April Loves Black Coffee: First Impressions

by Solangel, T. B.

  IT IS SATURDAY EVENING, SEVEN days since Brown Eyes’ appearance in my life. I approach the bus that takes me from Sansachun to The Trax in a bleak mood. My annoyance with Mr. Chun clouds my thoughts about Brown Eyes. Lina and I work at Sansachun with a usual routine that ranges from attending to the few customers who happen to pass by the store to gossiping until Mr. Chun, the owner, starts to wave his favorite broomstick and threaten to fire us if we don’t act more productively. Today, Mr. Chun’s mean streak outweighed his threats. On his endless list of things to do, Mr. Chun had Lina and me scrubbing every inch of the store from the windows to the cracks underneath the cement. It is not the job requirements that bother me; it is Mr. Chun’s crass approach. The negative mood about the minimum wage job rains endlessly on my mood.

  By the time the bus finally arrives at The Trax, I am completely drenched in fatigue and short on nerves. My body is aching for some kind of comfortable release, and the thought of having to stand on my feet for the next eight hours makes my insides coil. I yearn for my warm bed and hot cup of coffee. My hectic morning didn’t free up any time to stop by the local Starbucks.

  I send Lina a text message through my cell phone that I will not be having dinner with her tonight. Warmly, my cousin sends me back an unhappy face with an aja aja fighting ninja emoticon. She adds an expletive about Mr. Chun. It brightens up my mood, but not for long.

  As it often happens with my luck, Son is on a demanding high kick when I arrive at The Trax.

  “Good, you’re here. Go over this list.” Son hands me a stack of paperwork before he hurries away to the back room. A truck is waiting for his approval to unload the new inventory.

  “Hi to you too,” I mumble at Son’s back. I frown and look down at the documents in my hand. This will take me all night. While my mind groans, my feet are happy to take a rest.

  The Trax has one dated computer for paperwork. It is usually my job to check on reservations and inventory when I start the evening shift. Fortunately, I bury myself in work and Son manages to leave me alone when he sees me typing away like a madwoman. I keep myself busy for the first two hours of my shift checking off the new inventory of food, drinks, and other miscellaneous items.

  As the night wears on, I try to stay awake when I finally step out onto the restaurant floor and bar. When nine o’clock rolls around, The Trax precisely converts into its club counterpart. I am now officially on edge from a long night of serving inconsiderate and ruthless customers.

  We are so busy I barely have time to touch bases with Joolie and Tailor. The venue is crowded with at least a hundred bodies. It is towards the very end of my shift when I finally make my rounds toward the reserved section of The Trax. I am walking with a couple of empty drinks in my hand, through the throngs of people, mumbling the usual “excuse me” and “watch out, coming through” when I spy the lone figure sitting inside one of the reserved booths.

  I stop dead in my tracks. Oh em gee! It’s him! After days of constant speculation, the person who has been haunting my thoughts is now back.

  He is sitting alone towards the middle of the booth. Half of his face hides in the shadows, but his distinguished handsome features remain recognizable. Even from afar, his distinctive appearance and dress stands out against the camouflage tone. It isn’t very often that The Trax has a lone customer occupying its reserved section. Loneliness and broodingly dark seems to be the MO–modus operandi–of someone like Brown Eyes.

  I feel the same familiar chill ripple down my back when I realize that the loner is staring at me. Instinctively, I turn around to see if his gaze line is inadvertently at someone behind me. When I realize his penetrating stare is solely on me, I blush a deep shade of red. Although it is midnight black inside the club, I feel as though he sees my response with his piercing stares.

  Brown Eyes.

  My heart is doing something similar to somersaults. He’s come back! He’s here! My conscience is singing an entire chorus. It is quite embarrassing to feel this way towards a stranger. I have never felt this type of emotion just by seeing someone that I had only met briefly before. What is wrong with me? Why do I gravitate towards him? My intuition frowns, crossing her arms across her chest in a defensive manner. The world stops for a second. All the people disappear, along with the loud tremble of music and flashing lights. For a split second, we lock in a gaze.

  “Excuse me! Can I get some service over here?” A screeching sound pierces my ears and effectively slices through the moment.

  I am the first one to break eye contact with Brown Eyes.

  It feels as though an electric thread collides with my entire body for going against my better instincts. It is as though I am not ready for the moment to escape, to become distinct in such a fervent flash.

  A girl, sitting two tables to the left, lets her annoyance show through her hands as she waves me over. I do my best to conceal an attitude when I reluctantly saunter over to her table. “What can I help you with?” After listening to her order, change her order, and order again–five minutes had passed and the moment is gone. When I turn to face Brown Eyes, he has disappeared into the night.

  I am busy for the rest of the night, and as though some cosmic force in the universe is against me, I do not cross paths with Brown Eyes. When I try to glance at Brown Eyes, someone is flagging me down for more food and drinks. When I attempt to walk over to his area, someone else is asking me where the bathroom is. Even when I think about making my way back to the reserved section of The Trax, someone is asking me if I can request the resident DJ to play a specific song.

  My luck changes when it is closing time. As people clear The Trax at one in the morning, I am free to wander and look at anyone I please without any interruptions. In fact, it is my usual responsibility to gather empty bottles and let the stragglers know the club is closing.

  By the time I finally make my way back to the reserved section of The Trax, something similar to a wave of disappointment comes over me. All the booths within the reserved section are currently abandoned and empty. The reality is a mixture of unmet expectations intertwined with anxiousness. I let out a low chuckle beneath my breath. Why do I expect Brown Eyes to be here still? But why did he come back? Why was he sitting all by himself? Was he waiting to catch my attention, but decided to leave when he saw how busy I was?

  I retreat to the bar, feeling slightly defeated. Tailor is nowhere in sight behind the usual black granite counter. He is probably taking a break. I contemplate heading in the other direction when someone at the end of the l-shaped bar catches my eye.

  A customer is lingering at the edge of the black counter. The left side of his face rests against the counter top while his right index finger circles the beer he is drinking. It isn’t uncommon for stragglers to cling to the bar near closing time. Some dread to go home while others are too drunk to move. In this straggler’s case, he is a slave to both common reasons.

  I approach him just as I would with any customer.

  “Excuse me, sir.” I tap lightly on the counter top for his attention. “We’re closing up.”

  At the sound of my voice, the straggler lifts his head up.

  Brown Eyes. It’s him! It’s him!

  Immediately, his face etches itself into my memory. Just as stunning as a week ago, Brown Eyes’ striking face greets my own. His large round eyes light up with indifference when he makes eye contact with me. His lips press together in a hard, frustrated line. The emotions that haunt him are apparent in every line on his face. Still, Brown Eyes is remarkable in every sense of the word. Flurries of thoughts flip inside me. Again, Brown Eyes brings with him a sense of familiarity that I am sure is more than just a memory.

  He must feel the same way because at the sight of me, Brown Eyes’ look glazes over. As though he is expecting me, as though I am a long lost friend, without a second thought he reaches for my hand. “I’m finishing up my beer.”

  At the touch of his warm hands, the images of his face–from two separate occasions
–coalesces and pieces together in my mind. The familiarity of Brown Eyes’ presence approaches me like a dark shadow. For the past week, I have been imagining and conjuring up scenarios of what it would be like to see him again. What would I say? How would I appear? Nevertheless, at the moment, to see him so drunk and dishevel, I am at a loss on how to respond. He does not seem like the same calm, controlled, and striking man anymore. In fact, Brown Eyes appears to be another lost soul at the bar. Still, he exudes untouchable confidence. The thought strikes me that this is a complex and dangerous man.

  I slowly reach up to disentangle his grip from my wrist. Brown Eyes’ hands are soft and warm, but strong and unrelenting. My eyebrows come together in discomfort. “Sir. You’re very drunk. You can either empty out your beer or take it with you. We’re closing now.” Damn, I am convincing myself. He will never know the effect he has on me. My intuition nods her head proudly.

  “I said I’m finishing up my beer.” Brown Eyes stares back at me with intensity. Unlike last week, with alcohol coursing through his system now, Brown Eyes’ tone is not reasonable. This time there’s a sharp edge of warning. “You don’t have to be insensitive. I was here last week, don’t you remember me?”

  Oh, that has double meaning. My mouth forms into the perfect circle at his reminder. The generous hundred-dollar tip dances in the back of my head. “It’s not about insensitivity. It’s my job.” I feel the need to defend myself. “Of course I remember you . . . table twelve.” I’ve been thinking about you all week. Why are you back here tonight, all drunk and a hot mess instead of cold and intimidating?

  Brown Eyes narrows his eyes at me and his eyebrows come together in an inquisitive manner. He gives me the feeling that he does not relinquish control often, so now that he is all alcohol Brown Eyes is awkward with a quintessential charm. “Where’s that same awarding customer service personality?” he snaps.

  What the heck? Is he going to be melodramatic about this? It is my turn to narrow my eyes. “I’m just doing my job. You’re obviously very drunk. I have to ask you to finish your beer and leave.” He does not say it, but I get the feeling Brown Eyes think he owns me with that hundred-dollar tip. Suddenly I feel cheap, very flea market cheap. I prepare to add a smart remark, complete with all intents and purposes of returning his money to him, when Brown Eyes cuts me off.

  “There’s more to life than just a job, pretty girl. There’s more to life than all of this.” Brown Eyes let out a chuckle that indicates he’s privy to the secret of life while I am not. Brown Eyes proceeds to bring the beer bottle to his lips again. He thinks I’m pretty? Is that what you want to be stuck on? He’s basically calling you an idiot. I strike down my conflicting thoughts as fast as I can. Daring myself to take the leap of faith, I peek at Brown Eyes again.

  There’s a forlorn sadness to him that I cannot quite explain or understand. Maybe I am too young and inexperienced to understand the underlying meaning of Brown Eyes’ body language and his sarcastic nuances. But if there is one thing I can identify with, it is the sincerity in his voice. Suddenly, my courage slips away. I find myself speechless at his demeanor. How can someone be so tragic?

  “You want to sit down and have a drink with me?” Sensing my hesitation, Brown Eyes offers me the bottle in his hand. “Are you off work?”

  His lips curl into the most delicious smile and I feel the blood rushing from my control. One mood swings to the next. Run May. He’s the devil! Or he could just be super drunk.

  “No, thanks,” I answer as professionally as possible. “We’re closing. You–”

  Before I can finish my sentence, Brown Eyes holds up his hand and points an index finger at me. Slowly, deliberately, he stands up from the bar stool he has been sitting on. I stare up at his height of at least six-feet from my five-foot-four frame. He is wearing a crisp white shirt underneath a black blazer today. His signature dark slacks fold over a pair of black dress shoes. Brown Eyes looks as though he is an important businessman stressed from business underpinnings and the turmoil in his personal life.

  Nevertheless, there is nothing professional about him now. Brown Eyes points an unsteady index finger at me. “You’re a rule follower, aren’t you? Any rules or regulations instructed by your Boss, or your co-workers, are absolute authority. You never question the rules, you never bend the rules, and you will never ever–” Brown Eyes leans into me with his half-empty beer bottle and lowers his voice to an alluring whisper, “do something you’re not supposed to.”

  My cheeks blush a zealous shade of red. Brown Eyes is crossing the line. I am not sure what kind of line, but there is a line somewhere. The stench of hard liquor raids my senses.

  You don’t know me. “No, I don’t . . . not always.” It is my feeble attempt to appear cool to this stranger.

  “Prove it then.” Brown Eyes offers me his beer again.

  Suddenly, we are in a standoff. A part of me wants to take the bottle from his hand and finish it off, just to prove I am not such a straight edge. The other part of me wants to turn the bottle on him and pour the rest of the content on his nice ensemble. Either way, I want to make a loud statement. The only problem is I don’t know if I want to make the good statement or the bad one. Along with the impossible decision, I feel a thrill pulsating through my veins. He is exciting and dangerous, surprising and a complete hot mess.

  Eventually, I don’t have to make a decision.

  “You’re just like someone I used to know.” Suddenly, Brown Eyes takes the bottle back when he realizes I do not call his bluff. His eyes, once bright and subjective from the alcohol, becomes dark and judgmental as he confesses, “She was stubborn and indecisive too.”

  I am in a profound state of silent surprise as I watch Brown Eyes slip deeper in his drunken state. He tilts his head back and consumes the rest of his beer in two gulps. Then, without warning, Brown Eyes slams the bottle onto the counter top. Whether he knows his own strength or not, the bottle crushes underneath the pressure of his hand and immediately glass shards disseminate all over the counter.

  Drunk Superman power. I flinch when the loud impact reverberates off the surface. A chill slowly, silently, creeps down the spine of my back.

  “Hey, man. What are you doing?” From the opposite end of The Trax, the side door opens. Son and Tailor make their hasty entrance to the bar. Evidently, the loud ruckus is noticeable from the other end of the building. Both of my co-workers are wearing confused facial expressions, complete with shock and awe. When bottles break at the bar, it usually involves two people. No one has ever voluntarily broken a bottle at the bar on his own before.

  “It’s time for you to go buddy.” Son reaches us first. He doesn’t wait for an explanation. A broken bottle is enough evidence for Son’s zero tolerance. Using his assistant manager authority, Son places both hands on Brown Eyes’ shoulders to usher him toward the door.

  “I’m not your buddy. Don’t touch me!” Brown Eyes steps back in a defensive motion. “I’m talking to May.” He turns so quickly, so swiftly in a decisive martial arts manner that Son barely jumps out of the way before the left hook claims him.

  The familiar chill wracks my body when I hear Brown Eyes mentioning my name. It is all happening too quickly for me to absorb.

  “He’s drunk. Be careful.” Tailor approaches us from the other side of the bar. He gives Son and me a look that doubles as a precaution and warning. We have been through this process before with other drunks. The only difference this time is I happen to discover Brown Eyes alone.

  “You know him?” Son asks in a tone that he is willing to relinquish all responsibility to me. He can hardly believe it.

  I shake my head halfway, not sure if meeting Brown Eyes last week counts.

  “Of course she knows me . . . she doesn’t remember . . . but I’m–” Brown Eyes succumbs to the mixture of beer and hard alcohol. He lets out an anguished hiss that accompanies a suppressed belch. “I-I loved her. I loved her so much. Right, Mi–”

  “May! Watch
out!” Son pushes me out of the way just in time. It happens too quickly for me to realize.

  Brown Eyes stumbles forward and heaves. He grips the side of the counter and leans his entire body into it. Most of what comes up and out of his throat is a mixture of the beer, alcohol, and food he ingested previously. The entire vicinity reeks strongly of his stomach acid and the putrid vomit.

  “Oh!” Tailor lets out a groan. With his fast reflex and experience as a bartender, Tailor reaches under the bar counter and extracts the infamous blue bucket specifically reserved for such digestive projectiles. Tailor shoves the bucket towards Brown Eyes and says promptly, “Inside the bucket, man. Inside.”

  “Poor guy.” Son shakes his head.

  I take a step back and feel the wetness beneath my shoes. I don’t have to look to know that I am stepping into what Brown Eyes is not successfully aiming into the bucket.

  “Oh gross,” I mumble. I pick up my right foot to see the smear trickling down to the very soles of my shoes. The smell is so strong I have to pinch my nose and breathe out of my mouth.

  “You remember me? Don’t you?” Brown Eyes gasps. He latches onto my right arm with intense strength.

  “No!” I turn my head away from him. I wasn’t imagining things; he realizes it too. We have met before. I attempt to disentangle myself from him, but Brown Eyes doesn’t budge. How can someone so drunk still be so strong?

  “What have we come to?” Son whispers. His eyes narrow and there isn’t a trace of empathy in his voice. It is as though he realizes something beyond simple admission. “We used to be a cool, upscale place.”

  “What do you mean?” Tailor refutes immediately. “Since when does The Trax cater to any upscale clients? We’re in the part of town where social rejects and dejects roam.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Son retorts quickly. “Even though we get the latter half of the social pyramid, since when do we cater to gangsters?”