Part 2:Pour

The rest of my afternoon was crap.  In a basket, without a handle and partially dry-rotted. 

There were a thousand other things I would rather do than babysit high-maintenance clients, but that’s exactly what I ended up doing after my meeting.  Not only high-maintenance but stupid.  In order to have an account balance with two commas, a person should know that mutual interest wasn’t a term used to identify the interest rate on a mutual fund.

For the love of God.

I was so frazzled by the time I left the office, that I couldn’t resist stopping by the diner for a cup of coffee to get me home.  It wouldn’t have the good bourbon in it, but I was just desperate enough not to care.

My heels tapped the linoleum floor as I strode through the glass front door and bee-lined for the counter to find Marjorie still manning (womanning) the coffee pot.  Their shifts at the diner were typically the seven-to-seven variety, so that didn’t surprise me much.  Waving at both Natalie and Nicole as I breezed through, I reserved my two-dimple smile for the beautiful brassy-haired goddess that had a steaming cup of coffee parked on the counter and waiting for me.

“Marjorie, you’re a saint.  An angel.  A heavenly deity defying description,” I waxed poetic, slipping onto the stool and dumping my handbag on scarred Formica  so that I could lean over the thick, ceramic mug and simply inhale the beloved scent of my addiction.

“They call it a waitress, honey.” 

I found her dry sarcasm especially delightful when she was supplying a much-needed fix. 

“They need a new word.  Something far more grandiose,” I sighed after that first blessed taste. It didn't matter that it was the eighth first taste of the day.  They were all blessed and deserved proper accolades.

“You say that now.  Wait ‘til ya hear what I have to tell you.  You’ll get me my own float in the Macy’s parade.”

“I might do it, anyway.” 

It wasn’t a bad idea.  She was a New York icon from my perspective.  After working here for almost forty years, she could be considered an immovable pillar of the coffee-loving community.  That kind of living institution deserved a float, right?

I swear to God, anything was possible after that first drink of coffee.  I was ready to fight City Hall for Marjorie’s rightful place in the historic Thanksgiving event, even though it was still seven months away.

“You do that,” she snorted.  Forty years in this line of work gave her a healthy dose of cynicism, I suppose. 

“So what do you have to tell me?” I asked, pushing professionally tinted locks of gold behind my ears and not giving a rat’s ass that it made them stick out like freaking Dumbo. 

“Remember the fellas you picked up the tab for?”

I was pretty sure I had masturbated to dirty thoughts of Jon Bon Jovi at least once – a month – since his band made it big.  Two thousand and seventeen minus nineteen eighty-seven calculated out to the fact I should be blind or have carpal tunnel syndrome from all the self-service action he inspired.

And she wanted to know if I remembered seeing him in person without fighting Ticketbastard for decent seats?  Puh-leeze.

“I recall.”

“They wanted me to let ya know they paid it forward.  Covered every open check in the place when they left, and…”  She stuck a hand into the pocket of her apron and brought out a folded slip of paper.  “Once I told ‘em you were a regular, they asked me to give you this.”

The slip of paper was actually an order ticket creased in half, I saw from the green lined exterior.  Accepting it from Marjorie, I parted the two edges to find a note scrawled in a heavy hand. 

Thanx for the random act of kindness.  Hope one finds you in return.

At the bottom were two signatures that looked very much like the ones affixed to lithographs hanging on my office wall.  What was most impressive about that was that both of them had taken the time to legibly autograph the note.  You could actually read “Jon Bon Jovi” and “Dave Bryan”, unlike the scribbled promotional materials that I owned, which were processed en masse.

“Nice,” I approved and smiled up at my purveyor of percolated bliss – or drip coffee.  Whatever.  I had a fancy imagination sometimes, which was a contributing factor to the onset of carpal tunnel.

“They were actually very nice,” Marjorie agreed.  “The one with the gray hair?  He’s one fine looking specimen of manhood and those eyes?  Jeez.  They’re almost as blue as yours.”

Jon did have legendary blue eyes, but I’d gotten my fair share of compliments over the years.  While his were a vibrant mid-range blue, mine were several shades lighter.  Throughout my lifetime I’d heard them referred to as baby blue, ice blue, pale blue, sky blue, aquamarine, and probably a dozen other variations of light blue.

The most creative was 1968 Volkswagen Beetle blue, from a drunk guy in a bar - my daughter's father.  I'd since learned not to judge a man on his witty repartee.

At any rate, my eyes were just my eyes, but put me next to JBJ?  The pair of us would out-blue any other two people in New York.  Guaranteed.

My self-esteem was clearly thriving.  Have I mentioned how much I love coffee?  It makes me in-freaking-vincible.

“The guys asked me your name, but I wouldn’t give it to ‘em.  Being famous doesn't guarantee they're not weirdo freaks.  God knows I've met my fair share - outside of Ed Asner, of course.  Anyway, I just told ‘em you’d probably be back at the same time tomorrow.”

Snorting softly into my cup, I realized the woman would take any opportunity at all to bring up good old Ed.

“Well, thanks for watching my back, Marjorie.”

Still...  My vivid imagination was busy calculating that odds that either guy would be back here tomorrow when I made my mid-afternoon java jaunt.  I didn't need a calculator to come up with the number.

Slim to none.

Still, the thought was enough to put a handle on today’s crap basket. 

And probably to flare up my carpal tunnel tonight.

At five minutes before two the next day, I went to the ladies’ room in preparation for my afternoon coffee run.  Did I normally care whether my eyeliner was smudged or I was wearing a fresh application of lip balm?  It usually didn’t even cross my mind, but since I was still under the influence of solo afterglow and had the men of Bon Jovi hovering in the periphery of my thoughts, it suddenly mattered that I not look like a Scandinavian raccoon with rings of black around my eyes.

Noting how pale my lips appeared even after a coat of cherry ChapStick, I had a rare moment of wishing I’d splurged thirty dollars on a tube of damn lipstick that wouldn’t fade during the day.  My cheapskate soul simply wouldn’t tolerate thirty dollar cosmetics, however, and the using the inexpensive kind left me having to refresh lip color all day long, which I despised.  That's why eschewed anything but ninety-nine cent ChapStick for years now.  On the upside, I could have a rainbow of flavors in every desk drawer, pocket and purse for less than the price of fade-resistance.

Priorities.

I kind of wish Marjorie hadn’t mentioned to Jon and David that I’d be back at the diner today.  Rather, I wish I didn’t know she had mentioned it to them.  It was making me nervous in a way that I was not accustomed to and I disliked it, especially when it probably wouldn’t manifest into a hill of coffee beans.

Coffee.  I needed coffee.  That would make everything better, just like it always did.

“It is what it is,” I muttered to myself, pulling at the hem of my most flattering suit jacket.  Navy with a matching skirt and pale yellow blouse, it was what I considered my power outfit.  It, along with the heels that were a couple inches higher than my typically preferred kitten heels, gave me a little extra boost of confidence when I needed it.

The little toe of my right foot was feeling a little pinched even now, and I knew I’d probably regret the choice of shoes by the time I got home this evening, but they made my legs look longer and leaner, so I would suffer through.  Besides, I wouldn’t be taking the scenic route to the diner today.  It was going to be a straight shot from the CitiBank front door to Westway.  I could limp along just fine.

Once again, the weather was sunny and pleasant for my quick commute.  The sun’s warmth did a great job of easing my anxiety over the diner’s potential patrons on this Wednesday afternoon – all the way up until I pulled on handle and opened the door.  Once the pungent aroma of burgers and coffee hit my nose, a commune of butterflies performed some wicked interpretive dance moves in the pit of my stomach, forcing me to inhale deeply through my nose to calm them the fuck down.

Glancing casually over the clientele as my heels tapped the linoleum on my way to the counter, I saw nothing out of the ordinary.  Tourist, regular, tourist, tourist, tourist, regular and… that was it.  There was nobody of interest here today, other than Marjorie, who was bringing my cuppa joe. 

It was simultaneously disappointing and a relief to realize this truly was just another afternoon coffee run.

I should’ve known that’s what would happen.  I did know that’s what would happen, but for a few minutes between the office and here, I’d let myself daydream that Jon Bon Jovi was so moved by my selfless gesture that he would come back just to meet me.

It was a cup of coffee, not a Maserati. Besides, I seemed to remember he was more into American-made cars than fancy imports.

C’est la vie.

Life could continue as normal, and I would be able to say I once bought coffee for two of the founding members of Bon Jovi.  It would be a great story to tell my twenty-six year old daughter, who thought my fascination with Bon Jovi proved that I was half-crazy to begin with.

“How’s life in the diner today, girls?”

“Oh, about the same as usual,” Marjorie droned, sounding as bored as one human being could be without being six-feet under.  She slid my coffee across the counter, as usual, and I handed her my debit card.  “No need, sweetie.  It’s already been taken care of.”

Drawing my brow in confusion, I asked, “By who?”

With a grin that would do the Cheshire Cat proud, she nodded to a point past my right shoulder.  “By him.”

I spun around on the stool to find Jon Bon Jovi sitting in the same corner booth as yesterday.  Unlike yesterday, he was sitting alone, absorbed in his phone screen. 

Whipping back around to find both Marjorie and Delia laughing at me, I said quietly, “He was not there when I came in.”

“A man can only drink so much coffee before he has to drain the tank.”

Cutting a look of disdain at Delia the smartass, I pondered what to do.  Did I go over and thank him for the coffee?  Did I simply walk away with my happy bit of knowledge?  Did I…  What?  What did I do?

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Marjorie snorted.  “Go thank him, already.”

Okay.  I had direction and no meetings for the rest of the afternoon.  I could certainly spend a minute having heart palpitations within breathing distance of Jon Bon Jovi. 

It was a good thing I peed before I came over here.