An Order of Coffee and Tears

3





“An order of coffee and tears!” Ms. Potts sang out, as the bell above the door rang, and echoed over our heads. A few girls – maybe thirteen or fourteen years old – pushed in through the door, and stood at the center of the diner. Shaking off the cold and wet snow, they clutched their arms in a hug to try and warm themselves.

We don’t always call out “Coffee and Tears.” I’d come to learn that we save that call for special occasions. Working at the diner from the late afternoon through the early hours of the next day, you see a lot of things. Some of them are funny, some sad. But most of all, you see those who, by chance, or by luck, find themselves at Angela’s Diner, ordering coffee, and, soon after, crying. Might be a bad breakup, or a lost job, or even the death of a parent or child; we’ve seen and shared a lot of stories. I’d like to think of ourselves as the diner restaurant equivalent of a five-cent therapy. We’ll give you the coffee, you supply the tears, and, in return, you’ll get an ear that will listen.

I recognized the uniform the girls wore – dark maroon skirts that came all the way up and over white blouses with blue jackets dressed around their shoulders. The girls were from the all-girls school a block or so away. And, just a few blocks in the opposite direction was their partner school, the all-boys preparatory school. The two schools collaborated a few times a year to hold dances. As the only diner within a few blocks, we had the privilege of getting the school rush after the dances. On those nights, we’d need twenty hands to help us with the wall-to-wall teenagers swamping the diner. I’m not sure what the occupancy limit is for our little place, but we never counted. It was always work, but I enjoyed the kids. And I always felt a little sad when the night ended, as though I were trying to reclaim a little of something I missed.

Today was different. It was cold and turning rainy, and the shortest of the three girls looked to have been already crying a steady run of tears. She was a pretty girl with ruddy freckles across her nose to match her brown hair, and a row of braces I could see as she argued with the tallest of the three girls.

The tallest girl was the one they followed. She was the first to enter the diner and to pick a place to stand. I knew the type, and I think almost immediately that I didn’t much care for her. Looking around the diner, she caught my eye, and I expected she’d give a nod for some seats and menus. But she didn’t. And I thought there must be one more. As the leader of the group, she wasn’t ready to sit down. There was someone they were waiting for.

The third girl, a red-head who I thought looked a little like Suzette, didn’t seem to be engaged at all in the back and forth of the first two girls. Rocking on her feet, heel to toe, and gripping her school backpack, she seemed almost bored. Her eyes wandered around the diner with an interest in looking everywhere, but without looking anywhere. When the bell chimed and the door opened, number four came in to join the first three. Number four wore straight jet black hair, and if not for the loss of an inch or two in her height, she could easily have been the girl that the others followed. Soon after joining her friends, all four girls were together, and Blonde looked over to me and Ms. Potts.

“You want this one?” I asked, almost pleaded, with Ms. Potts. She gave the girls a quick look up and down, and then shook her head a stout “no.”

“Coffee and tears is all that’ll be there, fairly certain of it – I’m not up for teeny-girl storytelling. All yours, go get 'em,” she answered.

“Really, are you sure? Are you sure you’re not interested?” I joked and laughed. But Ms. Potts held her face firm – eventually I saw a smile and heard a giggle as I picked up some menus and started walking toward the girls. By now, they’d selected their own booth and seated themselves. Or, should I say, Blonde did the seat selection, pointing out who should sit where.

“You sit here. And you sit there, and I’ll sit here – of course, and, well… you can sit next to me,” I heard her say as I approached.

“Afternoon, can I get you girls started with anything to drink?” I asked as I handed them each a menu.

“Four coffees, please,” Blonde ordered for the group. Red, who looked the youngest, crinkled her nose and put on a face that told me she wanted something else.

“Is there something else I can get for you?” I asked, directing my words to Red. She raised her eyes and started to smile, but then turned in Blonde’s direction. Blonde fixed a thinly veiled frown on Red, and while the glimpse lasted only a second, I recognized the power of it. Growing up, we’ve all had one of those friends. Black toyed with her hair, running long fingers through it, and snapped her gum, which cracked and popped as she chewed the air out of it.

“Oh, stop –” Black started, “How about four coffees and two chocolate milks? Please.” Black gave Red a smile.

“That’s fine – four coffees, and some chocolate milk,” Blonde followed in a tone that sounded condescending and mean.

“And two straws, please,” Red insisted.

“Really? Again with the two?” Blonde scolded. Red straightened her shoulders defensively.

“Has to be two, otherwise the first one will be lonely.” When Red finished her explanation, Black began laughing, and didn’t seem to care that Blonde gave her a look that said to stay out of it. Black’s lower lip pooched out as she shook squinted eyes at Blonde. I felt like I was going to start laughing right there – but I didn’t.

“Can we get three chocolate milks?” the girl who was crying asked in a sparrow-like voice. I had to lean in close to hear what she asked when she repeated her order. Blonde rolled her eyes, and by then, I expected no less. Blonde passed another disapproving look around to the three other girls before her eyes settled on me.

“We’ll have four coffees and four chocolate milks,” she requested, a smile of her own breaking through. I guess the truth is in the order.

“I’m gonna mix some of mine together – like an iced mocha coffee,” Red said to nobody in-particular, and giggled. “How about you, what are you going to do?” Red asked Brown, who’d already lost interest, and turned her eyes back to the table.

That is when the crying started again. Almost without pause, Brown began to bawl. Her freckles disappeared in the red that lifted through her cheeks. I looked over to Ms. Potts, but by now, she’d gone to the back to work with Clark, or watch Wheel of Fortune with him. And I wished I could, too. I’d seen my share of shed tears in the booths, but never from someone this young. I hated to admit it – I was nervous. There were no words that came to me. No wisdom or clever sayings. Nothing.

“I’ll be back with your order,” I heard myself say, and felt ashamed that I didn’t say something more. Anything at all that might help Red. On days when Suzette would come to us broken and hurt, I felt that I knew what to say. I knew what to do. But this afternoon, I didn’t know. Not a clue. As I began pulling together glasses of chocolate milk, Ms. Potts grabbed a glass to lend a hand.

“Poor girl’s a mess. So, is it a breakup? Ditched by a boy? What’s the story?” she asked, her eyes eager to hear more, as though this were an afternoon soap we never got to watch. After all, it was Clark’s portable TV – game shows, and sometimes a news show. Nothing more.

“I don’t know, yet. She just started crying.”

“Young girls. Could be anything. We was young once, too,” Ms. Potts laughed, and then continued, “And you still is,” she finished, and patted my back.

The crying slowed by the time I placed the glasses of chocolate milk and cups of coffee in front of the girls. Brown’s cheeks were stained with tears that continued a steady flow, like the rains outside. Some of the tears fell from her cheeks onto the table, leaving behind tear craters that reached out in every direction. I watched as one fell onto her school uniform, where it disappeared into the blue tweed of her jacket.

“Hunny, you okay?” I asked. While the order might have been the usual coffee and tears, the chocolate milk was indeed a better fit. Through the sobs, Brown was eagerly sucking down the chocolate milk. From my count, she saved only a sip or two for the coffee.

“We don’t know,” Blonde jumped in. Her voiced was gruff and meant to sound annoyed. “None of us know what’s going on, do we?” she continued, almost reprimanding Brown for not telling them why she was crying.

“Really?” Black and Red pitched their voices, berating in near unison. “When she wants to tell us… if she wants to tell us, then she will,” Black finished, and pitched up her coffee cup in my direction, asking for more. Unlike her friend, Brown, Black was enjoying the coffee.

Curiosity was getting the better of me, and I didn’t want to leave before hearing what the story was. From the amount of crying, I was already guessing it had something to do with a boy. From the rain pelting the front of the diner’s window, to Clark’s shuffling of spatulas, pots, and pans, Angela’s is a small diner, and sometimes, thankfully, the sounds carry to all corners. As I turned for the coffee pot, Ms. Potts was already standing by my side, coffee pot in hand.

“Coffee?” she asked with a smile that I thought spoke more of genuine interest and curiosity than it did politeness. Ms. Potts winked at me. She wanted to hear the story, too.

“Thank you,” Black started to say, but then the tears interrupted again, and Brown’s face turned to a mess that she pushed into the palms of her hands.

Blonde leaned up in her seat, and yelled, “You see? This is what she’s been doing all day. And she won’t tell us what’s wrong.” Ms. Potts raised her hand and motioned a polite “settle down.”

Brown dropped her hands hard onto the table. Coffee cups jumped and spilled over, spoons rattled in their empty chocolate milk glasses.

“I’m pregnant, OKAY?” Brown hollered, and pushed her face back into her hands.

I jumped along with the other girls when I heard Brown yell. And when I realized what she’d said, my heart felt heavy, and I thought it skipped for a moment, while I tried to catch a breath that wouldn’t come. Suddenly, I had a memory from a lifetime ago, but it passed as Ms. Potts moved forward to kneel next to Brown. Her knees sounded a loud pop as she made her way down so their eyes were near level. I remained standing. By now, I had the coffee pot in my hand and had refreshed each cup, whether the girls needed it or not. I wasn’t leaving.

“Girl, are you certain?” Ms. Potts asked, as she laid her hand on the young girl’s back.

“Yes… well, I think I am. Jimmy thinks I am, too, and now he won’t even talk to me,” Brown struggled to say, as a stutter of air caught her words. All the girls were listening now. Red stayed busy, her lips pursed on the two straws as she pulled more chocolate milk from the glass. Blonde and Black both exchanged sweeteners and creamers for their coffee.

“Wait,” Blonde started to say. She put her coffee down and leaned forward. “Jimmy? Jimmy who?” All motion and sounds stopped as Brown sat as far back against the booth’s seat as she could. Her face emptied of expression, and the red in her cheeks disappeared. She gave an undecided nod and pushed her eyes down to the coffee she’d left to go cold.

“My Jimmy?” Blonde squealed. Red quickened the emptying of her chocolate milk, and, for a moment, I thought her eyes were going to fall out of her head. Propped up on her elbows, Black cradled her coffee in her hands. She disguised an eager smile behind her cup as she listened to her friend’s revelation.

“Jimmy Taylor,” Brown finally whispered.

“Really? I mean, really!” Blonde scolded, and slapped the silverware and coffee cups into another dance atop the table.

“I’m so sorry. I am. Jimmy said you and him were broken up, and then he called me, and then we started to hang, and then…” Brown stopped mid-sentence and began to tear up again.

“And then what? What? What happened?” Red’s excited voice blurted in anticipation.

“We DID it!” Brown shouted. “Okay? Or, we sorta did it,” she told her friends. By now, Blonde was fighting a tear. She held a narrow and hurtful stare on Brown.

Ms. Potts shifted on her feet and raised her hand again to quiet the girls. When all that we could hear were the sounds of the rain hitting the window, and Red’s sucking down the last of her chocolate milk, Ms. Potts asked,

“Girl, do you mind if I ask you something? Might help. Might not.” Brown darted looks around the table, and then nodded an okay. Ms. Potts blinked an acknowledgment, and continued, “Can you whisper in my ear what you and this Jimmy Taylor did do?” Brown hesitated. She searched the faces of her friends. First, she looked to Red, and then to Black, and, finally, she looked to Blonde. Her friends wore expressions filled with sympathy and fear and excitement, much excitement – except for Blonde. Brown leaned closer to Ms. Potts, and cupped her hand around her mouth and confessed. But with this confession, there wouldn’t be the reciting of seven Lord’s Prayers and ten Hail Marys as part of washing away your sin. Instead, just the smiles and laughs of Ms. Potts.

“Girl, you fine. Now, don’t get me wrong. You young, your boyfriend young, and you both shouldn’t be doing anything more than hand-holding, and maybe some kissing.”

“I’m not pregnant?” Brown asked, a smile breaking free for the first time since she entered the diner.

“Girl, you’re not pregnant. But I do expect you to have more explaining to do with your friends.” Ms. Potts finished, and turned a hand to me to help her up. Her knees popped a few more times, but it was her laughter that caught my attention. Brown turned back to her friends, whose eyes were hungry for the details of their friend’s near-pregnancy experience with one Jimmy Taylor. Brown’s smile faded when she turned to Blonde. There would, indeed, be some details to explain, possibly over more coffee and chocolate milk.

“So, what was it?” I had to ask. But Ms. Potts didn’t stop walking until we were in the back with Clark. Once we reached Clark, she let out a hearty laugh and clapped her hands together.

“They was just fooling around – nobody gonna have a baby with what they was doing. Poor girl naive about the birds and bees, is all, there’s always one who is. Truth is, poor Jimmy Taylor gonna get both his ears chewed up once those two girls are done with him.” Ms. Potts belted another laugh, and then turned back with me to look at the table. Black and Red were wide-eyed and listening to Brown and Blonde, going back and forth about a boy named Jimmy Taylor.

I tried to laugh, along with Ms. Potts. I did. I tried to hear the humor in it all, but the fright and terror I had heard in Brown’s voice, and had seen on her face… well, it hit home. Seeing Brown this afternoon scratched a memory bubble that had been buried long ago. Memory bubbles can surface. I was sure I’d pushed it deep enough. I was sure of it. But, I suppose, nothing stays buried forever.