FRANZ KAFKA HATED HIS FATHER. And he had good reason to. Specifically, Franz could not forgive his father for insisting that his only child be named Franz. Franz understood that his father was very proud that he likely was related to the great writer whose surname he shared. However, with a name like Franz, Carl Kafka virtually guaranteed that his son would be beaten up every day of his life from kindergarten through high school. Fresno was not a hospitable place for a slender, overly intelligent, German-Mexican kid named Franz. Franz wondered why he couldn’t have been named after some relative on his mother’s side. The Gamboa family possessed many fine names from which to choose, such as Alfredo, Eloy, César, and even Kiko, although that last one was really a nickname. Sometimes, when he was nursing a black eye given to him by a bully, Franz would daydream about who he could have been. The possibilities made his young head swim in a giddy swirl. Can you imagine it? Kiko Kafka! Who in his right mind, even in Fresno, would mess with a boy named Kiko Kafka? But, alas, he was named Franz. And so it was: Franz hated his father.
The day Franz’s father died, Franz had made a vow never to speak to his father again. Enough is enough, he reasoned. If you hate someone, why waste time speaking with them? Unfortunately, Franz made the vow before he got the call that his father had died, and he felt a great pang of guilt. How could a son hate his dead father? It was not right.
So Franz drove up to Fresno from Los Angeles and made certain that Carl had a fine burial. With his mother long gone, Franz was now officially an orphan at the age of thirty-one.
“Good-bye, Papá,” said Franz as the coffin slowly creaked down into the fresh grave. “I didn’t mean to hate you.” The few people in attendance looked away, and the priest offered nothing more than a grunt.
As Franz started toward his car after the service, an old man stopped him, placing a large heavy hand carefully but insistently on Franz’s shoulder. “I knew your father well,” said the man.
“Who are you?” asked Franz.
The old man smiled. “Just a man,” he said. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
They stood there in silence. With each second that passed, Franz’s uneasiness grew. Who was this man? Franz felt as though his head might explode. “Well,” Franz finally said. “Thank you for coming. I’m sure my father would have been happy you made the effort.”
The man let go of Franz’s shoulder. “I doubt it,” he said with a chuckle.
With that, the man turned and walked off. Franz noticed that the man was almost a giant, certainly seven feet tall if he were an inch. Franz let out a sigh and continued toward his car. Why would a sardonic giant be attending his father’s funeral? And why had Franz bothered to show up? What possible benefit could be derived from his presence at the funeral of the only man he hated? Nothing good could come of this.
There was only one solution. Franz needed to find a Starbucks. Since moving to Los Angeles ten years ago, he had become addicted to the brilliant concoction known as the Iced Caramel Macchiato. It was his only addiction and he fed it liberally. Franz wondered if Starbucks had made any inroads into Fresno. He then laughed because to ask such a question was to admit to a great ignorance as to how the world worked. Franz drove into the nearest gas station and, after filling up his Ford Taurus, he asked the attendant for directions to the nearest Starbucks.
“On Cedar,” the man said brusquely. “Just south of Shepherd Avenue.” He pointed with his right thumb over his left shoulder.
“Thank you,” said Franz.
“Okay,” said the man.
As Franz was about to get into his car, he suddenly froze. On the outside of the driver’s side window crawled a plump, gigantic cockroach. For obvious reasons, Franz had developed an aversion to all vermin, in particular cockroaches. His shiver was so deep it went down below his heart. Franz took a tremulous breath, averted his eyes, and got himself into the car. Once safely inside, he looked for the cockroach, but it had disappeared. And for reasons he could not fathom, Franz at that moment missed that cockroach more than his father. He sighed. He needed an Iced Caramel Macchiato now more than ever. Franz imagined the gas station attendant’s thumb pointing toward Cedar and aimed his car in that direction.
The moment Franz entered the Starbucks, his heartbeat and breathing slowed, his brow unknitted, his hands unclenched. Ah! Starbucks. He stood without moving, absorbing the calm, the familiar coffee smells and sounds. Franz looked around his second home. A few young, beautiful people chatted in one corner; two old men played chess over by the wall; a mother and her two children laughed and joked over their frothy drinks. What a perfect place. Franz walked to the counter—and there stood the most magnificent example of young womanhood he had ever seen. Her name tag said MARÍA and she did indeed look like the Madonna, the Virgin, La Virgén de Guadalupe, with long black hair spilling out from under a perfect Starbucks cap.
“May I help you?” she smiled.
Franz had never seen such a beautiful smile. His hands shook and his tongue had trouble finding the right position to put itself to form a word.
“Sir?” she asked, still giving him the most exquisite smile Franz had ever witnessed. The young woman’s eyes then brightened with an idea. She offered: “¿Puedo ayudar usted, señor?”
Oh, God bless her, thought Franz. She thinks I speak only Spanish. What a wonderful, thoughtful, empathetic creature she is! He noticed that she did not wear a wedding band and wondered how such a perfect woman could still be unmarried, even taking into account her obvious youth. Fresno men just don’t get it, he figured. They just don’t know how lucky they are to have such a perfect woman in their midst.
“Sorry,” said Franz, trying his best to offer a smile that expressed the joy that filled his heart at that moment. Instead he merely confused the young woman.
“Why are you sorry?” she asked.
Franz coughed and felt the beginnings of flop sweat on his upper lip, the kind that would have made Richard Nixon proud. “Iced Caramel Macchiato, please,” was all he could get out.
The young woman nodded. “Size?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Sorry.”
She stood there offering nothing but a gentle look of understanding. She certainly had seen all kinds.
“Grande,” said Franz thinking that he should pace himself and not order a larger size cup.
The young woman keyed it into the cash register with a few beeps and grabbed a cup from the counter. “Name?”
This was the only part of the Starbucks experience Franz hated. Because he had ordered a bar drink, the young woman would have to write his name on the cup and hand it to the barista, who would then make the drink and, when finished, call out the name printed on the cup. Inevitably, Franz would be misspelled as Frank and it was just too much trouble to offer a correction.
“Frank,” said Franz.
The young woman nodded, smiled, and printed “Frank” on the cup before handing it to the tall earringed young man who worked the bar. The barista annoyed Franz, though he wasn’t quite certain why. After paying, he waited by the bar to observe how his drink was being put together. This seemed to bother the young man, or at least that’s what Franz surmised. He wondered if this poor excuse for masculinity was sleeping with the young woman.
Such thoughts made Franz feel a bit ill, so he shook his head and tried to think of happy things. But he couldn’t think of any happy things. His mind kept falling back to the dream he’d had last night as he slept in his old room, his family’s house quiet except for Franz’s breathing. In the dream Franz admired a beautiful black fish swimming in a small round bowl that sat on the kitchen counter in his parents’ house. Oh, what an elegant fish it was! It swam slowly, regally, showing off its almost translucent flowing fins. But then Franz noticed that the water was growing dirty. And soon the fish was swimming in muck, gasping for oxygen. He quickly poured some of the water out of the bowl and refilled it. But the water grew dirty again, and although Franz changed it numerous times, each time the water turned back into a noxious brew. Suddenly Franz’s long-deceased black cat, who was named Blue, leapt from seemingly nowhere and snatched the fish with a lightning quick paw. Before Franz could do anything, Blue gulped down the fish whole. Franz shook a finger at Blue and said, “Blue, give me back the fish.” Blue did what cats do so well: he smiled but did not obey. After a few more scoldings from Franz, Blue leaned back upon his spine and made a loud mewing sound. Franz looked closely at Blue’s hind legs, which were spread wide open. With another mew, Blue quickly gave birth to the fish. Franz should have been a bit surprised because Blue was a male. But no matter. Franz said, “Thank you, Blue,” and put the fish back in the bowl. The fish happily swam about, and the water looked cleaner than it had before. Franz then woke.
Franz wished he knew what the dream meant. His mother had been an expert dream interpreter. She had inherited the skill, she always said, from her grandmother, who was a famous curandera from Las Vegas. But his mother was dead. So all Franz could do was be haunted by his dream’s disturbing images.
Suddenly the young man behind the bar yelled, “Iced Caramel Macchiato for Frank!” although Franz was the only person waiting so there was no reason to yell. Franz reached for his drink, nodding his thanks. The young man’s face broke into a smile that was nothing short of angelic. With a few movements of a facial muscle here, another there, this dreary, bored-to-tears teenage boy became a seraph, an exquisite celestial spirit. Franz smiled back. How could he not? Franz took a sip while keeping his eyes locked on the barista. Perfect! He had never tasted a better Iced Caramel Macchiato.
“Thank you,” said Franz.
“You’re very welcome, Frank,” said the young man, still looking like an angel.
Franz nodded and started to walk away.
“It’s funny,” said the young man.
Franz stopped and looked back. “What?”
“Your name.”
Franz now offered a laugh. “What’s funny about ‘Frank’?”
“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant.” The young man wiped his brow with the back of his hand before continuing. “Not the name. It’s just kind of funny because it’s almost my name.”
“Almost?”
The young man pointed to his name tag. Franz squinted to read the letters. When he registered exactly what it read, his mouth opened slightly, making a small smacking sound. The name tag said FRANZ. Franz Kafka blinked once, and then again. He could feel his heart beating hard within his chest. Franz moved one foot, and then the other. He turned quickly from the bar, accelerating further as he passed the young woman at the cash register. The young woman said, “Bye!” but Franz didn’t acknowledge her. He opened the glass door and the midday Fresno sun quickly counteracted the Starbucks air-conditioning. Franz found his car, got in, placed his Iced Caramel Macchiato in the cup holder, and started the engine with a vroom.
As he eased his car out of the parking lot, Franz thought about his father, who now lay in a box under fresh, wet dirt. And he knew then that he could not hate Carl Kafka even if he tried. He breathed deeply and tried to impose calm upon himself. After a few minutes, Franz took a sip of his drink and savored the coolness within his mouth. It was without question the best Iced Caramel Macchiato he had ever tasted.