An Order of Coffee and Tears
An Order of Coffee and Tears
a novel
Copyright © 2012 by Brian Spangler
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Brian Spangler.
ISBN: 978-0-9852255-2-0 (eBook)
ISBN: 978-0-9852255-3-7 (print)
Editing by Mikaela Pederson
Editing by Don Shope
Cover art by Streetlight Graphics
http://streetlightgraphics.com
DEDICATION
To my friends and family for their support and patience.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
While working on this novel, there were several who I owe a terrific level of gratitude and appreciation. Thank you for reading many drafts of the novel and for offering critiques and encouragement – your feedback has helped to shape the story. Gabby, Ms. Potts, Suzette and all the rest, thank you too.
To Monica Spangler, Jenn Steiger, Susan Spangler and Jenn Bell for providing terrific feedback and helping me recognize the potential of the story.
To Don Shope and Evelyn Shope for reading later drafts and providing outstanding story suggestions and edits.
To Kay Bratt – A special thank you for all the time and support you gave in contributing and helping make this novel what it is.
1
Miserable Mondays. That is what I called days like these – gray skies and a cold northeast wind biting at your skin. Thick sheets of rain drummed against the glass front of the diner where I worked as a waitress. Through the red letter print of Angela’s Diner, the outside view of cars and buildings was a lively blur, stretched and pulled by the rainfall.
I missed Texas. Home. Sure, it had its share of cold wet days, but with the warm gulf air, you rarely ever felt the chill. Big-city air is different. The chill here reached your bones and sometimes settled in them for the season. Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love (not sure why they call it that) is the city I called home now – has been for the last year, anyway. Angela’s Diner is what folks liked to call a ‘throwback.’
A welcome carry-over,
some of my regulars said. I was told the small restaurant was an original Jerry O’Mahoney Dining car that had been bumped out years before. Who built the diner and where it came from wasn’t much of a concern – at least not when I first came upon it. Homeless and hungry, the
Help Wanted
sign in the window was all that mattered to me – well, that, and the smell of food escaping the door.
My name is Gabriella Santiago, but only my mother calls me Gabriella. To everyone else, I’m just Gabby. I didn’t grow up wanting to be a waitress. I doubt most of those who wait tables do. Home for me was growing up in the heart of Texas – the heart of country. There I lived with my daddy and momma, who were as vanilla average as the houses on our street. Good people. Good family. And, I suppose, I was average too. I was a typical teenager. I dressed my bed with stuffed animals, like other girls. I taped posters on my walls, like other girls. I even let Tommy Grudin go to second base with me while playing a game of truth or dare, like other girls.
There was a time when I had more about me to tell, but who I was once is only a glimpse of who I am. Much of my past is a blur – most of it, from my own doing. Somewhere between that first kiss and cheerleading tryouts, I lost my way. I left home in a run and never looked back. I’m twenty-six now, and a lot of things have happened since the day I felt Tommy Grudin’s eager fingers fumbling beneath my sweater. From time to time, I think about that part of my life – usually, though, I stay in today, since that is all we really have.
Closing my eyes, I listened to the eerie voice of the diner. A hollow emptiness. I found it unsettling. I forced a memory of the diner as I’d first seen it, like a carnival put up in a groomed field, it was bustling and beautiful. My eyes were lost in the silvery steel, and the shades of green panel decorations, and the neon lights glinting off the glass. I think I might have giggled. In fact, I’m sure of it. The diner looked out of place next to the modern buildings. Almost as though someone forgot it was there, and built an entire new city around it. Maybe that was the appeal it had. Maybe that’s why it looked so warm and full of life and persuaded me to want to go inside.
When I opened the diner’s door that first time, the smell of coffee and waffles and chicken and everything else that is good to eat hit me like a cozy breeze. Inside, the diner was abuzz with sounds and sights of dishes and dinnerware clanking, people laughing and talking. With nearly every seat taken, the booths along the windows were full. Children played with the mini-jukeboxes at the end of their tables as their families stirred coffee and sipped at milkshakes from tall fountain glasses. Round metal seats with greenish-yellow vinyl tops sprouted up through the floor like dandelions in spring. Two counters, separated by an old mechanical cash register, were covered with the perched elbows of folks dining alone. While the memory was fleeting, it was good and it warmed me inside.
That
Help Wanted
sign saved my life. I know that sounds odd, but it’s true. I’d pulled the sign from the window and handed it to a hard looking waitress, whose name tag read, Ms. Potts. I remember how she shifted her feet and punched her hand to her hip before giving me a long stern look. When her eyes fell to my Chuck Taylor sneakers they stayed there. I was on the streets back then and my sneakers were thready, tattered and worn, much like me. And I remember the self-conscious pinch of embarrassment in my gut as I pulled one of my feet behind the other. A small miracle happened then: Ms. Potts kept the
Help Wanted
sign and Angela’s Diner kept me. Miracles aren’t always a grand happening like the kind I learned about in Sunday school. Sometimes they’re as small as giving someone a break. I went into the diner that night, and since then, my life has never been the same.
Ms. Potts and I work the three-to-three shift most every day. We’re a good team, but admittedly it didn’t start out that way. I wasn’t just bad. I was terrible. I didn’t know a bus-pan from a black and white, or a pick-up from a clean-up. There is patience, and then there is whatever it is that Ms. Potts is made of. Unlike me, she is younger than some and older than most. But that doesn’t stop her from running the place, something she’s been doing for a very long time.
Ms. Potts sat across from me, working a crossword, and seemed to be oblivious to the empty diner and heavy rains. She huffed an objection to a word she’d penciled and then stabbed an eraser at the paper. Her blue hair was home to a few more pencils, and her biggish glasses sat perched near the tip of her nose as she scratched a new word into the paper boxes. Turning toward the back of the diner I expected to find Clark’s large silhouette, his broad shoulders moving as if in a dance while he worked the grill to fill orders. But there were no orders. None. Clark’s figure was absent and I thought he might be snoozing on his cot. He had a small bed, which was cramped into the back room; a small area that was all his. When he wasn’t working the grill or helping clean the front, or doing anything else, you’d find him back there sometimes reading, sometimes praying, and most times sleeping.
Listening past the rain and wind hitting the window, I could hear the soft static hisses and pops of the Jeopardy game show theme song. It was Clark’s portable black and white RCA Television. On the best of days, that little TV could get eight channels. Today, my guess was that the Philly locals were the limit: stations like three, six, and ten. And from the sounds of it, even Jeopardy was fading in and out.
Earlier, we’d seen a couple of our regulars who were off to their night jobs for the evening. For the day, I counted just a few dollars in my waist apron and felt the round imprints of a quarter, maybe two. When you work at a diner, your tip money, more often than not, might be the same change you’re giving back.
When it’s time to lean, it’s time to clean,
I heard in my head – a favorite saying of the owner. And this diner was clean. Washed on the inside, and, squinting a look through the ever-changing mural of our front window, it was clearly washed on the outside, too.
When I turned back to check the progress on the crossword, Ms. Potts was looking at me. No, she was staring. The interest she had in her puzzle was lost. Maybe she’d come across a word she didn’t know, or maybe she’d finished it. But then a few seconds passed. And then a few more. Uneasiness settled in me and I shifted in my seat. Uncomfortable. Who likes to be stared at?
A heavy wash of rain hit against the window, pulling my eyes away from Ms. Potts. I saw a few blurred and distorted rain parkas, and some umbrellas racing by the diner. One of the umbrella figures, a bright yellow that stood out loud against all the gray, slowed, and then stopped.
A customer
, I thought, and got ready to stand. But the yellow umbrella figure adjusted something, and then continued walking until it disappeared into the heavy weather. When I turned back to face Ms. Potts, she was still staring.
For a moment, a terrible thought crossed my mind. I thought that maybe Ms. Potts had died – right there across from me. She’d had a heart-attack, or a massive stroke, and the last thing she’d seen in this world was me. I didn’t move. For another moment, I didn’t move. But then the thought of her dying started to become more real, and I leaned in a bit as concern for her grew. When she blinked her eyes, I jumped. While it startled me, my heart lifted, as small relief settled in the form of a quiet sigh. The good thing was that I knew she was okay. But she continued to stare. Finally, I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulders.
“What is it? Do I have something on my face?” Her stare broke.
She put her hands back on the table, and asked, “Girl, how long you been here?” Her expression remained fixed and stroke-like. I waited to see her display that familiar smile, or to see her fix her glasses before they slid too far down her nose. But she didn’t do either. And I think I knew where she was going, and that made me more uncomfortable than her staring had. This time, I didn’t have to let the heavy rain against the window pull my eyes. I forced myself to turn away from her and watched as a few who braved the harsh weather passed by the diner.
“Gabby? Hunny, I’m just asking a question,” she began in a softer, but more inquisitive, tone. “You’ve been with us a year, and I ain’t never heard you say a word about family. We all got some family… somewhere. But never a word,” she finished.
“But you’re my family. You and Clark.”
“Sure, sure – we’s family. But what about your own mother and father? You say they alive, you just never talk about 'em. They’re your family, Gabby. And I’m sure they miss you. I know I would.”
This wasn’t the first time Ms. Potts had questions for me. She’d wondered before, and asked a few times. And, as before, I didn’t like it. What’s in the past stays in the past. By now, I’d shared where I was from, and that I hadn’t been home or in touch with my parents in a long time.
Almost ten years had passed since I’d talked to anyone from my hometown. Ten years. That’s double digits. I’d never considered that length of time until now. I was just sixteen when I left. Leaving wasn’t a decision that came lightly. Leaving wasn’t even a question or consideration I had that morning. I can still remember waking up in my old room that day, my dog at the end of my bed, the warm sun on my face, and the feeling of the comforter that I’d rolled myself up in. By that afternoon, all of our lives had changed forever, and, by the time the sun was setting, I knew I had to leave. There was no question. As the day ended, Texas grounds were under my feet for the last time, and I never looked back.