There's One Number I Will Always Answer

“A Day Off”

Well, what am I doing here? As I think of what would be happening at work had I not called in, had I gone to work instead of saying to myself, “I need to get some things done at home”, had I not tried to go back to sleep, had I not taken a shower and been at this café starring at this book that I am trying to complete, I wonder what the hell am I doing here?
Most days I wake up and I am ready to complete my American duty and work for eight hours. Most days I’m not sitting at this café with the sun creeping through the closed blinds at 9:53 am; the booths are a pale green, the tabletops, slate gray. I always choose the corner booth. I sit here for two reasons: to watch people and not be distracted. It’s a strange dichotomy, because watching people distracts me. I’ve wondered why I go to public places to read; I haven’t figure it out.

But since I am here I ask the waitress, who seems fully aware of her reason for being here, to fill up my coffee cup again. Yes, I need a couple more creams, I tell her. I usually drink it black but since I took the day off work, I can afford to drink it with cream, plus, since the cup is a dark green, that tan color of coffee with cream in it makes for an aesthetically pleasing look. She has the creamers in her pouch in the front of her uniform; it’s like some idea the restaurant business got from studying kangaroos. She uses her paws (but she’s not a kangaroo so they are hands) that appear to be painted to match the ketchup bottles.
Not only am I going to have some cream, but since I took the day off work, since I am here at this café reading my book and drinking coffee, I decide to open the creamer with my fork. I take the fork and impress it into the top of the creamer twice. The words “half and half” are unreadable now. Tipping the creamer over, it hovers above the coffee; no cream comes out because the pressure is equalized. That is until I squeeze its white cylindrical body, and eight streams of opaque white cream squirt down into my coffee. A few squeezes bring memories of milking a cow, even though I’ve never done it.

Now the task at hand is to complete the chapter that I am reading. Nothing is more disturbing than having to stop reading in the middle of a chapter. That’s what happens when I try to read while I’m at work. I get a break and just as soon as I get myself into the book; the break is over. Then I have to stop in the middle of the chapter, which means I have to read the chapter over. So I am satisfied, for a moment, that I came to the café. I scan ahead and begin to count the pages that I have left: one, two, three.

My brown eyes, with extremely dilated pupils due to the fluorescent lights above, are ready to get to work. After I stop starring into the silver mirror-like napkin holder, I begin scanning the typeset pages, looking for the significance that I feel they should be relaying. I find myself somewhat shocked and I whisper aloud the most audacious section that I’ve read in the past couple minutes. “She put her hand to the nail, and her right hand to the workmen's hammer; and with the hammer she smote Sisera, she smote off his head, when she had pierced and stricken through his temples.” The kangaroo waitress happens to be passing by just at this time and asks if the book is “a good one”. I’m guessing she isn’t looking for an answer as she keeps patrolling the sparsely food covered floor with her white shoes, which seem to be stained from years of restaurant service. She bounds off to the next soul sitting sequestered with their coffee.
Suddenly it sounds like the café has been opened up to the commentary of the public, every head bobs up toward the sound of a glass being dropped onto the gray tiled floor. Gasps, snickers, and a cashier saying, “sweep it up, take it home, cause you just bought it”, present various opinions to this commonplace café disturbance. I find myself half smiling looking at the glass shards; at least the glass was empty.

One page will bring the chapter to an end. As I near the end of the last paragraph, I am interrupted by my bodies response to an all too familiar aroma from my more addictive past; my body heaves as I cough and I lose my place. There is no such thing as a non-smoking section. With this new aroma invading my senses, I endure the last section of the chapter; that I may have enjoyed if I could have breathed easy.

The timing isn’t perfect, I still have a half a cup of coffee to finish. I’m done reading, and someone-referring to them as someone makes me feel better, is polluting the café air. Doing a quick survey of the pros and cons of my experience in the café up to this point, I find that at this instance the cons outweigh the pros and I leave. I leave the coffee and a tip, not advice, four small silver coins. Pressing on the door labeled exit, I depart. On my way out I have to wonder, as I did when I entered the café, why would someone make a door for a café made of brown, wavering stained glass?

It vibrates back and forth on the car seat like it’s having a seizure; one of the reasons that I left it out in the car. I didn’t want to be the guy who can’t have a cup of coffee and read a book, because his phone is ringing and vibrating, like its trying to generate it’s own earthquake, trying to get noticed, wishing it could be a number on the Richter scale. I reluctantly pick up the phone and begin to scroll through the listed numbers from the missed calls; my facial expressions tell what I think of the people who’s numbers are listed; if my face could be seen by the callers they would have the inside scoop on what I think of them. I’ve had four calls since I’ve been in the café; the last leaves me smiling. I took the day off. But I took it off from work, not from life. I don’t particularly feel like returning any other the calls just now. Just one.

2004