I picked up my coffee this morning at the Starbucks down the street. The girl taking my money had a perky smile, a little too perky for 6:30AM in my personal opinon, but that's okay. A few strands of hair hung over her left eye with the remainder of blue coloring still visible. It must be nice to be 18 again, I thought to myself. The smell of coffee was warm and soothing I stood there waiting and watching the girl take my plastic and slide it through the machine.
"Bob" she called.
The young man with a faux-hawk mixing chi next to her told her the combination to push on the little credit card machine. As she turned, I saw the bruise. It went from the top of her short to the back of her right knee. I winced. That was one nasty place to get a bruise. Skateboarding, I assumed. It must be hell to sit down. As she turned to hand back the card, I noticed that the socket around her right eye had a considerably fainter but still noticable bruise also. "Oh shit" I said to myself.
I'm not one to stick my head in others people's business, yet I couldn't help but feel for the girl. People have accidents. Sometimes people really do fall down stairs in moments of clumbiness, and the cynical side of me said, "yeah and sometimes women really do run into door knobs". My gut felt queasy and part of my knew, hell part of my hoped that it was just something that could be explained easily. I walked out of the door and to my car. I felt impotent to help. Who was I though? Who was I to ask her about her most intimant secrets. I'm a computer programmer who like mocha lattes. I'm not a shrink or a priest, or even the girl's family.
A week later, she slipped out of my mind and I avoided that Starbucks for reasons that I could no longer remember.
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The smell of the place was thick. It smelled of old taverns and the chalk of pool cues. In a way, it was home. These men, theirs names, bodies, and professions changed, but they were the same. They came in, drank, farted, watched football and left a little more stoned than they came in. This wasn't the kind of place that had ladies night on Tuesdays. This is the kind of place where men came to die a little more every week after their paychecks and unemployment checks were cashed. Most had wives at home who would keep them alive for a few years longer. The ones that didn't died quicker. You didn't need a degree in statistics to see that. Their suicide was usually in the form of cheap whiskey while the married men took their time with Old Milwaukee and Budweiser.
They say that they way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I say that the way to the mortuary is through the shot glass.
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Smokey turned 50 today.
His hair had been salt and pepper since his early 20's and from then on, he was known by his friends as Smokey. He worked alone in the shed beside the house. The house that he bought with HER. Always HER that's all he thought about most days. It was ramshackled now. Falling apart in places where he should have spent money keeping it up. He wasn't a lazy man and when he was hired to do odds and ends, they would always compliment his work.
"Smokey worked hard and he did things right the first time." they said.
Here he was was standing over his work bench. A piece that he had lovingly crafted for HER. This shed was to be her art studio. The pottery wheel was still there in the corner under old magazines. The shelves now held glass jars with screws, nuts, bolts, and miscellaneous parts. He bent over the bench squashing his considerable gut to get to the 1/2" nut that fell into a little crack. A little crack that should not be there because he should have replaced the top of the work bench years ago. He reached. The bench gave way under his weight and he fell. So did the glass jars. One Miracle Whips Jar in particular jar weighed 15 pounds from the weight of old nuts alone. When it hit him and he never woke up again.
The funeral was small. Only his cousin from Texas and a few people that he did odd jobs for were there. The new young pastor from the church that he attended with HER performed the funeral service. They lowered the casket into the ground next to HER. His savings barely paid for the casket and everything else was paid for with the sale of his land.
We are all from the island of misfit toys.
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