It’s time to open. I touch one hand to my forehead and run the other through my curls and stand up. I walk slowly to the glass door and unlock it from the inside. I flip the red, beckoning sign to Open and move back behind the counter, flicking a switch to light the place by the door. I turn the spherical switch on the gas stovetop to low and set a metal percolator filled with ground coffee beans and still water over a wide flame. Behind me, at the left of the counter, innumerable glossy and sickly sweet desserts are placed atop the counter, covered by opaque sheets. I reach over and wipe a spot off of the glass under which a portion of them lie. The coffeepot begins to bubble and I take it off the flame, rotating the switch off. I pour it slowly into a ceramic mug and sip the sweltering liquid, leaning back on the empty wall to the side of the stove. It scorches my throat on the way down. I set it down, lean back again, and wait.
Sure enough, a young woman in white opens the door to Jones’s Genuine Coffee Shop, slamming it back with a harsh clanging.
“Sorry,” she says. Her voice resonates in my ears, like the lingering notes of that desolate saxophone in my grade school marching band. “What’re your specials today?”
I point to the right, where an enormous chalkboard hangs above the island, telling customers exactly what is in the specials of today.
“Oh, sorry, my bad,” she says in a voice like honey, low and sweet. “I’ve had a bit of rough morning.”
“Want to tell me about it?” I offer, tapping my fingers on the counter softly.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” she babbles smoothly. I imagine melancholy hummingbirds flying from her mouth and landing in my auricles and pounding on my eardrums. “If you don’t mind…”
“Of course not,” I say, slinging a mug from beneath the counter around my finger. “Did you want to order first?”
“Yes, one plain coffee, black, please,” she says murmurs, fishing in her purse for quarters to pay with.
I step back and put another percolator on.
“This place is like, the only place I can get some real black coffee,” she jabbers. I sense a touch of a Southern vernacular; the way she suspends her vowels. “Oh goodness, I’ve had a terrible morning and I need to talk about it with someone who isn’t me. Kid, I am literally a burrito of sadness-” she cuts herself off. “No, that was a horribly improper use of the world ‘literally’. I am so sorry. But I would figuratively be a burrito of sadness if I were at my apartment, because if I were at my apartment, I’d be curled up in my sheets in my bed with a burrito. So I’d be eating my figurative self. Oh, that’s an issue.”
I laugh a bit and pour her coffee. I set it in front of her and she lifts the mug immediately, drinking the scorching liquid without a second of reconsideration. The door clinks open again and the woman sets down her empty ceramic mug.
“I better be off now,” the woman rumors, “thanks for the coffee and ears.” She stands up, waves goodbye, and leaves.
A boy with indigo eyes marches up to the blue counter with a wrinkled plastic bag hanging from his balled up fist.
“Your notebook,” the boy murmurs, setting the sack on the counter, “is safe and dry. I am not.” The boy is soaked through and shivering, victim of the torrents of rain outside the coffee shop. I take the bag from my brother, fingers suddenly cool and moist and tickled by the rucked plastic, and duck behind the counter. I feel around for an extra hand towel and grip something fluffy and rough. I stand back up, towel in hand, and throw it at Sammy. He nods, mumbles a thank-you, and dries off unruly his hair by shaking his head wildly. Flecks of icy water hit my face and I jump back, trying to buffer the droplets from my body with my hands, but he continues shuddering and they land on my arms. They seem to melt into my body and thoroughly chill me to the bone, prickling my skin.
“You,” I say, “go. Can’t you see I’m running an institution? Thanks for bringing my notebook, now give back the towel and go home.” I reach out for it and he shoves it towards me and our wrists collide. I bite back a yelp and cradle my hand while the initial shock and pain that feels like a truck slamming my arm against a brick wall wears off. Sammy laughs, throws the towel over his head, and rushes out the door, slamming it behind him, letting in the glacial air.
“That boy,” I mutter, wringing my wrist.
A moment later, a girl with eyes like a forest pool under ancient oaks and with the intricate facets of her irises a luminous ivory and tan mosaic, slips inside. Her face, pale in under unflattering overhead lighting, is somewhat luminous and rosy- outspokenly contrasting with her thin, dark eyebrows, which arch over a slight curve before dispersing into the bridge of her long, svelte nose. Plump and pressed together, her lips have the slightest natural curve to them, and impressions on either side prove that she lives happily. Her kindly enthralling face is framed by wavy ebony curls that have slipped from the red knit hat she’s attempted to tuck them under. They reach to her ordinary cheekbones and match her thick lashes. Not a hint of foreign maquillage is visible on her face.
“Henry,” she says, “we need to talk.”
I don’t hear much more after that. She’s breaking up with me, without a doubt because of my lack of communication skills, but all I note is the way her bay eyes flit back and forth between mine and how her inky, raven hair, dark as a November sky, keeps slipping out further from under her hat.
Her teeth are shiny as though they’ve been bleached, but a pink stripe matching the shade of her lip gloss is smeared across the top ones.
She crosses her arms with a huff, her chest moving up and down quickly under her green shirt, clearly waiting for some sort of response to her words. I simply shrug. She sniffs and her forehead crinkles; she turns around, slips her black suede jacket on, and tramps out of the coffee shop.
I don’t follow her, and instead, stay with my elbows resting on the plain counter. The door flings open once more and the alluring scent of syrups and heavy, excited solutions dissipates. It’s as though the room’s been piped with the noxious fumes of hard petrol and sharp onion. The rotund man standing ahead of me seems to take up the whole room, like the gas he mostly definitely is. He opens his mouth to order, but I hear nothing. The odor that emanates from his lips hits me smack in the nose- the raw, foul stench of a wriggling skunk stuck in a fence under a summer sun. I turn away and fumble with the coffee grinders, attempting to appear as though I’d been paying attention to his order, and hitch my shirt up over my nose. This cotton buffer does little to stall the pong coming from this man’s blue overalls, which are all but void of sweat and stale oil stains. I mix a cup of Caramel Apple coffee and stick a candy cane into the sweet, smooth, and dark liquid. The java fragrance- the caffeine-laden nose-joy- masks his stink for a second. The scent that takes me back to my carnival days is ripped away as he, with confused eyes, takes the cup, lifts his arm, drops some money on the counter, and walks away, muttering something about kids these days being so ungrateful. As the door shuts, I shudder and finally inhale.
About twenty minutes later, the door is flung open once more. A girl with brilliant blue eyes and icy skin framed by frosted blonde waves comes parading through the door with a brown bag in hand. She takes a seat at the counter and pulls a black Styrofoam box from the bag.
“Henry, try this. Your taste buds will cry,” she claims, opening the box.
“A salad,” I state, eyeing the leafy greens that layer the box. She nods and slips a fork into my hand.
I shrug, take the fork, stab a piece of lettuce, and open my mouth.
The romaine lettuce is crunchy and a bit bitter, like an ironed out lemon. I stab another piece, and another. The dressing is acidic and vaguely reminiscent of the tangy, half-eaten, strident, red-pepper bagel sitting in my car. The croutons that dapple the green and white are moist, salty and piquant from being drenched in the vinaigrette. And the cheese- oh, the cheese; it’s a lactose intolerant child’s most dangerous and delicious foe. The penetrating, nutty, briny flavor of Feta over all of the crunchiness of the lettuce puts all sorts of greasy potato chips to shame.
I open my mouth to ask Ellison to give my compliments to whoever created the magnificent salad, but my throat is suddenly sore, and my hands are even more suddenly clammy.
My tongue feels swollen and I can taste the pungent aroma of a forbidden nut in the air.
“Were there, by chance, almonds in that delectable dish?” I manage to spit out, dry heaving into the sink behind me.
“Yes,” Ellison responds, terrified. “You’re allergic, I presume?”
“Are you seriously asking that?” I try to ask, but the words don’t come out and I taste thick grime and dirt in my mouth. I realize why once I see that I’m lying on the ground.
“I’ll call 9-1-1,” she cries, and is off. I simply lie there, savoring the tang of one final crumb of cheese before my taste buds start crying.
Sure enough, a young woman in white opens the door to Jones’s Genuine Coffee Shop, slamming it back with a harsh clanging.
“Sorry,” she says. Her voice resonates in my ears, like the lingering notes of that desolate saxophone in my grade school marching band. “What’re your specials today?”
I point to the right, where an enormous chalkboard hangs above the island, telling customers exactly what is in the specials of today.
“Oh, sorry, my bad,” she says in a voice like honey, low and sweet. “I’ve had a bit of rough morning.”
“Want to tell me about it?” I offer, tapping my fingers on the counter softly.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” she babbles smoothly. I imagine melancholy hummingbirds flying from her mouth and landing in my auricles and pounding on my eardrums. “If you don’t mind…”
“Of course not,” I say, slinging a mug from beneath the counter around my finger. “Did you want to order first?”
“Yes, one plain coffee, black, please,” she says murmurs, fishing in her purse for quarters to pay with.
I step back and put another percolator on.
“This place is like, the only place I can get some real black coffee,” she jabbers. I sense a touch of a Southern vernacular; the way she suspends her vowels. “Oh goodness, I’ve had a terrible morning and I need to talk about it with someone who isn’t me. Kid, I am literally a burrito of sadness-” she cuts herself off. “No, that was a horribly improper use of the world ‘literally’. I am so sorry. But I would figuratively be a burrito of sadness if I were at my apartment, because if I were at my apartment, I’d be curled up in my sheets in my bed with a burrito. So I’d be eating my figurative self. Oh, that’s an issue.”
I laugh a bit and pour her coffee. I set it in front of her and she lifts the mug immediately, drinking the scorching liquid without a second of reconsideration. The door clinks open again and the woman sets down her empty ceramic mug.
“I better be off now,” the woman rumors, “thanks for the coffee and ears.” She stands up, waves goodbye, and leaves.
A boy with indigo eyes marches up to the blue counter with a wrinkled plastic bag hanging from his balled up fist.
“Your notebook,” the boy murmurs, setting the sack on the counter, “is safe and dry. I am not.” The boy is soaked through and shivering, victim of the torrents of rain outside the coffee shop. I take the bag from my brother, fingers suddenly cool and moist and tickled by the rucked plastic, and duck behind the counter. I feel around for an extra hand towel and grip something fluffy and rough. I stand back up, towel in hand, and throw it at Sammy. He nods, mumbles a thank-you, and dries off unruly his hair by shaking his head wildly. Flecks of icy water hit my face and I jump back, trying to buffer the droplets from my body with my hands, but he continues shuddering and they land on my arms. They seem to melt into my body and thoroughly chill me to the bone, prickling my skin.
“You,” I say, “go. Can’t you see I’m running an institution? Thanks for bringing my notebook, now give back the towel and go home.” I reach out for it and he shoves it towards me and our wrists collide. I bite back a yelp and cradle my hand while the initial shock and pain that feels like a truck slamming my arm against a brick wall wears off. Sammy laughs, throws the towel over his head, and rushes out the door, slamming it behind him, letting in the glacial air.
“That boy,” I mutter, wringing my wrist.
A moment later, a girl with eyes like a forest pool under ancient oaks and with the intricate facets of her irises a luminous ivory and tan mosaic, slips inside. Her face, pale in under unflattering overhead lighting, is somewhat luminous and rosy- outspokenly contrasting with her thin, dark eyebrows, which arch over a slight curve before dispersing into the bridge of her long, svelte nose. Plump and pressed together, her lips have the slightest natural curve to them, and impressions on either side prove that she lives happily. Her kindly enthralling face is framed by wavy ebony curls that have slipped from the red knit hat she’s attempted to tuck them under. They reach to her ordinary cheekbones and match her thick lashes. Not a hint of foreign maquillage is visible on her face.
“Henry,” she says, “we need to talk.”
I don’t hear much more after that. She’s breaking up with me, without a doubt because of my lack of communication skills, but all I note is the way her bay eyes flit back and forth between mine and how her inky, raven hair, dark as a November sky, keeps slipping out further from under her hat.
Her teeth are shiny as though they’ve been bleached, but a pink stripe matching the shade of her lip gloss is smeared across the top ones.
She crosses her arms with a huff, her chest moving up and down quickly under her green shirt, clearly waiting for some sort of response to her words. I simply shrug. She sniffs and her forehead crinkles; she turns around, slips her black suede jacket on, and tramps out of the coffee shop.
I don’t follow her, and instead, stay with my elbows resting on the plain counter. The door flings open once more and the alluring scent of syrups and heavy, excited solutions dissipates. It’s as though the room’s been piped with the noxious fumes of hard petrol and sharp onion. The rotund man standing ahead of me seems to take up the whole room, like the gas he mostly definitely is. He opens his mouth to order, but I hear nothing. The odor that emanates from his lips hits me smack in the nose- the raw, foul stench of a wriggling skunk stuck in a fence under a summer sun. I turn away and fumble with the coffee grinders, attempting to appear as though I’d been paying attention to his order, and hitch my shirt up over my nose. This cotton buffer does little to stall the pong coming from this man’s blue overalls, which are all but void of sweat and stale oil stains. I mix a cup of Caramel Apple coffee and stick a candy cane into the sweet, smooth, and dark liquid. The java fragrance- the caffeine-laden nose-joy- masks his stink for a second. The scent that takes me back to my carnival days is ripped away as he, with confused eyes, takes the cup, lifts his arm, drops some money on the counter, and walks away, muttering something about kids these days being so ungrateful. As the door shuts, I shudder and finally inhale.
About twenty minutes later, the door is flung open once more. A girl with brilliant blue eyes and icy skin framed by frosted blonde waves comes parading through the door with a brown bag in hand. She takes a seat at the counter and pulls a black Styrofoam box from the bag.
“Henry, try this. Your taste buds will cry,” she claims, opening the box.
“A salad,” I state, eyeing the leafy greens that layer the box. She nods and slips a fork into my hand.
I shrug, take the fork, stab a piece of lettuce, and open my mouth.
The romaine lettuce is crunchy and a bit bitter, like an ironed out lemon. I stab another piece, and another. The dressing is acidic and vaguely reminiscent of the tangy, half-eaten, strident, red-pepper bagel sitting in my car. The croutons that dapple the green and white are moist, salty and piquant from being drenched in the vinaigrette. And the cheese- oh, the cheese; it’s a lactose intolerant child’s most dangerous and delicious foe. The penetrating, nutty, briny flavor of Feta over all of the crunchiness of the lettuce puts all sorts of greasy potato chips to shame.
I open my mouth to ask Ellison to give my compliments to whoever created the magnificent salad, but my throat is suddenly sore, and my hands are even more suddenly clammy.
My tongue feels swollen and I can taste the pungent aroma of a forbidden nut in the air.
“Were there, by chance, almonds in that delectable dish?” I manage to spit out, dry heaving into the sink behind me.
“Yes,” Ellison responds, terrified. “You’re allergic, I presume?”
“Are you seriously asking that?” I try to ask, but the words don’t come out and I taste thick grime and dirt in my mouth. I realize why once I see that I’m lying on the ground.
“I’ll call 9-1-1,” she cries, and is off. I simply lie there, savoring the tang of one final crumb of cheese before my taste buds start crying.
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