Short Fiction By Walker Thompson My morning walk to the “coffee bar” was like a routine of the mind. My thoughts surrounded me similar to the cold air. What would happen today? Would they be sitting across from one another? When violence entered the equation between my two favorite morning visitors would it involve me? Did the Baristas ever notify the authorities? I pulled my sunglasses on top of my head before entering, although I desperately wanted the anonymity.
The order counter was to my immediate right. I turned quickly, to avoid the crowded tables to my left. I wasn’t ready for a potentially direct sighting of anyone I knew, especially, the two loud bastards I anticipated being at the coffee bar this morning. I ordered the special roast, medium with some soy milk and, unfortunately, made my turn around to face the tables.
The younger man was near the windows. The older man was next to the fake fireplace. Both looked at me. The urge to escape crept into my mind, but a strange impulse pulled me to an empty table somewhere in the middle. I sat down, removed my coat and put it on the back of the chair. As I set my bag under the table, I glimpsed at the two men. They were looking at each other now. Seated, I looked at the other patrons. A woman was busy feeding her baby. She looked at me and then at the two men; she knew. A college student pretended to read, but he was usually here at the same time, and he had witnessed the first fight outside of the martini bar last year. The other coffee drinkers talked aimlessly. I had allies. I had support: the mother, the college student and I. But no one else had any idea of the strange issues these two had for each other.
The younger man had clearly been at the coffee bar since the early morning. Four paper coffee cups were at his table. He had a hat on today, a change in dress for sure. Mostly, he wore his dreadlocks free and uncovered. The older man had his signature Dallas Cowboys coffee cup, probably filled with Whiskey, in his right hand. It was my belief that he never actually, put his cup down. It was always full and he was always drinking from whatever was inside. Call it a chalice of power, but whatever was inside acted like his secret sauce.
After a few minutes of me projecting ideas as to what would happen in the future, the younger man left his chair and walked toward the bathroom. His trajectory would mean a close encounter with the older man. Nine feet away turned to six feet and when the younger man was only two feet away, the older man stood up and said, “You have a lot of nerve walking over here.” The woman, the college student and I looked inconspicuously toward the confrontation. “And you’re no good.” The younger man said with a slight drunken slur. My allies and I were totally lost in the “issues” of strangers to be interested in our own caffeine urges. We actually turned in our chairs to watch. The tension was intense, but their words were quiet enough not to draw attention.
“I’m no good. That’s rich! This coming from the likes of you.” The older man was firm and sober.
“Listen to me. I need to go to the bathroom. Otherwise, if you want, I could piss in your coffee cup.” The younger man played out the urination motion in defiance. This seemed to bother and frustrate the older man. “Yeah, I could wiz all over you and you could drink it.” The younger man was slurring even more. His intoxication was obvious.
“That’s ENOUGH!” The older man’s voice finally got the attention of the rest of the patrons. All of us joined in interest. Three teenage girls looked nervous. A trucker at the chess table actually stood up. This was getting good. “You think you know better than me? You think you have some kind of clue? These hands have changed your attitude before and they’ll do it again, if you’re not careful with that mouth of yours.” The older man stuck out his chest. Would this be the defining moment of their lives? Their past, which I knew absolutely nothing about, started to form in my mind. I just made up stuff: they probably worked together and something happened. Or, better yet, maybe they were ex-Marines involved in some kind of secret conspiracy. No one knew the back story. These were just strange people involved in some kind of dispute and we were all caught in the middle of it.
“Really, old man, you think you could take me again?” The younger man backed up. Was a fit about to ensue? All of a sudden the trucker had had enough. He was walking toward the incident. He was a tall, probably 6’ 4”. “Do you think you could even touch me with those weak-ass hands; those hands that couldn’t save mom?” The younger man’s voice cracked a little and the patrons moved forward in their chairs. The trucker had stopped after hearing “mom”. The music, which played ignorantly in the background, was like a quiet whisper. Everyone was so engaged by the recent addition to our imaginary stories – MOM!
“You got to let that go. It wasn’t my fault and it wasn’t yours,” cried the older man.
“I can’t. You’re weak and you know it.” The younger man was out of his defensive posture. A strange peace had broken the air. There would be no violence. Yet, the trucker moved closer.
“Listen son, will you just let me explain what happened?” A whimper came from the younger man as the older man said this. My jaw and the jaws of everyone else were almost to the floor. SON! The trucker moved closer and then still closer. This was getting even better. Here, I thought, I would enjoy another fruitless morning of coffee but instead the pleasure of someone else’s family drama was unfolding right before my eyes.
“Guys,” the trucker was in talking distance, “is everything OK?”
The older man, before speaking, looked out toward all of us. The entire coffee bar was looked the other way, as though we hadn’t been paying a lick of attention. “I’m sorry for bothering you all. I know some of you,” he looked toward me, the college student and the mother, “have witnessed some issues between my son and me. It is time you know the true story.”
“Actually, they don’t want to know the story. This is obviously a family problem. I doubt if you are both sober and I think you need to settle this privately.” The trucker’s honesty startled all of us, now firmly grasped in the family drama. Although he was right, years of Jerry Springer had encouraged us to want to know. But, our instincts got the better of us. The music seemed to get louder. The college student looked down toward his books and the mother tended to her baby. The teenage girls started to giggle. The whole coffee bar transformed back into routine. The three men walked out of the coffee bar and out of our minds. I took a drink of my coffee and listened to my thoughts as they rolled around in my head. Whatever would happen next would be up to the older man, the younger man and tomorrow’s cup of coffee.
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