The Coffee Shop

By Joe Mallon

“You don’t mind if I sit here, do you? This place is packed.”

Michael looked up. “No problem.” He went back to his writing.            

The stranger took a sip of his coffee. It was in a mug, not a paper cup, the way everyone else in the coffee shop had theirs. 

“You a writer?”

Michael’s eyes peered up. “What? Oh. Yeah. A writer.”

“Wow. Cool. I could never do that. Can’t write a sentence to save my soul.” He laughed. The stranger took another sip, looking around the shop. “Man, the line is almost out the door.”

Michael ignored him, keeping pen to paper. The guy was annoying. That was the risk of writing in coffee shops. But better than writing at home. Too boring. Too quiet and lonely. He looked down at his cup and winced. Half full and cold. Shit, he thought.

“What do you write?”

Michael looked up. “What?”

“Novels? Short stories? Are you a reporter or something?”

“Novels, mostly. Murder mysteries.”

The guy nodded. “Wow. Cool. Death and that. Can’t beat a good murder mystery, that’s what I always say.”

Michael shrugged. “It’s a living.”

“I mean, who wants to die, right?”

“Everybody dies.”

The stranger leaned over. “Yes, but when?”

Michael looked up. “How the hell would I know? When it’s your time to go, I guess.”

The stranger leaned back in his chair, thinking. “Would you want to know?” he said.

“Know what?”

“The exact time when you were going to die. Down to the minute, the second. Would you want to know?”

Michael resumed writing, ignoring the question. Maybe he’d go away.

“How about this? Would you want to know where you were going to die?”

Michael continued to write. But the question took hold of him. Would he? Would he want to know? So he could avoid the place for the rest of his life? He shook the notion out of his head. It was a stupid question. 

“Well?” the stranger said.

“Peoria, okay?” He slammed his pen down. “Look, I’m trying to write. Go sit somewhere else or I’ll call the barista.”

The stranger nodded. “Sorry.” He put his finger up to his pursed lips. “Peoria. Interesting choice.” He paused. “I wonder if driving through it counts. Or do you have to stop? Say, have a meal or stay overnight on your way to New Orleans or someplace.” 

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“Like for Mardi Gras.”

“Mardi Gras? I’m driving to Mardi Gras?”

“I’m just sayin’. I mean, it’s something to think about, right? I mean, you choose Peoria, you think you’re safe. Small town and all that. And all you’re doing is driving on I-55 through Peoria, no stops, then BAM! A car crosses the lane, head-on crash, you’re dead. Makes you think, huh?”

“No. No, it doesn’t.” Michael signaled for the barista.

“That ever work?”

“What?”

“Calling for the barista. Tried it myself a couple times. Couldn’t get the time of day.”

“Of course I have.” Now that he thought of it, he’d never called for a barista before. 

“Huh. You must have the Midas Touch.” The stranger paused. “Or what if you knew who was going to cause your death? Okay. Now that means you gotta take diseases out of it. No cancer, heart disease, nothing like that. I mean, how does a person cause cancer, am I right? No, it has to be some kind of accidental death. Like that driver coming into the other lane.” He leaned forward. “Or murder.”

“Sir?” Michael raised his hand, signaling again to the barista.

“For instance, what if your fate rested in the hands of a barista? Maybe that one. The one you’re trying to call over here. Maybe he’s so pissed off— maybe at the job, or at you, or maybe he’s just a psych job— he comes over and guts you with a jackknife?” The stranger shivered. “Geez. Wouldn’t you want to know if he was the guy?” The stranger stared at Michael. “You could sneak out the back door right now.”

The barista still did not respond.

Michael held the stranger’s stare for the briefest of moments. “You know what? Keep the table. I’m moving.” He packed up, at the same time looking for another table. Nothing.

The stranger looked around as well. “Looks like you’re out of luck, buddy. You’re stuck with me.” He raised the coffee to his lips, this time taking a hard chug. “I got it in a mug. They’ll give it to you if you ask, did you know that? Keeps the coffee nice and hot. Tastes better, too.”

Michael pulled out his writing materials. He didn’t know why he bothered. The morning was wasted by this moron. He slammed his writing tablet down onto the table.

“Look. I really have to get something done.”

The stranger held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I just like meeting new people. I’ll be quiet.” 

The stranger’s silence didn’t last long.

His voiced lowered. “What if it was me?”

Michael looked up.

“What?”

He smiled. “I said, what if I’m the guy?”

Michael shifted in his seat. He looked around the coffee shop. “What guy?”

“You know.” The stranger winked.  “I mean, what if you pissed someone off bad. I mean really bad. And they wanted it taken care of? In a coffee shop? Say, this one? At,” he looked at his watch, then looked up smiling. “One o’clock and thirty-five seconds.” He laughed. “And the guy to do it was supposed to be me? Weird, huh?” 

Michael glanced at his watch. 12:50. He shifted in his seat again. 

The stranger paused, staring at the table, lost in concentration. He slapped the table. “Hey, you know what? This is a great idea for a book, don’t you think? Wow! It’s like that old film noir movie.” He snapped his fingers a couple times, looking at the ceiling. “Now what the hell was the name of it?”

“This is bullshit.” Michael stood to go.

The stranger laughed. “Ahh. I’m just yanking your chain,” he said, laughing. “Look, I’m going to buy a paper so I don’t disturb you. Let me buy you a cup of coffee for the trouble. In a mug. You’re going to love it. Stays hot. No paper-taste.” Michael sat back down. Again. He could live with it if the guy read the paper. And he could use another coffee. He stared at the stranger. “Alright. Dark roast. Easy cream, no sugar. And please. You gotta let me work.”

The stranger smiled. “Deal. I’m dead to the world once I start reading the Sports section.”

The stranger stood up and got in line.

This was shit. He should leave. Find another coffee shop. Or go home, write in his study or at the kitchen table. Hell, writing with his notepad on the Michigan Avenue sidewalk would be more productive. So why did he stay? Something about the guy…

The stranger ordered two cups. He had to admit it. Getting it in a mug was a good idea. The stranger moved over to the cream and sugar table.  

Michael tapped his fingers, studying the stranger as the man added cream to both mugs. He returned, placing each mug in front of them.

“Takes a helluva long time to put cream into a couple cups of coffee these days,” Michael said.

The stranger smiled. “Cheers,” he said, raising his mug.

They touched mugs and both took a sip. The stranger looked at Michael with a look of expectation. “Well? What do you think?”

Michael nodded. “I gotta say. Pretty good.”

“Hints of chocolate. Taste it?” The stranger leaned forward. 

Michael took another sip. “Yeah, I taste it. Chocolate. Wow. Nice.”

The stranger nodded, happy with himself. “Like it, eh?”

“It’s good. Gotta admit it. There’s another flavor. Can’t put my finger on it.” He coughed.

“I figure one o’clock. Maybe a little after. I could be wrong.”

Michael coughed again. “What do you mean?”

“It’s got a nice nutty flavor to it, doesn’t it?”

Michael took another taste. He nodded. “Yeah. That’s it. It’s the chocolate and nutty flavor combined.” His breath caught. Why did it feel different? His breathing was odd, strange, difficult.

The stranger crossed his hands. “You remember a girl named Karen? I think you dated her. Then cheated on her. You cleaned out her bank account. Ran up her credit cards. Remember her?”

“My throat.” He inhaled, gasping for air. Karen. God, no. 

“Me?” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t… do something like that… My…” He inhaled. A guttural noise accompanied it. “Karen?”

“She’s dead.” The stranger stared at him.

Michael’s throat closed, his face crimson. Beads of sweat arose on his forehead. “Dead?” His heartbeat grew faster.

“She killed herself. Good kid, from what I hear. But, hey, it happens, right?” The stranger smiled. The smile held a cold hunger.

“It wasn’t…” Michael grabbed his throat. “Please,” his voice a coarse whisper. The sweat dripped down his forehead.

“Peanuts. You’ve got a problem with peanuts, am I right? Ironic, because peanuts aren’t really nuts.”

He pointed at his bag. A gurgle. “EpiPen.” 

“Sorry, champ, that will be coming with me.” He reached inside Michael’s bag, removing the EpiPen. “By the way, in case you’re interested? Future reference and all? The nuts used in coffee tend to be almonds. I brought my own peanuts. Ground up, of course.”

Michael tried to call for help. Nothing came out. He tried to stand, almost knocking over the table. His breath caught inside him. Gotta call for help. No words came out.

The stranger smiled, straightening the table. He looked around the crowded coffee shop, shaking his head. “Kids. Look at them.” He bent over and dabbed Michael’s spilled coffee with a napkin. He leaned towards Michael, whispering, “All they do is look at their phones, listen to their music. Can’t hear a thing, don’t see a thing. What ever happened to a good conversation?”

Michael tried to motion for the Barista. Again. The stranger held Michaels’s arms, like an old friend, and propped him up. 

“Easy, champ.” The stranger looked at his watch, held it up, and tapped its face. “Wow! Look at the time. 12:58. I gotta blow.”

“Please.” His voice. Dry. An unwanted whisper. “I’ll die.”

The stranger wiped his prints from both cups. “Probably at one o’clock and thirty-five seconds. Ironic, eh?”

“Please.”

The stranger stood to walk out. He smiled.

“Hey, listen. Good luck with the book.”