Page 6 of A Shot in the Dark
“Thanks. That makes sense. It’s all about money after all, isn’t it?”
“You would think so, living here. A standard coffee or do you want something fancier?”
“I’ll take it black.”
“Are you punishing yourself or is that really your preference?”
That earns a short laugh.
“That’s what I thought,” she quips. “So what would your order normally be at a café?”
“Oh, God, you really don’t want me to do this, do you? To order my regular?”
“Give it to me like you mean it.”
“Iced half-caf caramel macchiato, one-third soy, two-thirds coconut, drizzle of chocolate, drizzle of caramel, topped with nonfat whipped cream and chocolate cookie crumbles. Light ice,” I specify, as if suddenly taking pride in being difficult.
“You’re one ofthose,” she dares with a conspiratorial look.
“You mean a high-maintenance bitch?”
“You said it, not me,” she chuckles. “Lucky for you, I’m one of those too. So, if that’s what you want, that’s what you’re gonna get. I get the feeling that you’ve been going without what you want for a very long time.”
“Shit, yes,” I admit, wrapping my arms around my box protectively as I sink down into the lumpy booth’s seat.
My drink arrives within five minutes—record time for any establishment this close to the city’s beating heart. And even better than it arriving quickly is the fact that it’s perfect. No, there’s no name on the side of some carefully branded cup. It’s no fancy coffee brewed from beans grown in either Guatemala or Cambodia and picked by the light of a blue moon by nimble-fingered virgin fairies and roasted only under a sun hanging in a spotless cerulean sky. No. If coffee could be grown in Jersey androasted in the basement of some guy named Joey, this is what it’d taste like. But the distinct sturdiness of the coffee is offset perfectly by all of the little add-ons. If the devil is in the details, then right now that bastard’s skinny dipping in my drink.
I spend the next hours in that restaurant, sipping my coffee, then ordering a tea that’s nearly as complicated, picking slowly at a salad decorated with colorful edible flower blossoms and a variety of gorgeous leafy greens, following that with a cup of soup that sounds intriguing, but doesn’t quite hit the mark on flavor. Watching the time tick by on my phone, I finally order an entrée to go. And dessert to have with one more cup of coffee. “This time I actually want it black,” I specify.
“It’s your funeral,” she jokes and I give a little snort. “I get it: to balance out the sweetness of the dessert,” my waitress says, giving me an approving nod.
“Exactly.”
My waitress—Sheryl with three kids, two of whom have a deadbeat dad (Chuck)— lives in one of the many neighborhoods I’ve been told that, as a single and attractive young woman, I should avoid. She’s strong but sweet and when I admit I got fired, Sheryl mentions her mean right hook and offers to “sucker punch whichever dick did it.” Sheryl is the personification of my first cup of coffee. She sticks with me the whole time and makes me wonder who started the idea that some neighborhoods were safe and others were not. Placing the already-boxed and bagged to-go entrée and perfectly plated piece of chocolate mousse cake (complete with an artistically done smear of raspberry crème) in front of me at the same time along with the steel steaming cup of black coffee, she asks, “So you’re going to have dessert first.”
“Precisely. The way this day has gone? And yesterday? I have no idea what’s coming, so I better enjoy what I can, while I can.”
“Ouch. That’s a pretty grim way to look at it.”
“Yes, but it still includes cake, so, not all bad,” I comment, as I take my fork and carve into the multi-layered and densely dark chocolate slice of heaven before me.
“And then your plans are to what? Head back to your apartment?—”
“— condo,” I correct around a mouthful of the most luxurious chocolate I’ve tasted in a long while.
She nods, “— condo, settle in and eat your entrée?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I haven’t been giving much thought to the future, though. As strange as that may sound in light of my current predicament of being jobless and without any discernible social safety net. Getting fired? Not on my to-do list.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, her face scrunching up the slightest bit. “I want to make sure you’re planning on havingsomesort of future.”
The cake is suddenly too dry and catches in my throat. I cough, strangling. Sheryl takes a water glass off the tray she’s still balancing on her shoulder, saying, “Take it easy. Wash it down with this.”
I do. “Thank you,” I gasp. “Are you asking if I plan on hurting myself?”
“Maybe?” She takes a quick half-step back, then leans over to confide, “Sometimes people come in here in a situation somewhat like yours, and can’t see past right now. They can’t imagine a future either because they’re so hung up on a present that’s already slipping into the past. They forget that the past is still just the past. They struggle with it, obsess over it. I wanna make sure you’re okay before I let you step out that door. Or even if you aren’t totally okay that you have the resources to feel better. Job loss is only temporary, after all. Now it’s just the past—it can’t hurt you unless you let it.”
“What made you so smart?”
