The Dark Roast

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The Dark Roast Page 11

by Thomas Uriah Jarboe


  We continue down the street, passing the small corner building of Classic Cars. We stop to admire a DeLorean DMC-12 parked at the side entrance to the car museum.

  “Man I’d love to have one of these, but I’d have to have a flux capacitor inside.”

  “What’s a flux capacitor?”

  “You know, the thing in the DeLorean that makes it able to time travel.”

  She shakes her head so I add, “88 miles per hour…”

  “Marty McFly?” I continue.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.

  “Haven’t you seen Back to the Future?”

  “No,” she says.

  “Wow,” I respond with incredulity. “We have to fix that.”

  She laughs and says, “We’ll see. You still owe me a movie night where I pick the movie and I want you to see The Holiday.”

  I groan and reply, “Fine, but Back to the Future is next.”

  “I thought Star Wars was next,” she chides.

  “Jesus, I forgot about that. Okay, Star Wars first, but just the original three. We’ll skip the prequels in favor of better stuff like Back to the Future.”

  “Whatever you say, geek.”

  I smile in response and we continue on our way. Between Sixth and Seventh Avenues the Bare Back Grill is the last of the businesses for a few blocks. I wave at a few familiar faces as we walk by. The Salvation Army’s old folks home takes up the whole block between Seventh and Eighth on the right while a parking garage does the same on the left. You don’t see many people on this block, unlike the next one. The next block is the heart hardener.

  Between Eighth and Ninth, the main branch of the post office stands opposite the main branch of the library. Both buildings are old, like 1800’s old. The post office is fenced off except for the two large entranceways with concrete steps leading inside. During the day these steps are riddled with homeless people, but not as much as the sidewalk in front of the library. The whole side of the library on E Street is set back, with a large permanent awning overhanging the sidewalk. Most of the sidewalk in front of the entrance and underneath the awning is smooth stonework with the seal of California inlaid in front of the door.

  Since both buildings are public buildings, people can loiter all day and night as long as they don’t disturb the peace. These buildings have always been havens for the homeless for that reason, especially at night. The area under the library awning keeps away most of the little rain that falls in San Diego and the area is mostly well lit. Every night for years, homeless people take shelter within the library’s awning. Cardboard and rags, tattered blankets and sleeping bags try to keep the elements at bay.

  Weathered faces, long hair so dirty the color is a mystery, unkempt beards and clothes in shambles were the hallmarks of the homeless. It’s easy to write these people off when their humanity has been stripped down to such a degree. It’s easy to say no when they ask in a manner that is frighteningly insane, when they smell worse than a latrine, when they seem like they won’t live much longer anyway. But it’s much harder when you see a young couple wearing clothes in need of a wash but newer than your own.

  The recession has forced a great many people out of their homes. There is a new wave of homeless people. The differences between these freshly homeless and the fortunate remainder are hard to see. They have suitcases with nice clothes, cell phones and laptops, camping gear and pets, and sometimes children. The awning underneath the library is filled with pitched tents. Tents once used for camping trips and vacations, now they are homes.

  As we approach the library the Flower Girl says, “Let’s cross the street.” Her eyes are sad yet hard.

  “No,” I reply. “This is why I took the leftover sandwiches.”

  She looks up at me, surprise clearly written on her face. I smile and tug her along. The first person I give a sandwich is wrapped in a tattered blanket. His hair is greasy and matted to his head. He’s been homeless a long, long time. He grabs the sandwich and asks, “Got any spare change?”

  “Nope, just the sandwich.”

  A couple not much older than I emerge from their tent as I continue down the sidewalk.

  “Here you go Bruce,” I say as I hand two sandwiches to him.

  Shame and gratitude in equal parts flash across his features as his wife replies, “Thank you Jason.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The Flower Girl follows along at a distance, staying near the edge of the sidewalk. A murmuring of thanks and blessings are given as I hand out the rest of the sandwiches. The sound of cellophane opening quietly disrupts the stillness of the night. “Now we can cross the street,” I say.

  The Flower Girl takes my hand and we make our way down the next block to Pokéz, a vegetarian Mexican restaurant popular among the hipsters. The owner stands out front, chatting with one of the tattoo artists from the shop next door. Black horn-rimmed style Ray Ban eyeglasses sit atop his hawkish nose. Colorful tattoos lace his arms and creep out onto his neck from under his plain black t-shirt. His Converse black chucks are well-worn.

  “Hello Rafa.”

  He turns to me, offering his hand in greeting and says, “Jason, my man. Qué pasa? You just get off work?”

  He nods to the Flower Girl as I reply, “Yeah, we closed early tonight. We’re gonna grab a bite inside before you close.”

  “Gracias. Hey, I want to ask you about something. You know a lot about coffee, right?”

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  “Good, good. So you know a lot about coffee machines then?”

  Furrowing my brow I answer, “I know about the ones we use in my store, but outside of that…” I shrug.

  “Okay, okay. Listen, I want to put an espresso machine inside. But I don’t know nothing about no espresso machines.”

  “How much are you looking to spend?”

  “That’s the thing homes, they cost a lot. But so do cars, even shitty ones.”

  “Well, we have automatic machines now. But we used to use manual ones made by La Marzocco. They’ll last forever and they make excellent espresso and they steam milk exceptionally well. I know they’re pretty expensive, but that’s the only brand I know anything about.”

  Stroking a small patch of beard hanging from his chin he says, “Okay, okay. I saw some of those. Would you know how to install one?”

  “No, no, no. That’s way out of my depth. You have to make sure to have a water line for the machine and it has to be filtered water. You’d need a water filtration system—”

  “We got one of those,” he interjects.

  “Well, that’s good. But still, I wouldn’t be able to install it. You’ll have to look elsewhere for that. I can show you how to use it if you get one though.”

  He continues to stroke his beard in contemplation for a moment and then says, “Okay, so if I find one and get it installed, you come by and help me train my staff.”

  “No problem, Rafa. You want to write down the name of the company?”

  Pointing to his head and smiling, he says, “Steal trap. La Marzocco. And you eat for free tonight.”

  I start to protest but he interrupts and says, “I insist! If I get an espresso machine, you already said you’d help. I’m just returning the favor in advance.”

  “Thanks Rafa.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  We walk inside the restaurant and take a seat at one of the booths. “Sorry about that.”

  The Flower Girl waves the comment away and says, “Its fine. He seems nice.”

  “He is,” I reply. “You alright? You seemed a little out of sorts when I was handing out the sandwiches.”

  She looks down and takes a moment before answering, “It’s just—I was homeless when I was kid with my mom. Seeing them with their tents and lugging around too many worthless keepsakes reminds me of that time.”

  Sadness fills my being. I reach out and grab hold of her hands. “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

&nbs
p; She tries to shrug it off nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal. “It’s okay. I have to admit that I was surprised to see you doing that though.”

  Deciding not to press too much on her past I put on an affronted air. “And why would you say that, exactly?”

  “It’s no secret how much you hate homeless people,” she says. “You bitch about them coming into your store all the time.”

  “Hold on,” I say. “That’s different. I bitch about the ones that come in and cause problems.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t like the ones that don’t cause problems either.”

  “Listen, I work in a coffee shop, not a homeless shelter. When you have to put up with them every day, day in and day out, you get tired of it. Some of them smell awful and I know that’s terrible to say, but when four of them are sitting in the lobby for hours, it’s gets to be too much. I can’t leave, I’m working. Plus, I’m busting my ass trying to make a living and it gets on my tits when I see one of them beg five bucks and come in and by a cup of coffee and relax the day away in the lobby.”

  She holds up her hands and says, “Whoa, calm down. I’m just surprised is all. I know you work hard, but come on, you’re rich. You can put all this slumming it behind anytime you want.”

  “Excuse you, but you got it all wrong there. I am not rich. My mother has money, not me. She doesn’t give me a penny.”

  “Not for lack of trying,” she says bitterly.

  “What?” I ask, confusion creeping in.

  “Nothing,” she mumbles.

  “No, no, no. Tell me what you mean by that.”

  The waitress comes up, leaving our conversation in temporary limbo. “Can I get a couple of drinks for you while you decide?” she asks while she places a basket of tortilla chips and a stone bowl of salsa on the table.

  “Just water,” says the Flower Girl.

  “I’ll have a Dr. Pepper.”

  “You got it.”

  I look at the Flower Girl and she says, “Look, let’s just drop it. It’s not important anyway.”

  Perturbed, I reply, “No. Explain what you meant. Why would you say that?”

  I can see her weighing her decision before she finally says, “Your mom stopped by the flower shop and talked to me.”

  “What?” I ask, supremely astonished. “When?”

  “A couple of days ago.”

  “That’s crazy! I haven’t even told her about you.”

  “Wow,” she says a little disgustedly.

  “It’s not like that,” I say. “I don’t tell her anything. We don’t get along. She pesters me in my store and makes me come over for dinner on random Sundays, that’s the extent of our relationship. What did she talk to you about?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t believe her when she said she was your mother. She looks way too young.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject.”

  “I’m not! I’m just saying. Long story short is she came by to tell me to stay away from you.”

  Sitting back in my chair, fury begins to rise in my chest. “Amazing, I can’t believe her audacity. Look, she’s a real force to be reckoned with so don’t mess with her. If she comes by again, just ignore her. I’ll talk to her about it, don’t worry. I wonder how she knew who you were?”

  “Evidently one of her employee’s sons is a customer of mine,” she says.

  “Who?”

  “The kid’s name is Dustin. His dad found his stash, demanded to know where he got it from and blah, blah, blah.”

  I stiffen at her reply. A horrible suspicion begins to form in my gut.

  “I know Dustin,” I say flatly.

  “Surprise, surprise! Who don’t you know for Christ’s sake?”

  “I went to school with him,” I reply, my voice low and even.

  Noticing my change in demeanor, she looks up and me and says noncommittally, “That’s nice.”

  “Dustin doesn’t smoke weed.”

  I can see the lie on her face before she says it. “Maybe not back when you went to school with him, but he’s bought plenty from me.”

  I shake my head firmly and say, “Dustin doesn’t smoke weed because he doesn’t like being down.”

  The waitress puts our conversation back into limbo by placing our drinks onto the table. “Are you ready to order or do you need a couple more minutes?”

  “We’ll need some more time,” I say.

  “No problem, I’ll come back in a bit.”

  “Jason—”

  “Dustin has been a raging cocaine fiend forever. He’s been in and out of rehab since he was fifteen. He doesn’t drink alcohol, he doesn’t take pills, and he doesn’t smoke weed.”

  She doesn’t say anything, avoiding the accusation in my eyes. I try not to sound so accusatory as I say, “Look, I know it’s not my business—”

  “You’re damn right it’s not!” she says hotly. “And it’s none of your mother’s either. You don’t know shit about the real world Jason. You may think that because you’ve spit out the silver spoon in your mouth you’re just like the rest of us. But you’re not. If things go south, you can always pick that spoon back up. The rest of us can’t. If I fall short, nobody is there to pick me up and pay my bills, put food in my mouth and give me shelter. All I’ve got is me, nobody else.”

  “I get that,” I say as she scoffs. “I really do, but come on. Cocaine? Weed is one thing, but cocaine will get you into real trouble.”

  “No shit! And thanks to your mother, I’m in real trouble. She cost me several customers.”

  “Because of Dustin? That’s not her fault.”

  “Whatever. Maybe she’s right about us,” she says, standing up. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  I sit there wordless as she gets up and walks out. I want to go after her but I don’t know what to say. The waitress comes by, with a sympathetic look she asks, “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I lie. “Can I get the tacos al pastor?”

  She nods and walks away with sympathy in her eyes.

  Lackluster Lobster

  The business lady calls me. Her voice is full of enthusiasm regarding our date. I’m drifting in my mind, thinking about Mr. Adam’s picture while she drones on about the dishes at the restaurant she wants to take me to tonight. Her bright mind is oblivious to my disinterest. She’s consumed by her own.

  Like most of our conversations on the phone our dialogue is punctuated by my “oh’s”, “ah’s” and “oh yeah?’s” while she prattles on about whatever. At first I enjoyed listening to her happy diatribes pertaining to useless gossip about her co-workers and her latest date ideas. But after a few of these, I started to become numb to her inconsequential and boring self. That’s not to say she isn’t nice, and she is very pretty and while I would never say she’s an idiot, she’s just not that interesting.

  She’s like a cardboard cut-out of a Hollywood movie stereotype. The perfect middle-class woman every leading man is destined to marry in a wedding full of inappropriate in-laws and misguided friends who almost destroy the wedding. But in the end, it’s happily ever after. I don’t know why this bothers me, but it does. I also don’t know why I continue to go on these flat uneventful dates. She thinks I’m great, and guiltily I enjoy this but she just doesn’t stir anything inside me. Truly I’m doing her a disservice, but I feel stuck and unable to end the farce.

  “And the lobster is simply to die for. I’m so excited. So, I’ll be by to pick you up at 7:30 p.m., our reservation is for 8:15 p.m. Be ready mister! Then after dinner we can go to this new gelato shop in Little Italy I discovered the other day.”

  Trying to mask my feelings I reply, “Sounds wonderful. I’ll be ready. See you then.”

  “Okay cutie! I can’t wait! I’ll call you when I’m outside your building.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “Bye cutie!”

  The closet holds my paltry wardrobe and the memory of when I was nervous about what to wear on our first date. Now I could care less and so I carelessly grab a
t-shirt with Green Lantern on it flying through the air. Over this I put on my coat, grab my keys and head out. In the hall Adam is going through his paranoid process of unlocking his many deadbolts. I haven’t talked to him since he unveiled his macabre picture. It’s in my closet still, image facing the wall.

  “Hello there Jason,” Adam says.

  “Adam.”

  “Jason,” Adam says, “I am sorry about the picture. But you must believe me. I did not purposely spy on you. I had been wanting images of an arch and fate guided me to the mall’s.”

  My anger has dissipated since the unveiling and I cannot summon any in my current mood. “Forget about it Adam,” I sigh. “It’s not a big deal. I’m sorry I got so heated about it.”

  His anxious fidgeting ceases and he sighs in relief and says, “Thank you. Are you still involved with either of those females?”

  “Look, I’d rather not talk about it Adam. I’m heading out right now.”

  “Oh, well...good luck Jason. Knock on my door with three long raps followed by two short raps—wait, no that is for the UPS delivery person. Two short raps followed by six long raps, yes that one is still secure, on my door and you are welcome to come in and find whatever solace you may.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him. “See you later Adam.”

  I head down the stairs and start for the bank. I won’t need any cash since the Business Lady never lets me pay for anything, but I feel the need to offer anyway. I send her a quick text letting her know she can pick me up there.

  That saying about one door opens as another closes is true, but nothing is ever mentioned about whether or not the new door is better than the first. I miss the Flower Girl, but since our last spat I’ve been too prideful to take the first step. My stubborn self feels she should be the one to attempt to mend things. Inside I am crushing under the weight of the weeks of her silence adding up and my guilty conscience in spending time with the Business Lady.

  After the Flower Girl had left Pokéz, upset and making me not exactly sure if she had broken up with me or not, the Business Lady had called. It felt good to be wanted and I seized on that feeling. Adam’s image is swirling through my mind. I don’t buy into his new age hippie voodoo, but the picture speaks for itself, I think. Further thoughts of it are blasted away when I stop at the street corner.

 

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