Purgatorium (7 page)

THE COFFEE SHOP

The small coffee shop is on the edge of town. The windowpanes are cold, frosted over on the outside from the recent burst of bad weather. The interior has already been decorated for Christmas, with twinkling lights around the menu board, a tree set on the counter beside the sign advertising specials, and yuletide music playing on the stereo. Even in early December, holiday cheer seems inevitable.

I look in the glass window of the coffee shop and see in my reflection, but it’s a young 20-year-old me.
How is this possible?
I wonder. I hear a familiar sound coming from inside the little shop.

As I stumble in, the door closing quickly behind me. It’s that same song. What was it called again? “The Light in the Piazza,” I believe. It’s playing through the speakers.

I look around, mouth agape with surprise. I was just in the subway car. How am I now in a coffee shop?

I take a step toward the counter, almost on autopilot. I stare at the countertop, the menu, the chairs, and it hits me. It’s my coffee shop! The one I go to every morning. It’s whole and unburnt.

There’s no evidence a fire had ever taken place. I see a newspaper off to the corner of my eyes. I look over and read the date: 1991. That’s changed, I think. The song on the radio sinks into my mind, trying to dredge up old memories.

I remember this song. Am I in a memory? Dreaming? I try to move, to speak, but I am powerless. I start to panic. I must be dreaming—a mere observer, forced to watch. The thought maddens me, but the soft melody overpowers the feeling and I am soon comforted. I remember…I remember why I am here in the first place: a blind date!

I observe myself scanning the room for her. There’s a woman in the back corner being blocked by two gentlemen standing in front of her. I can barely see her face. I think to myself,
Is that her?

I walk toward her. As I get closer, a woman pops up right next to me from below her table. Her head is down and I begin to wonder if this was the girl I was suppose to meet. I am about to lean in when I see her take out the Good Book. An uncomfortable feeling comes over me as I gaze at it.

“You’re late,” she says, sounding unhappy, without looking up from her Scripture.

I can’t help but smile at her tone. I put my hands into my coat pockets, as if to humble myself for her.

Still observing rather than in control of myself, I feel myself smile, as if I am trying to charm her out of her mood. I open my mouth as words force their way out without me even knowing what they are. “Late? What do you mean?”

“Five
minutes late
to be precise,” she says as she looks up at me.

I know her from somewhere. Yes! She is the beautiful girl from the billboard. The coffee shop bustles around us, but my attention is now completely focused on her.

“Are you always precise?” I ask.

She nods, closing the Old Testament and folding her arms on top of it. “My boss always says, if you can’t be on time, what’s the point of showing up?”

“Wise words,” I reply.

The waiter approaches. Still, as if dreaming, I watch myself ask for a cup of coffee, black.

“Although five
minutes
doesn’t really warrant a lecture, does it?” I ask.
Why am I being so smarmy?
I think, feeling powerless to change my words or the course of my actions.

She shrugs. “And why is that?”

“Let’s back up five minutes then,” I find myself saying.

“Okay, and then what?” She cocks an eyebrow, looking at me expectantly.

“We can redo this conversation from the start,” I say. The waiter arrives with my coffee and I take a sip.

She sighs, put out. “Okay, but it would be better if you wore a
watch
.”

“I’ve been meaning to, but I haven’t had the—”

“Time?” she interrupts, a smirk in her voice.

“No,” I say, “the motivation. I haven’t felt inclined,” I insist. As I see myself speaking these words, I can feel our eyes meet. Her beautiful brown eyes light up as she looks at me. It’s the happiest I’ve seen her look yet.

I start again to say, “Though, now, I think you’ve given me a tremendous gift.”

“Oh, yeah?” she asks, almost flirtatiously. “What gift is that?”

“Motivation,” I say. “Thank you for that.”

“Speaking of gifts, I see you didn’t bring it,” she says, her voice turning dour.

What’s she talking about?
I wonder, confused.

“Bring what?” I find myself replying.

She responds, “And that would be a confirmed ‘no’ then. Well done.” I can’t stand it. What did I do to disappoint her? “I sent you an email,” she continues. “And in it, I told you my favorite flower. I asked you to bring one so I’d know who you were.” I heave a sigh of relief. It was just about a flower?

“Sorry,” I find myself saying, grinning again, though I have no recollection of such an email or any conversation about a favorite flower. I find myself playing along, nevertheless. “I guess I didn’t get it. What’s your favorite flower?”

“Sunflower,” she replies, plainly.

Though I do not want to, I laugh. “Unusual. I think I like unusual. It’s refreshing to be around someone that is out of the ordinary. You’re not like most girls.”

“Well,” she says bitingly, “I can already tell you’re like most guys.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest, looking quiet annoyed, as if I actually angered her. It’s not at all like the playful banter that we have been engaging in. She listens to the last part of the song coming through the speakers.

She sings softly to herself, “The light in the piazza….my love.”

I hear her beautiful voice as she turns to me, blushing at what she just did.

“That was beautiful,” I say to her.

She tries to forget what she just did and attempts to explain herself. “It’s my favorite part. Have you heard this song before?” She looks to me as I shake my head no. “It’s called ‘Light in the Piazza.’ It’s a story that conveys a message of escaping away to find one’s true love.”

I am frustrated with how the conversation is going and my apparent inability to change my behavior. I suddenly hear someone whispering, as if they are right next to me. “Be prideful.”

My body doesn’t attempt to look around to find where that whisper is coming from. It’s like the voice is coming from the same spot that I am in.

“Be prideful,” the voice whispers again.
Who is saying that?
I wonder. I am not alone in my own thoughts. Someone or something is in here too with me.

A feeling of pride and arrogance comes over me, and I once again can’t control what I am about to say.

I lean forward, nudging her with my elbow. “Don’t worry, by the end of things, I’m sure you will love me.”

Wait a second! Why would I say that?
I think.

“My, my, arrogant, aren’t we?” she asks. Her arms loosen and she plays with a napkin on the table, folding and unfolding it.

“What’s wrong with a little pride from time to time?”

The necklace around my neck glints in the light when I turn my head. I observe myself tucking it under my shirt, out of her sight.

“Where’s that coin from? What does it mean?” she asks.

“It’s nothing special,” I find myself answering.

“Oh,” she says. “Family thing? I get that.” No fight, not even a bit of sarcasm.

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I had a snow
globe
my mom gave me—the kind that plays music, you know? Anyway, inside was a city that lit up.” She sounds happy for a moment, but her voice turns sour. “My
mother
always said it was where dreams came true. It even had a secret compartment to hide your treasure in.”

“What was your ‘hidden treasure’?”

“I didn’t have anything so she put something in it for me. A picture.”

“What was the picture of? You and your mom?”

She suddenly looks pissed as she states firmly, “Yea, something like that. I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s okay?”

I wait anxiously not knowing what to say. “I’m jealous,” I say after a moment, smiling.

“Why?” she asks, legitimately puzzled.

“You have an ability to bring yourself back to a happier time,” I say. “I wish I could find that for myself. It would come in handy.”

“Looks like you need to find a little faith,” she says, placing a hand on the Good Book.

I feel a knee-jerk aversion to seeing that Book. By her noticing my reaction, she closes the Good Book quietly and puts it away in her bag. Underneath it there’s another book which is also leather-bound:
The Odyssey
.

I hear another whisper from nowhere, “You know that book. Impress her. Go on. You’re smart. She’ll like it.”

With a moment’s hesitation, I find myself quoting. “There is a tide in the affairs of man, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.”

“Hmm…” she responds. “And what does that quote mean to you?”

I reply, grinning, “That riches and power await the man who wants it the most.” She frowns, obviously displeased with my answer.

“Were you an English major? I’m assuming so,” I say, trying to change the subject again.

“Nope, I’m studying law at the moment,” she replies. “But I love reading.”

“Why ‘The Odyssey’?”

She opens the book, flipping through a few dog-eared pages to one that’s highlighted. “Would that Chaste Artemis grant me, here and now, a death as calm,” she recites, her voice enchanted. “And save me an eternity of heart grief and sickness for my peerless Lord, who surpassed the Achaeans in all nobility.”

As she concludes, she closes the book again. After a long pause, she says, “They just don’t say that kind of stuff nowadays, you know?”

“True,” I say, momentarily swept up by the passage and her voice.

“I’m an old soul, what can I say? What about you?” she asks, shifting in her seat. “What’s your favorite book?”

“If I had to choose, I’d say
The
Count of Monte Cristo
by Alexandre…” I find myself saying, feeling pride at having such distinguished taste.

“Dumas!” she interrupts, excitedly. “Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment and be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes. You must look into that storm and shout as you did in Rome, ‘Do your worst, for I will do mine!’ Then the fates will know you as we know you…”

I am speechless from her recitation. Suddenly, I remember how the line finishes, “…as Albert Mondego, the man!”

She claps vigorously as I watch myself taking a prideful bow. “That’s not your favorite though,” she says. “I can tell.”

“Really?” I ask, intrigued.

“Dumas is great, but I feel like you’re more of a Fitzgerald kind of guy.”

“I would be if he didn’t die for being too softhearted when he should have just let her go.” She huffs quietly.

Seeing her displeased, I think of what my favorite book really was. Kind of scared to admit it, I say, “Actually, my dad made me read this quote book when I was a young boy, as a kind of punishment.”

“Interesting…” she replies, looking concerned.

“It is.” I notice that I am doing my best to look invulnerable, despite her look of concern. “I pretty much know every famous quote coming from any athlete’s mouth that’s ever been said.”

“Really? Give me one.”

I look around the bar, trying to remember. The right one comes to mind and, seemingly cocky, I lean in closer. “The real purpose of running isn’t to win a race,” I say, quietly. “Rather, it’s to test the limits of the human heart.”

“A runner, I assume?”

“Bill Bowerman,” I say as I sip my coffee and lean back, trying to appear confident. “He wasn’t a runner so much as he was a coach.”

“No, I mean you.”

“A long time ago,” I say, feeling momentarily wistful. “I was a half-marathon runner.”

“Do you still run?”