected. Any one of those islandtowers.
Scenarios began to swirl and congeal in his head. A man would enter
the coffee shop and stand at the counter; he pictured the black man with
the daisy. He would grow more and more impatient but James would say
nothing. Finally he would ask James where the boy was. James
would tell him…the man would be angry, insane: You dare to tell me that
this boy has gone? And to take a leak, forsooth? He would begin to throttle
him…
No. Ridiculous. A woman would enter; a young woman. Yes;
the gypsy girl. James would stand with confidence and declare where
the boy had gone, no, he would wittily imply where the boy had gone, so as
to spare this young woman’s gentle ears. An expression of awe at his
imposing presence would enter her eyes; she was no island tower but a glittering
sandcastle, and he a wave, feared but welcomed (And in a wink dissolve
her castled pride); they would leave arm in arm…
Good lord. James gave his head a small shake and took a gulp of his
coffee, which was getting cold. He began to gather himself up to go,
but was startled by the jingle of the bell over the door. Two pretty
young women walked in, tall, summery, vacuous, chattering gaily. Unapproachable
islands; ivory towers. The odds were against him. He had already
half gotten up; there was therefore no question of sitting down, for this
would only attract their attention. Could he simply leave? No
indeed. He came here often, and did not want to risk the wrath of the
coffee boy; and besides, the women were standing in the doorway still.
He would have had to make his way past them. Not fair.
He got up, somewhat unsteadily, and went towards the women without any clear
plan in mind. He approached slowly, to give them time to see him and
perhaps make way for him of their own will. No such luck. They
stayed where they were until he was only a couple of feet away. He
stopped, took a breath, and said (What the hell, he thought), “He’s
gone to the, uh. In the back. He’ll be back.”
Would they shriek? Laugh? Slap him across the face? None of the above.
They turned around; their expressions suggested that he was an infant who
had just belched endearingly. “What?” “What did you say?” they said,
voices lilting upwards in giggling disbelief.
Disaster. “Nothing,” he said. “Please.” The world was crumbling.
Shit. He lurched forward, inbetween the two girls, out of the
shop’s door. Without looking back he heard the counterboy return and
say, “Ladies.” The girls giggled.
James sat, shaking, in his car. Shouldn’t have said anything at all
anything. Should have left already. Ridiculous that sonofabitch coffee
bastard. Ladies. Calm down I don’t want to calm down.
He thought again, unexpectedly, of the cat’s stare, and in his memory the
stare took on an accusatory and mocking tinge. The desertlike Saturday
stretched out before him once again, with a bleak howling emptiness.
How long will I sit here. How long anything. Rest of my life.
NO.
James became suddenly calm. His hands, which had been gripping the
steering wheel spasmodically, relaxed and no longer shook. An idea
struck him. He opened the car door: a breeze blew coolly in his face.
He started back for the coffee shop.
While approaching the door he looked inside and saw the two young ladies
sitting at a booth; he saw the abominable coffeeboy leaning on the counter,
ogling them narroweyed, discreet; he saw, too, a couple of middleaged yuppies
at another table. They were not privy to the situation, and thus could
present a problem. But no matter. No stopping now.
James flung the door open. The bells jangled, and it seemed to him
that they called the place to attention: every eye was on him. He was
Hamlet – To be or not to be. No, better, Hamlet was dead; he
was Horatio. Goodnight sweet prince. The air was still.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I have come to explain.” What
the hell am I doing. “You, illmannered dirtbag,” he addressed the
coffeeboy, “left your post to take a leak in the back, as you so crudely
put it; enlisting me, against my will, in your service.” The boy fully
opened his usually halfshut eyes and his jaw sagged a bit. James gained
confidence. “You, O most insufferable bimbos,” he addressed the young
ladies (who squeaked in rage, thereby greatly pleasing him), “were the instruments
of my humiliation, with your monkeying patronization.” This made no literal
sense and he knew it, but the words were flowing and he could no longer stop
them. “And you,” he addressed the yuppies, “were not there. But
I assure you” (he felt the sweat burst out on his brow) “it was a disaster.
Most unjust and catastrophic! A disaster.”
He faltered, having nothing more to say, and cast a cold eye over his stunned
audience. Suddenly he crowed with laughter – Victory! – and
skipped, exultant, through the door and into the cool breeze outside.