The first wrench in my plans were sitting in the corner hugging the window, next to the wall of pictures the owner takes of the younger kids that come into the shop. When you see the pictures, you think it's to distinguish this shop from the cookiecut shops that line the streets, and although the smiles of the children on the wall do add that home-sweet-home feeling, it wasn't for that reason. The owner is a genuinely nice, welcoming guy.
So that explains why the old people always show up. They like their coffee, and they like company, because old people are really the only people that can listen to old people. There was three of them against the window, two wearing Marines hats and the other still had gray hair. They were dressed politely, even if it was eight in the morning. Tucked in, buttoned up, belted, like the elderly do so well.
I knew they were going to be a problem when I walked in because old people got involved in everything. There was never any semblance of alone time, which was my real goal going into the shop.
I waited at the counter for the girl that worked there. She was in the back, starting a new pot of coffee. One of the old men said good morning to me, and I replied the same tired phrase back. The counter girl had dark brown hair that was barely longer than a bowl cut. That was the only ugly part about her.
She said, "I'll be right with you," in the way counter workers do when they are busy but know that someone is waiting on them. She was wearing boots too, cowboy boots, with tight blue jeans. At least the boots could be fixed easier than the hair.
The counter girl finished with the coffee and came to the register.
"Need a minute or are you ready?"
"I'll have a coffee. What's a good muffin?"
"What size?"
"Just one of those blueberry ones in front."
"No, the coffee."
"Oh," I said, exchanging stupid smiles with the counter girl. She pointed to the various cups on the wall. "Large. Thanks," I said.
The old man with the gray hair crossed his legs in his chair and looked at me in the mirror that was behind the counter. "A large coffee?" The old men chuckled. "Long morning, son?"
"Hopefully. I'm getting tired of long nights."
I ignored the old man as the counter girl came back with the coffee. "You wanted the blueberry muffin, too?"
"Yeah. In a large."
It wasn't funny but we pretended it was. I had the feeling that it didn't matter if I was funny or not.
"Excuse me." It was the old man in the marines hat wearing a blue collared shirt. "Do most kids wear their jeans that loose now?"
"I don't really know." I turned my attention to the counter girl. She was about my age. Maybe a year or two younger, but pretty close. "Do all of us kids wear are jeans loose?"
"Yes," she said.
"Then yes, we do."
"I have a grandson who does that and it drives me nuts. How is it even comfortable?"
"Couldn't tell you Bill. My grandson does it too. If I did that as a kid my dad wouldn't have let me out of the house. I would have got a whooping."
"We have laws against that now," I said. The counter girl handed me the muffin.
"Do you want that hot or is it okay cold?"
"You mind heating it up?"
"Oh, no," she said. "It's nothing."
She threw it in the microwave and dialed in fifteen seconds.
"Can you give it another five?," I asked.
Twenty came on the screen. "Five seconds makes all the difference in the world, you know."
"What makes you say that?"
I took a sip of the coffee. It scalded my tongue but I hid it well. "In five seconds, you can take your eyes away from the road and get in a crash, or you can lose your wallet." She smiled and I took another sip, just as hot as the first, "You can even find out someone's name."
The microwave beeped. "I guess you're right."
"What's yours?"
"Boy, that smells good," interrupted by the man wearing the blue shirt. "My wife tells me I shouldn't have anything I don't need. Says I don't need it at this age. Not even coffee but I have that anyways."
"Tell me about it," said the other man wearing the marines hat. "Say, kid."
I didn't turn around but looked at him through the mirror. The counter girl was getting my muffin out of the microwave.
"You wouldn't tell my wife if you gave me a piece of that, would you?" The group had a good laugh about that one. I was polite with my acknowledging smile.
"Bag or tray?," the counter girl said. "Sorry. I meant, for-here or to-go. I must be going crazy."
"So what is yours?"
"Hm?"
I sipped the coffee again.
"Oh," she jokingly slapped her forehead. "It's Paula. My name."
"Nice to meet you, Paula."
"Son, you could have just asked me that. We've been coming in here for weeks now. We could have introduced you to Paula if you asked," said the gray haired man.
"How much is that going to be, Paula?," I said.
"Muffin, large coffee." She rang it into the register. "Three fifty-two."
I handed her a five and the men began to talk about the local minor league baseball team. Apparently, they were giving out skateboards and two of their grandsons were going.
"One forty-eight is your change."
"Keep it."
"You sure?," she said. "Here or to-go?"
"This kind of place needs more things like that. Not charity, no. But they need people to care about it staying in business. I'll tell you what, I wouldn't be caught dead in Starbucks. If that was the only place left, I'd never get a coffee again in my life," said the blue shirted man. "Didn't even used to know what a Starbucks was until four, maybe five years ago. Things started coming up everywhere."
I sipped the coffee again.
I turned my attention away from the blue shirted man who was still talking and back towards Paula. The bowl cut seemed to be a bit longer than I remembered. Not nearly as bad as I thought. I didn't mind it much anymore.
"I think," talking under the blue shirted man, "How long do these guys stick around?"
"'Till about ten. Sometimes longer, sometimes shorter."
I'm going to take it to-go this time."
She put the tray down and grabbed a bag.
"Thanks, Paula."
"No problem. What's yours?"
The blue shirted man stopped and the gray shirted man began in his stead, trying to involve us into this conversation. I was done with them.
"Mine?"
"I told you mine. It's only fair if I know yours."
"Harper."
"I like your name," she said.
"Harper, huh?," said the old man with the gray hair. "My buddys name, lived down the street from me, we played baseball. He had a genuine Louisville Slugger and the rest of us had a cheaper version, if that. Haven't heard another Harper since back then."
"Well," I said. "Thanks Paula." I took a sip of the coffee and it was nice now. "I'm going to go."
"Okay. Need a lid or sugars or cream?"
"No. No thanks."
I grabbed the bag and started towards the door.
"Have a good one, son," the gray haired man said.
"Yeah, enjoy that muffin before I steal it."
The old men laughed.
"Hope you like it enough to come back," said the counter girl.
"I'll let you know later," I said. "Probably about ten thirty."
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