An Order of Coffee and Tears

6





Philadelphia didn’t see its first snow storm until we were well into February. By then, the weather thermometer mounted outside the diner’s door struggled to crawl out of the single digits at night. During the day, the feeling of the sun on your face was just a memory as the cold held the thermometer somewhere in the twenties. But on this particular week, the thermometer’s silvery finger stretched to reach almost thirty degrees as a new front came up the coastline. Having passed through the Gulf, it’s a Nor’easter, I heard a few say. At first, I thought I’d heard “North Easter” and even repeated it to a few who were interested in listening. A stout correction was quick and firm. It’s Nor’easter, I was told, and was sure to phrase it correctly the second, or maybe third, time.

Till now, we’d only seen a couple of small clippers that delivered a coating of the white stuff. There were also a few storms that spilled rain and caked everything in a thin sheet of ice, but we hadn’t seen anything like this. The latest forecast came with its own set of severe winter warnings and advisories. At first, I’d dismissed the warnings as just some news. Soon after, a small flutter of excitement woke in me, and it had an appetite for more. Two feet of snow was expected to fall over a period of just twelve hours: a fast storm with a lot of snow. Now, who doesn’t like that?

Growing up in Texas, I saw my share of spring storms. Some were the heaviest you could imagine, with lightning skating across dark skies, and thunder that rattled our windows. We even had a few tornadoes touchdown in our town, and felt the western reach of a hurricane’s hand. And once, we survived a flood that carried off one of our cars. But this was my first snow storm. I hated to admit it – I was a storm junkie, and I could hardly contain myself. A smile stayed fixed on my face, and the flutter of excitement grew warmer, keeping my feet moving. As I worked each table and met new faces, the same conversations were just a word or two away.

Did you hear about the weather coming? What’s the latest? When is it going to start? I couldn’t get enough of it. When new faces sat down, I was sure to work the weather into the conversation. First, I’d take their orders, of course, but then it was my turn. Heck of a storm coming, did’ya know? I’d ask, and if they hadn’t heard, or wanted to know what the latest forecast was… well, I was more than happy to oblige and spill all that I knew. Sometimes I’d get clever and engage the neighboring booths. A real provocateur I was, churning up the excitement like a chef cooking for a king. Necks stretched and turned, elbows and arms cradled the back of the booths, amateur forecasts volleyed back and forth in a burst of heightened speculation. I heard three feet… well, I heard snow will fall up to four inches an hour. Delicious. I ate it up. Why wouldn’t I? By now, I’d seen some snow, but this was a storm – a massive storm.

There were those who saw the storm as a nuisance, or who thought the forecast was just hyped up news. Admittedly, there were some reservations, but I dismissed their commentary. How dare they spoil my excitement? Of course, I didn’t say that aloud. For most of them, like Ms. Potts, I thought they were putting on a front. I told myself that, deep down, they were stifling any excitement and waiting to see what happened. Maybe when there were a few flakes in the air or an inch or two, on the ground to kick your feet through, I’d see the enthusiasm, and they’d join in.

When my tables were all served and I had nobody waiting for me to seat them, Ms. Potts waved an okay for me to take a break. There was no hesitation; I couldn’t wait any longer, and grabbed my coat. A snowflake wandered past me as I left the diner. Another followed, and I reached my hand out and plucked it from the air. Standing on the diner’s stoop, an older gentlemen walking with a cane offered a polite hello.

“Smells like snow, doesn’t it?” he asked in a voice that whistled as he spoke. I wanted to laugh. How can anything smell like snow? But I answered, “Sure – we’re gonna have a heck of a good storm, aren’t we?” He agreed, and continued on his way. But there was something different in the air, too. It was fresh and damp and very cold, which pinched my chest when I drew in a deep breath. I suppose it did smell like snow. Sure, I’d heard the expression before, but I’d never experienced it.

More snowflakes fell. They were the smaller, fluffy kind that didn’t turn or stray. The snow flurries hurried as more appeared around me. White fireflies – the bigger snow flurries – reminded me of the slow wandering of the glowing bugs as I plucked another from the air. The ground was cold, and the snow didn’t melt when the flakes landed.

Within a few minutes, I could make out thin white drifts that gathered on the black asphalt and swirled over the street as a cold breeze pick up from behind me. The sight of it was new, and it was beautiful. When I stretched my eyes as far down the street as I could, a wall of snow filled my view. The snow was falling fast, and at a steadier pace. It was happening. The storm was here. Pockets of white stretched and pulled and slithered across the road like a snake racing to catch its prey. Only, the prey was the cars jockeying along the street’s curb, looking to park and hibernate during the storm.

Most of the stores were closed, or were in the process of closing. Other than our diner, I expected to find one other place still open: the Irish pub across from us. Both of our places would do well tonight. After all, what a way to celebrate a good storm!





By the time the first orange glow of street lights could be seen through the diner’s front window, Philadelphia had over six inches of snow. This was officially the most snow I’d ever seen at any one time. And Angela’s, well… we stayed open, and I was the happier for it. Let’s face it: we lived just a few blocks away, and our night would have been filled with the same activities – watching the latest forecast on the news, and staring out the window.

A handful of our regulars stayed with us, and I liked having the familiar faces around. There were at least a dozen of them; a snow party, I liked to call it. Keep on Truckin´ was one of mine who’d stopped in for a meal. I could almost always expect to see him on Mondays and Thursdays. He ordered his usual, and kept an eye on the falling snow through the window. He told me he was trying to decide if getting on the road tonight was such a good idea – I didn’t think so.

At one point, Clark brought his portable TV to the front and placed it on the counter so that everyone could watch and listen to it. As small as that screen was, I doubt many could see more than a blur of flickering gray light coming from that little white box. But that didn’t stop those in the furthest of booths from straining to see the screen.

The TV painted dim white light on the faces of those who’d moved in closer to watch. A few thanked Clark for bringing his portable out to the front, while others gave a nod and a wave in his direction. I saw a smile on Clark’s face. It was brief, but I saw it. The different shades of gray light danced a funny jig as the screen went bright and dark. Everyone’s eyes widened to eat up the images from the screen of the TV when the forecasted snow totals were shown.

The small figure of a weatherman walked across the screen, pointing to a large map behind him, showing the different areas of Philadelphia. He waved his arms to demonstrate how the storm was moving up the coast and creeping inland. He talked of the expected snowfall amounts, which everyone enjoyed hearing. He told us about the possibility of snow drifts burying parked cars, and said to expect power outages. He even talked about a food-shopping-meter to gauge the strength of the storm. Philadelphia was approaching an eight out of ten. Ms. Potts laughed when the weatherman fixed his own cartoon grin next to the animated food-shopping-meter on the screen. She let out another giggle before telling everyone that Angela’s had more than enough food. It was true, too: Angela’s was full of food. At the last check, I did an inventory count, and didn’t expect we’d work up a food order for at least another week, maybe two. A crazy thought crossed my mind. What if the drifting snow buried us? What if we were stuck in the diner for days? A week, even?

The collected group in front of the screen sounded a small cheer when our section of the city was mentioned. The cheer grew louder when the weatherman announced that our area was expected to be one of the hardest hit. Butterflies flew and flipped somersaults in my gut, and my heart rose in my chest. More snow. Just for us. I felt giddy. Even Ms. Potts was joining in as I saw her shaking her head with an awed expression playing behind the gray-light reflecting from her glasses. She pushed up on the thick frames and clapped her hands, letting out another giggle when the screen flashed the food-shopping-meter on the screen once more.

“Turn that up,” Keep on Truckin´ hollered from his booth. “Gotta know if I’ll be heading to Virginia later tonight, or canceling altogether.” He held his coffee cup up in the air and gave me a wink. I filled his mug and asked what time he thought he’d need to leave. He wore a thick mustache and a goatee that was at least a year or more grown out. Coffee dripped from his mustache whiskers as he talked about his trip to Sterling, Virginia.

“South of us is getting some snow, too,” he said, “but nothing like here in Philly.” He went on to tell me that as long as the '95 Corridor stayed open, he could leave by midnight. Keep on Truckin´ was a solid regular of mine during the last year, a comfortable regular. He was my first regular that I’d adopted from Ms. Potts a few weeks after I’d started. Two, and sometimes three, days a week I’d served him hash and eggs with a side of rye toast. I didn’t want to see him on the road. Not tonight.

“You’ll be stuck like the rest of 'less you get to leaving before that next foot of snow falls,” someone rebutted from the counter. When I went back to offer more coffee, Keep on Truckin´ had already put his money on the table, and with another wink of his eye, said,

“Think they might be right. Time for me to get on the road. Just need to get to Maryland, and I’ll be clear from there.” I followed him to the door and wished him a safe drive. I told him Sterling, Virginia would be there tomorrow if he needed to pull over and sleep the storm out. He gave me a peculiar smile.

“Thanks, Mother, I’ll do that,” he laughed, and squeezed his face until I heard the sound of a lip-puckered kiss come from beneath his mustache.

“Just be safe,” I added and jokingly wagged a finger in his direction as he left the diner.

When I peered through the door to watch Keep on Truckin´ navigate the snow on foot, it occurred to me just how bad this much snow could be. The street lights, as far into the distance as I could see, told the story of how fast the snow was falling. Looking into their radiant dome shapes, washes of heavy snow pelted down on the streets at an incredible pace. It wasn’t like the flurries that seemed to float and go nowhere. It was practically raining snow. The thought of being here all night, or a couple of days, crossed my mind again. Certainly the morning shift wouldn’t be digging themselves out in time to prep for the rush in the morning. And then I laughed… what rush? Nobody would be digging out of this snow for at least another day.

A dark figure of a man appeared in the snow. He approached the diner from the middle of the street. There were no plows, no cars. In fact, there was nothing at all. The black asphalt and parked cars and small lawns in front of the shops were all gone. Nothing was outside except a snow desert reflecting the orange-yellow glow of Philadelphia street lights. The desert was barren – empty, except for the figure of this one man.

When the figure walked into the light of a street lamp, I could see a heavy trench coat hung over his broad shoulders, and a gentleman’s hat, the kind I’d seen at church when I was younger. A fedora, I think it was called. Only, his was pitched down to hide his face. When he was almost directly under the street lamp, a halo of orange light encircled him. The snow reached half the distance to his knees. While the figure of the man was easy enough to see, his face remained a secret, hidden behind a shadow cast by the brim of his hat.

When his upturned face spied the diner, with me standing in the stoop, he stabbed at the air with a clumsy wave, and pushed forward through the near knee-high snow. I was content with the company we already had, minus Keep on Truckin´. I knew all the faces, and most of their names. If we were going to ride out this storm, drinking hot chocolate and watching Clark’s portable TV, then, selfishly, I was happy not to add any more.





As the man in the trench coat entered, he didn’t look up, or say hello. Instead, he made his way to an empty booth in the corner, and took a seat, coat and hat still on. It was Ms. Potts’ station, and she was already standing and picking a menu up from the counter.

More gray lights played back on the faces of the folks huddled around Clark’s TV. The weatherman was back at the map of Philadelphia, his arms motioning up and down and pointing out snow totals.

“Any change?” I asked, but knew that, even if the rest of the storm were suddenly cancelled, I’d still be happy with the amount of snow sitting outside.

“Nope – still calling for the same,” a voice began to say. And, after a short pause, they continued, “But there is a chance the storm will slow, and, if it does, then we could see up to thirty-two inches. Can you imagine? That’s almost three feet of snow,” they finished, excitement heightened to a near shrill.

Three feet, or almost three feet! I pitched my hand up against my thigh, trying to imagine just how much snow that would be. Without warning, the crash of a coffee pot against the floor exploded in a sound of spilling and tumbling glass. All the eyes in the diner found Ms. Potts. The man in the dark fedora was seated, his back against the wall, facing everyone. When the last piece of glass stopped bouncing, the weatherman’s voice was the only sound we heard. Ms. Potts stepped back from the corner booth. A piece of glass crunched beneath her shoe as she put a hand over her mouth.

“What you want?” she barked at him, “You ain’t said enough before? You ain’t got enough answers?” she began to push some of the glass on the floor with the tip of her shoe. Clark walked past me, a dustpan and broom in his hands. When he knelt to clean up the broken coffee pot, the man in the corner eased his hat off and placed it on the table. Clark stopped cleaning; he didn’t move.

“And who’s this?” the man asked as he tilted his chin in my direction. “She’s new here – and cute, too. Very cute. Haven’t seen her before. Of course, it’s only been a few years, hasn’t it, Ms. Potts? And how are we doing, Clark?” he finished in a rusty voice that sounded crippled from years of smoking. The diner stayed silent. Ms. Potts remained standing, while Clark singled out a larger piece of glass and picked it up. Clark’s eyes stayed on the man in the corner.

“Can I help you?” I blurted out, and then wished I hadn’t. Ms. Potts shook her head in a quiet scolding, and I knew that meant she wanted me to remain unheard. Stay, but say nothing.

“Ahhh,” the man coughed out, “chipper, aren’t you? And what is your name, deary?” he asked, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table. Nerves settled in, dousing the warm lift of excitement from the snow storm. Maybe it was the look on Ms. Potts’ face, or the way Clark took care in clearing the broken glass from the floor, slow and cautious. But what I think made me afraid more than anything, was seeing how my friends feared the man with the fedora.

He was an older man with nothing spectacular about him: he had white thinning hair combed straight back, with a receding widow’s peak above his forehead. The skin below the peak was deeply creased with thick lines that rested atop heavy eyebrows, which went wild in the corners. Deep cuts traveled away from his eyes, and moved down his cheeks to his jaw. I thought maybe there was a time he had dimples that girls liked, thinking they were cute, but they had been gone for some time.

As he picked up his hat and followed the brim of it with his fingers, I noticed large age spots on his hands. Some were browning, and others stood out almost as white as the snow outside. Dropping of glass pulled my eyes as I turned to Clark, who continued cleaning the floor. Clark kept his sights on the man. There was something else in the diner with us. I couldn’t see it or smell it like the snow before the storm began, but I could tell that it was tension and worry.

“Well?” the man growled sharply, and I jumped where I stood. “What is it?”

“What is what?” I asked, and thought my voice sounded tiny and child-like.

“Your name, deary? You see, I know Ms. Potts, here, and I know Clark. Heck, we’ve all known each other near twenty years. But, deary, I don’t know you, and I don’t know your name.” Twenty years, the man said. Twenty years. The scolding in Ms. Potts’ eyes had faded, as did her strong posture. She now stood with her shoulders slumped. This wasn’t my Ms. Potts. This wasn’t my Clark. This was a family that was alien and foreign to me. It scared me.

“I’m Gabby, sir. And can I fix you a cup of coffee, or get you a bite to eat?” As I finished offering one of my better waitressy deliveries, the man slapped the table and let out a boisterous laugh that ended in choked coughs. He cupped a hand over his mouth and hollowed out a year or more of sediment that had settled deep inside his lungs. Surely, I considered, this old broken man couldn’t be a threat to Ms. Potts, or Clark? The tension remained, but the edges were gripped by confusion. When his coughing fit was over, he let out one last guffaw, and pulled an envelope from inside his trench coat.

“Well, Miss Gabby, my name is Detective Ramiz. I’m one of Philadelphia’s finest – have been most of my adult life,” he began to say and, moved his eyes to stare at the envelope in his hands. His words went softer, as he continued, “That is nearly forty-years of my life. One job. One purpose,” he finished.

Ms. Potts motioned her eyes to me, and then to the coffee makers. The diner was silent again, with only the weatherman’s voice to fill the dead air. Nobody lifted a fork or spoon. Instead, they watched and listened as I approached the table. Turning over the mug in front of the detective, I poured for him a fresh cup of coffee. He gave me a smile, and I thought his eyes seemed warmer, more pleasant, now that I was closer to him.

“I’m glad we can be civil, Ms. Potts,” he exclaimed, lifted his cup, and motioned a gesture in her direction. He drank it black, no sugar, no cream, just black.

“What is it you want? Our business was over twenty years ago, and then fifteen years ago, and then again ten years ago,” Ms. Potts addressed him with a tone I’d heard only once or twice before when chasing out undesirables.

The detective held up the envelope in his hand. He waved it back and forth, and let out a forced sigh.

“You see this, here – these are my walking papers. Forced retirement. Full bennies and pension, and all that comes with getting old. I’m out, and…” he stopped and dropped his hand with the envelope on the table. Whatever the reason for the retirement, it wasn’t his decision. The detective took a sip of his coffee. When he was ready, he faced Ms. Potts.

“Almost two-hundred cases have come across my desk in my career. Do you know how many are left open?” he asked, then turned to Clark, and then to me, and back to Ms. Potts. “I know you know. Don’t you, Ms. Potts? How about you, Clark, I know you know, too. Why don’t you both tell Miss Gabby, here, how many cases I might be leaving open before they cart me off to rot in a retirement community, or old-folks home, or wherever it is they push out old dogs to die?” Ms. Potts and Clark passed words with their eyes, and then I saw Ms. Potts mouth the word ‘one’.

“What was that? Say it. I want to hear you say it!” the detective said, raising his voice.

“One, sir. It is one case,” Ms. Potts answered, her voice breathy and weak.

“YES, it is. One in my entire career, I’ve solved all but one case!” he bellowed loudly, as though preaching to a room of followers. “Well, how about that? But maybe I’m not done. Maybe Philadelphia’s finest is going to get a shock when I come in with my final one case solved!” he chortled, and then coughed up more sediment. He pulled in a mouthful of coffee and forced it down.

“Can’t you just let it go?” Ms. Potts began to ask, “Can’t you please let this thing go?” The detective dropped his coffee cup to the table, and grabbed his fedora. As he stood in front of me, he put himself back together with a practiced efficiency. Within seconds, the dark figure I’d first glimpsed under the street light was standing in front of us. He lifted his head to reveal his face, and answered.

“Because, Ms. Potts, you and Clark, your ex-con, there, are guilty of killing a man. Guilty of a murder. I know it in my heart. And you know it, too. I aim to finish this,” he said evenly, and made his way to the door. Murder? Ms. Potts and Clark? Ex-con? Who have I been working with for the last year? This had to be a mistake. There was no way!

When the bell above the door rang, tension spilled out of the diner like the snow falling to the ground, only to be replaced by a mountain of questions. But the detective didn’t leave, not at first, anyway. He closed the door briefly, and turned back to face us again.

“By the way, word on the street is that Angela’s Diner is for sale. There’s also word that there might be an interested buyer; very interested. And they have no plans on keeping your little diner – they’ll be tearing it down. And we all know what that means,” he finished. Then he opened the door to leave. Snow flew in high above him, and low around him. It spiraled in the air with a momentum carried by the winter wind pushing inside. When the door closed, the hovering snow fell to the floor, settling on Clark, who was shaking his head, and clearing the broken glass.

Ms. Potts approached the booth where the detective had sat. Her steps were slow, and seemed crippled. When she reached the booth, she clutched the table, and held herself up. She pushed on her glasses and gulped for air. She gave a worried look first to Clark, and then to me. I wanted to run to her. I wanted to take her hands and help her sit. I wanted to tell her it would be okay. But I didn’t. I didn’t do anything.

Later, when I’d finally rested my head on my pillow, I dreamed about the snow storm. But it wasn’t a happy dream. It wasn’t filled with the same excitement I’d felt earlier. Instead, I saw the deserted street in front of Angela’s Diner. A blinding rush of falling snow covered the cars and the lawns and the buildings. I saw the figure of a dark man wearing a fedora, standing directly under a street light. An orange-yellow glow surrounded him as he laughed a hideous sound. Ms. Potts’ body lay at his feet, motionless. A spread of blood grew and reddened the snow around her while the detective’s heinous laughter echoed like the rolling of distant thunder.