“Hey, how much for coffee?” skinny Santa Claus asks me on some other night, somewhere in the hours between midnight and eight.
“It’s 75¢ for a cup.”
“No, not a cup… just the coffee. How much for just the coffee?”
“Huh?”
He raises a crushed and stained Styrofoam vessel. “I found this cup, so I don’t need one. I just want the coffee. How much?”
“We only keep track of the cups, so there’s no way for me to charge you. Help yourself.”
“Really?”
“Why not.”
“Thanks, man. My name’s Pete.” He reaches across the counter with the filthiest hand I’ve ever seen in my life, worse than my own when I spent a summer pulling lobsters out of the water, and another washing a tourist trap’s dishes, watery jobs that both somehow managed to make my hands dirty. I put down the Help Wanted page of the paper so we can shake.
“Nice to meet you, Pete.”
“You’re better than that bitch here all day. What a bitch,” he says over his shoulder, pouring coffee from the pot on the Bunn-O-Matic.
“Gloria? With the bald spot? She’s my boss.”
“She’s a bitch. Why’re you working for her?”
“I need a job.”
“Bullshit. You gotta be your own man, man. Where do you keep the cream?”