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“As Little as Possible”
I let the moisture condense between my bare arms and the countertop. I was on my third cigarette of the hour. Today at the café wasn’t any slower than usual; nobody ever showed in the growing dead time between lunch and dinner. But there was the same cast of regulars: Scott in the booth, same one as the first day I’d strolled in looking for a delivery job. Mike in the corner, drinking coffee and killing time as he did on any afternoon he had off. Lex, the neighboorhood drunk, talking to himself since there were no customers to harass. But it was August, almost four months since graduation, and time was moving slower somehow. The air was stickier, more dense, the afternoons harder to kill with cigarettes and coffee and classic rock radio and conversation. The afternoons didn’t want to die.
The novelty of the job had worn off and I’d dropped appearances. I abandoned my side of the counter and sat next to Mike, not saying a word, lighting another cigarette, holding all the excess right cheek I had in one hand. Mike got up and walked behind the counter to refill his own coffee without even asking me.
Some more of our non-paying regulars showed up, common friends of Mike and Scott. The conversation grew louder, and Mike took advantage of the distraction.
“Do you have a minute to talk to me about something?” He asked, as non-rhetorically is possible. I nodded, my eyes barely focusing on his sallow face turning from slack and dreamy to furrowed and stern.
“What have I told you about my... illness?” He began.
It was hard to recall. Mike had told me T_______ was a great place to work when he interviewed me for a job, but I quit and he was fired and now he was at A-plus. He’d told me about a botched suicide attempt upon our second meeting after all that, probably in the same stool. He told me he was working on a short film, but dreaming your way out of the shithole you’re in isn’t quite illness, nor were any of those other things.
I said, “No.”
He nodded, and for once, held his tongue. He searched for words on the fronts of his yellow teeth with his tongue and lips. He didn’t seem disappointed, but full of purpose.
“So, while we were working together, I never told you I was sick?”
I searched my mind, but came up with nothing, nodding “no.”
“All right, I’ll have to find someone else,” he sighed. “I need someone to testify in court, who knew I was sick before they fired me.”
I took a long look at him, saw the slimness in his face like three-point lighting was sudden;y around him, noticed the spots I’d previously glanced away from.
“I didn’t know, Mike. At all.”
“That’s all right. I’ll have to find someone else.” The old silence started to descend, but I wanted to push it away like the humid air.
All I could ask was, “How long?”
He looked to his temples. “Since nineteen... hmm. 1988. When I lived in Chicago, at least.”
I nodded, never moving my eyes from him. “Wow,” I replied. I tried to sound hopeful.
He glanced at me as if he’d just now noticed me beside him. “You didn’t know? That’s why my fiancé terminated the pregnancy.”
My jaw came down like a drawbridge. “Your fiancé gave it to you?”
He rubbed the salt-and-pepper stubble at his chin, nodding. “Of course, she didn’t tell me until after we were eight months engaged, when I confronted her about the baby. You have a customer.”
Mike broke our low conspiratorial whisper and swiveled forward on his stool. I stood up. Someone, some wayward student, wanted to see a menu. It was a freak occurrence. Now, I would have to cook, and Mike was dying. He wasn’t fired for being exposed as a slacker and a user like all his undergraduate employees. He was marked, sick with what was feared and unspeakable in the 80s and just a word now, dropped in PSAs and Health classes and Prime Time dramas, so that I knew it, but didn’t understand it. This was too common. This shouldn’t be able to ask me to testify or sling my coffee for me.
Mike came around less and less, after finding a new job at a boutique video rental. I quit a month later, and I moved out of town. It wasn’t the last shitty job I’d work, but my guard’s up a little longer at each new one. Working as little as possible for the paycheck doesn’t hold the same appeal anymore.
I let the moisture condense between my bare arms and the countertop. I was on my third cigarette of the hour. Today at the café wasn’t any slower than usual; nobody ever showed in the growing dead time between lunch and dinner. But there was the same cast of regulars: Scott in the booth, same one as the first day I’d strolled in looking for a delivery job. Mike in the corner, drinking coffee and killing time as he did on any afternoon he had off. Lex, the neighboorhood drunk, talking to himself since there were no customers to harass. But it was August, almost four months since graduation, and time was moving slower somehow. The air was stickier, more dense, the afternoons harder to kill with cigarettes and coffee and classic rock radio and conversation. The afternoons didn’t want to die.
The novelty of the job had worn off and I’d dropped appearances. I abandoned my side of the counter and sat next to Mike, not saying a word, lighting another cigarette, holding all the excess right cheek I had in one hand. Mike got up and walked behind the counter to refill his own coffee without even asking me.
Some more of our non-paying regulars showed up, common friends of Mike and Scott. The conversation grew louder, and Mike took advantage of the distraction.
“Do you have a minute to talk to me about something?” He asked, as non-rhetorically is possible. I nodded, my eyes barely focusing on his sallow face turning from slack and dreamy to furrowed and stern.
“What have I told you about my... illness?” He began.
It was hard to recall. Mike had told me T_______ was a great place to work when he interviewed me for a job, but I quit and he was fired and now he was at A-plus. He’d told me about a botched suicide attempt upon our second meeting after all that, probably in the same stool. He told me he was working on a short film, but dreaming your way out of the shithole you’re in isn’t quite illness, nor were any of those other things.
I said, “No.”
He nodded, and for once, held his tongue. He searched for words on the fronts of his yellow teeth with his tongue and lips. He didn’t seem disappointed, but full of purpose.
“So, while we were working together, I never told you I was sick?”
I searched my mind, but came up with nothing, nodding “no.”
“All right, I’ll have to find someone else,” he sighed. “I need someone to testify in court, who knew I was sick before they fired me.”
I took a long look at him, saw the slimness in his face like three-point lighting was sudden;y around him, noticed the spots I’d previously glanced away from.
“I didn’t know, Mike. At all.”
“That’s all right. I’ll have to find someone else.” The old silence started to descend, but I wanted to push it away like the humid air.
All I could ask was, “How long?”
He looked to his temples. “Since nineteen... hmm. 1988. When I lived in Chicago, at least.”
I nodded, never moving my eyes from him. “Wow,” I replied. I tried to sound hopeful.
He glanced at me as if he’d just now noticed me beside him. “You didn’t know? That’s why my fiancé terminated the pregnancy.”
My jaw came down like a drawbridge. “Your fiancé gave it to you?”
He rubbed the salt-and-pepper stubble at his chin, nodding. “Of course, she didn’t tell me until after we were eight months engaged, when I confronted her about the baby. You have a customer.”
Mike broke our low conspiratorial whisper and swiveled forward on his stool. I stood up. Someone, some wayward student, wanted to see a menu. It was a freak occurrence. Now, I would have to cook, and Mike was dying. He wasn’t fired for being exposed as a slacker and a user like all his undergraduate employees. He was marked, sick with what was feared and unspeakable in the 80s and just a word now, dropped in PSAs and Health classes and Prime Time dramas, so that I knew it, but didn’t understand it. This was too common. This shouldn’t be able to ask me to testify or sling my coffee for me.
Mike came around less and less, after finding a new job at a boutique video rental. I quit a month later, and I moved out of town. It wasn’t the last shitty job I’d work, but my guard’s up a little longer at each new one. Working as little as possible for the paycheck doesn’t hold the same appeal anymore.