East Down South

by Eliza Freer

  East Down South

  By Eliza Freer

  Copyright © 2017 by Eliza Freer

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to a person, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Cover Art by John Bring

  This is dedicated to my husband…because he told me not to.

  Chapter 1

  “Dry Cap,” I yell above the din of the mid-day crowd. Since we’re now only a month away from classes starting, the customers at Bean There Done That, the coffee shop I’ve been working in for the past two years, are starting to finally skew to the younger college age variety again. Thankfully, this tends to mean fewer families, where their sticky children run amok and dirty everything up for everyone. And by everyone, I mean me and my long suffering coworkers Izzy and Cameron. The trade off with less families and more college students and professors, is a louder shop with crappier tips. I’ll take a few less bucks in my pocket to miss out on making another hot chocolate, not too hot of course, that just ends up on the floor or the table once the toddler who shouldn’t be handling a cup without handles gets his hands on it. I can’t complain too much. All the free coffee I can drink, prime location, and not all the regulars are awful, some are pretty fun to chat with. Granted I don’t know most of their names, but they’re pretty cool with the nickname system.

  “Dry Cap,” I yell again just as Foamy, one of the regulars whose order I know by heart (which is essentially foam on top of espresso) saddles up to the bar.

  “Thanks, E. Sorry, people watching. Good question today, by the way”. He glances in the direction of our tip jar that is divided into two halves. Each half poses an answer to our daily question, and the customers throw their tips into the side of the jar that correlates to their response. At the end of each shift we split up the tips to find out which response won. It serves no purpose, but it’s entertaining for us and typically when people feel like they’re playing for stakes, they’re more likely to tip well.

  Today’s question is one I wrote, since we all take turns, and it poses "Who was more forward thinking? Alduous Huxley or George Orwell.”

  “Thanks, Foamy. Gotta get back to the machine. But I’m guessing you went with Orwell. Big Brother and all that.” He winks at me, so I know I’m right

  I make my way through six more orders before I take a breath. Two vanilla lattes, two caramel lattes, a London fog, and an extra hot extra large skim milk latte, which has to taste like boiling water masquerading as milk. Not that I’m a snob or anything…okay…maybe I am

  “Hey, Femme, you want me to switch with you? You work the reg while I toil away making over priced coffee beverages to the spoiled elite?” my coworker and friend Izzy drawls at me. She’s our resident uber feminist and resistance fighter.

  She calls me Femme. When I interviewed for this job two years ago, the first words out of Izzy’s mouth were “you look like one of those Femme Fatales from old movies. That’s cool. You’re hired”. I guess it works in my favor that back in the 1940s, the idea of dangerous beauty was a short, curvy, very blonde and blue eyed woman. However, for arguments sake, mine stray more towards the blue green variety as far as eye color is concerned. I guess that combined with my penchant for red lipstick and dramatic eyeliner put me more in the Hitchcock camp instead of Future Sorority Girl column, of which I’m eternally grateful

  “I’m good Iz. Besides, you’re the one who told me she’s on the prowl for some new, and I quote “man candy”. Which by the way, sounds like some pretty disgusting, unsanitary candy you end up eating too much of and wake up the next day with a headache from the sugar rush fall out. Or in your case, the sex haze fall out.

  “I’m starting to get lost in this metaphor, Femme.”

  “Hey, cut me some slack. I can’t be Tina Fey every day. Sometimes you’re going to be stuck with Liza Minelli. Heads up!” I motion towards the door as two guys walk towards the register. I move back to the espresso machine to be sure I have everything ready when their orders come.

  “Liza Minelli? You have to explain that one later.” She whispers to me. Turning back to the guys, “Hi, what can I get for you gentlemen?”

  “Who was the more forward thinker? Alduous Huxley or George Orwell. Wow, that’s a little self-important and high brow for a little campus coffee shop isn’t it?” some arrogant jackass chuckles to his friend waiting behind him in line, completely ignoring Izzy.

  “I’ll take a large iced coffee please.” His less obnoxious friend says to Izzy who writes his order down on a post it and sticks it onto the counter in front of me. I look at her note, which also says “who is this jackass?”. I pour his friend his iced coffee and slide it along the coffee bar.

  “Iced Coffee”, I spare him a glance and he saunters over to grab it, flashing me a half smile. I return the gesture since I’m polite enough to do so. It’s not his fault his friend is a jackwad.

  “Straws?” He asks so I point to a long table off to the side that holds every necessary extra one might need in a shop.

  “Right over there. If you need something other than half and half, just let me know.”

  I start to turn around, and he stops me with the sentence “I’m Kyle. Just wanted to mention that, since I’ll probably be a regular.”

  “Neat.” And with that I turn back to my station waiting for his friend’s order while Kyle starts to open his mouth, shakes his head with a smile and walks away. I glance to Izzy who is still waiting on Mr. Personality’s order and is growing pretty impatient. I glance up to him and find him watching my interaction with Kyle with a strange interest. He seems to be one of those entitled rich boys who think their charm, good looks and money get them an all access pass through life and everyone else falls in line. Just because he has onyx colored hair, sapphire blue eyes, a rugged jaw with a very masculine five o’clock shadow that leads me to believe it’s always five o’clock on his face and an Abercrombie body, doesn’t make him special in my world. He sees me looking at him and smirks this cocky half smile, different from Kyle’s. Kyle’s expresses warmth with a bit of mischief, while this guy is full on mirth and cockiness.

  “Hey, so, can you order or let the person behind you go ahead? There’s quite a line starting.” Izzy spats out impatiently.

  “Wait, hold on, I’m just trying to give your question the proper amount of thought. It’s quite presumptuous to assume people who come in here would’ve read either of these old guys, let alone have enough of an opinion to answer.”

  Izzy turns and spares me a glance along with a raised eyebrow that indicates she’d like help moving this guy along. I tend to be a jackass repellent, spending all of my time with predominantly males, so I get called in when the big guns need to come out.

  I take the five or so steps to the register and stare down Mr. Personality. “Look, I’m sure the sorority girls go crazy for your brand of charm and your blasé attitude when it comes to people of intelligence, but just because you can’t formulate an answer to this meaningless daily question for which of these “old guys” as you say had more to say about the world in which we currently live, doesn’t mean you get to hold up the line for people who obey the general niceties of society. So, let me make this simpler for you.” I scribble on a post-it note and smack it over the side that says Alduous Huxley. I glare at him and wait for his response.

  “Oh, so now it’s George Orwell or This Self Important Potentially Illiterate Dou
che, of which I’m sure you’re referring to me. Who’s charming now?” He rubs his chin never breaking eye contact before he gives me a sideways smirk and says “Okay, I’ll bite. Give me a large iced coffee, and a name from you and I’ll go.”

  I glance over to Izzy, letting her know I’ll finish the transaction with this guy if she’ll just get him his coffee, and punch his order into the register. “It’s $5.50. Please.” Just because I think he’s a jerk doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be polite.

  He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a wad of cash. He peels off one of many hundreds and hands it my way.

  “Wait. Seriously?” I wiggle the bill between my fingers, “You want to pay a tab of five dollars and fifty cents with a hundo? Dude.” He starts to protest. “Let me cut you off right there. I know it’s legal tender, therefore I’m supposed to take it regardless of the absurdity of this situation, where no one in their right mind would think of paying for a coffee with a hundred dollar bill unless the cup is gold plated and the coffee is made with the tears of Beyonce. We just do not have the proper change to be able to break a hundred. Sorry. We take credit cards. If you’ll open that wallet of yours I’m sure you’ll find the heavy black one will do just fine.”

  He takes the hundred back, pulls out his, yep, American Express Black Card and hands it over. I shake my head and give him a wry smile but don’t say a word. As I’m running it I watch him toss the hundred in the tip jar. Of course, throwing it into the section with the post-it note. He flashes me a big smile. “So, when do I get that name?”

  I have him sign his receipt, slide his coffee over to him that Izzy handed me, flash him my own million dollar smile and tell him, “Grace Kelly”. Izzy snorts in the background and comes to replace me at the register so she can handle the line of customers that had formed and were watching our interaction. I head back to clean up the coffee area.

  “So, your name is Grace Kelly? That feels…unlikely. Seeing as how you’re all concerned with the general niceties of society, I’ll start and maybe it’ll warm you up a bit. I’m Wilder.” Apparently this guy doesn’t take a hint. I glance over my shoulder and he’s leaning against the counter watching me work.

  “No. It isn’t. But you said A name. You didn’t specify my name. As titillating as this moment has been for me, Wilder, I’m going to pass on giving you my name. I don’t think you’ve earned that today.”

  Cameron walks in from the back and ties on an apron to take over for me at the machine. “Hey E-,“ I slap my hand over his mouth to stop him from saying my name. He works through the list of drinks that need to be made, and looks at me quizzically. Izzy goes to the tip jar, counts, divvies and hands me my share.

  “Orwell won. Since post-it note over here only had his name up for his particular order, I just pretended that wasn’t a real vote.” She smiles at me, smacks me on the butt, and hands me my orientation booklet that I brought with me today along with my bag. She points up to the door. “Hey, Riley’s here. He walking you back again, Femme?” She elbows me in the side suggestively.

  Riley is one of my dad’s football players. My dad is the football coach here at the university and his players have adopted me as a weird surrogate sister. I’m closer to some of them than others, but Riley has grown to be a good friend.

  “Bye, Iz. Good luck Cam.” I smack a kiss on Iz’s head and pat Cam on the back so he can keep working. I make my way over to the door where I see Riley hanging out.

  “So Femme? Is that your name? Who is Riley? Orientation huh? You a freshman?” Wilder asks me as he follows me out of the shop, standing just a little too close. He opens the door for me, and I try to ignore the goosebumps that betray me when his chest brushes up against my shoulder. Back off body, let the brain handle this one!

  Kyle is sitting at a table outside waiting for his friend to finish his harassment, smirking to himself the whole time. He stands when he sees us approach, but stays to the right side of the door and away from Riley’s imposing frame.

  “Ready to hit it?” Riley asks me. He grabs my bag and my papers and shuffles me beside him raising his eyebrow at Wilder. I shake my head.

  “Don’t get me started.” He puts his arm around my shoulder, and I turn around to spare a final glance at the two boys. “Have a great day, Kyle. Keep your friend in line.”

  “What was that about?” Riley asks me as we walk towards my house.

  “Nothing. Just another entitled idiot thinking his charm and good looks can make up for his shortage of intelligence therefore needing to demean those who are actually smart.”

  Riley laughs out loud. “Ouch. Bet you flashed him that good ol’ Easton charm and really kicked his ass huh?”

  I glance up at Riley who has at least a foot on me and smile. “Well if you know me so well why even ask?”

  Riley sighs. “Never a dull moment. But hey, off topic, you going to come to that party tomorrow night? I heard Izzy harassing you to go with her a couple days ago. If you are, let me or one of the guys know so we can look out for you and stuff. You might not fear us, but some do. I got you, ya know?”

  I smile into Riley’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah I know. How’s pre-season conditioning?”

  He groans. “Your dad can be a real dick ya know?” I laugh as he talks about the regimen my dad has them on, keeping the football jargon to a minimum since he knows I don’t really care about football. At least not anymore.

  ********************

  Riley deposits me at my front door outside our two story brick house just a few blocks from the main campus. We lucked into this place when my dad was brought here two and a half years ago to coach the Lions, Hamilton University’s prized football team. The university found this place for us, loving it that we’re conveniently located to the campus, as well as the stadium, so Dad’s never too far from work. Not that he would have any trouble watching his game tape and creating new plays from his man cave turned office in the basement. It’s already what he does most nights between the months of August-January.

  Two and a half years ago, their team was in trouble, so the Athletic Director, an old friend of Dad’s, called him up and asked him to come and reinvigorate their program. I think he’d been chasing him for a couple years before that, but we didn’t really have any reason to move until two and a half years ago. Luckily, since my dad is an amazing coach, he’s been able to turn the team around and there’s talk they could make it all the way to the NCAA Championship this year.

  Now, I don’t know much more than which positions each of my guys plays, but I’m proud of him and the rest of Galveston, Texas seems to agree. You can’t live in Texas and not love football. I’m behind enemy lines in my own little sleeper cell of football indifference, blending into the masses with my Blue and Gold Hamilton Lions apparel, cheering the team, and my dad, on every game. Little do they know that football love just doesn’t run in these genes. Now, a round table with Neil Gaiman, Harper Lee, George Orwell and JD Salinger is more my speed. Ignoring, of course, that the majority of our table would be there in some sort of spirit or hologram form, seeing as how most of them are dead. So I guess a metaphorical round table. Or, maybe I could pick some more current authors.

  I walk over to our stairs and throw my bag onto the bench beside them. One of those that has cute baskets that are supposed to hold magazines or shoes or something. Ours just holds whatever crap has been lying around the house that we need to quickly swipe off a counter if last minute guests are arriving. Since it’s just me and Dad, two people who couldn’t care less about true neatness, it all works out.

  “Dad!” Nothing. “Tom Brady is being traded to the Cowboys!” Still nothing. If he didn’t emerge after that, he really must not be home. I’m not surprised. He’s been in work mode with his summer pre-season training he has his guys enduring.

  They had a morning practice today, which is why one of the players usually stops by the shop to walk me home, since the shop is in between the stadium a
nd main campus. Someone’s always there if I work a shift that ends about the same time they’re headed home. It’s sweet, really. I think it’s less about making sure I get home safely, and more about people seeing me around the team, and knowing they shouldn’t mess with me. I don’t date football players anymore, learned my lesson with that one. Not that some of them aren’t good guys, but sometimes they don’t surround themselves with the most trustworthy characters.

  As I make my way up to my room, I pull out my cell phone and text my best friend Tassie. Sadly, she isn’t attending Hamilton with me, but she’s sticking around town until the last possible minute before making her way to a university on the East Coast. She and I suffered through our last two and a half years of high school together, so it’ll be hard to be away from her. Not that she won’t be home for holidays, but it’s just not the same. We’re trying to spend as much time together as possible now to make up for all the times we can’t while we’re climbing the next rung of the educational system.

  With my dad being an employee of the university, especially someone as revered as the football coach, my tuition is free if I attend Hamilton. That’s sorta a no brainer when it came to where I was going to go. I still applied to some of the major Ivys to see if I could get in. I did, not that it really mattered. But sometimes you need to see if you’re as smart as Good Will Hunting. Even though words are my thing, not math. When will I ever need to know the basic formulas I learn in Calc 2 when I’m busy doing adult things. Yes, that’s about all I have figured out for my future post-college. That I’ll be an adult. Compelling, thought provoking stuff here.

  “Tass, get your cute butt over here! We have many things to do today. Important things. LIFE CHANGING things.”

  “Hey, East! So, what’s the lineup? Sneak into a couple movies, go get some Half Baked, and lay on a blanket in the park staring at the stars and contemplating the meaning of life?”