The Coffee Shop Story

The coffee shop stayed open until midnight. It sat in the middle of nowhere between an adult video store and abandoned gas station whose pumps were difficult to find behind the rows of cars that were beyond repair. The shop was small, but oddly inviting with its large windows, illuminated by the fluorescent lights from inside. It had gone through different owners over the twenty years it was in business, and had had a lot of names, until nobody remembered which name fit when. Now, it was not called by any name at all, but was known by location. So it had no sign. It was just a coffee shop with no name in the middle of nowhere. That's how people knew it.

Matthew loved the coffee shop, but he hated coffee. Caffeine made him sick. He wished he could order a coke, but people didn't go to a coffee shop for a coke. So he learned how to guzzle the coffee down. His original plan was to drink it black because he was fond of the motorcyclists who wandered in occasionally, straddling the stools at the counter and ordering their coffee black - tough and hard - as if asking someone to punch them. Matthew wanted to be like them, but black coffee was disgusting; he might as well have been drinking river pollution. So he tried it his father's way, "Half a sugar and a drop of milk," but all that did was turn the pollution paler. He was now up to "three sugars, heavy on the milk," like his brother enjoyed. Still, he couldn't figure out why people contaminated their systems with the nauseating drug.

But he loved the coffee shop.

It was a place for him to be alone. Sit in an empty place where nobody knew his name, not even Eileen, the only waitress ever on duty. Eileen with her dark blonde hair, dirty eyes, and stout hips. Eileen with the smell of grease in her hair and the fading cut marks on her wrists. Eileen, who had never told him her name. He had to find out from her nametag.

Eileen! it read. Eileen! with an exclamation point. She looked like someone who turned everything into an exclamation point. Her eyes were a mystery and he wanted to solve the puzzle.

He had only spoken to her once, on that first day, when he wandered into the coffee shop after his father had started drinking again and hit his mother. He had ordered his coffee black and she brought it, placing a small pitcher of milk and some sugar next to the cup and saucer "just in case." He felt black inside, so he didn't touch the milk or sugar.

Matthew found himself in the coffee shop each time his father started drinking. He guzzled the coffee in the same way until he realized his body could no longer handle it. He considered trying it his father's way, because, like his mother had told him a dozen times before, he was just like his father.

After that first day, Eileen knew exactly what he wanted; black coffee with the possibility of milk and sugar. White, like the color of her skin. So she never asked for his order. He told her with his eyes and she knew. Eventually, he started to use the milk and sugar, like his father at first, then, like his brother, because he wasn't like his father at all. He didn't want to be like any of the men in his family.

He wanted to keep drinking his coffee black, wanted to be like the tough guys at the stool and stand up to his father, but he couldn't. He longed for escape, so instead of standing up for himself, he came into the coffee shop. He couldn't handle seeing his father bully his mother all the time. His rough, hard voice ordering her around, insulting her every move. He tried to protect her once, but she didn't want his help.

You're exactly like your father, his mother's voice followed him to the coffee shop every night.

I'm nothing like him, he wanted to scream, because he knew he wasn't. He would never hit a woman. Not even when he was drunk. And drinking coffee was enough for him. He had never touched alcohol in his twenty-one years, and had no desire to. The last thing he wanted to be was like his father.