Arriving Late

Arriving Late

Arriving late, the shop was already full. I force my way to the counter, while the smell of smoke and coffee saturates my clothing. I know all too well that I will have to wash everything when I get home to avoid probing questions from parents. I have enjoyed and endured the wrath of: "Have you been smoking?" "Is that Pot I Smell?!" "Good Lord, when did YOU start drinking COFFEE?!"

People here do not greet one another. There is just a slight, sudden recognition, and a very small nod of the head. They don’t know your name, and you don’t know theirs. Pete, the owner knows everyone by name. I’m "Tall-Iced-Mocha," my real name he will never know. My order is the same as always: a Tall Iced Mocha, and a bottle of Bawls. I sit at the same table and stare out the same window. I wasn’t too late, but my friends weren’t early.

Slowly they all arrive, until we are seated together. Eight people seated around a three-sided table that should only fit three. There are many bigger tables around, four within ten feet. We only sit at this table out of habit; we’ve sat here every night for the past year. Talk is cheap, but there is never a silent moment. Topics range all across the board, and no one feels awkward talking about anything.

We all order Bawls, and by tradition open them at 2:30 AM. There is no real reason to this madness, it happened the first night we were here and has happened every night since. Just after 2:45 AM all the guys have finished their bottles while the girls have more than three fourths left to go. We spin the bottles on the floor and watch them roll around: clinking across the cold, rough hardwood floor, stopping only when they run into each other. Pete throws us out at four, normal closing is at three.

We leave the shop slowly one by one as if passing through a coat check to pick up our inhibitions at the door. The goodbyes of tonight lay silent on the floor waiting to roll around with the hellos of tomorrow. In the same moment we know that we will be back tomorrow laughing and joking until the sun comes up.

I walk to my car, parked a block or two away. We never park in the same direction, we can say our goodbyes at the door of the shop, which makes it easier to leave. I climb in and start the engine. The rust through the doors and the faded seats don’t bother me now. All that I can think about is tomorrow night, repeating it all over again.