The coffeehouse was on a corner in Carytown, a quaint and quirky shopping district with buckling brick sidewalks. There’s a record store, used book store, and second-run movie theater sprinkled in between boutiques with vowel-heavy names like Lulabella, that are meant for fancy southern white ladies to say. It’s the neighborhood that you show out-of-towners so they don’t think the whole city is a dump.
In true Richmond style, Carytown is a one-way street. It runs east from Windsor Farms, a rich neighborhood with fake gas lamps instead of streetlights, where you’d better have a plunger or an apron if you’re not white. Then it ends just south of the Fan, in the hood by the precinct and bus depot. Also in true Richmond style, this change from old money to no money happens in just over a mile.
My job sat smack in the middle. It was a dusty coffee shop with funky woodwork throughout, dim lighting, and coffee grounds embedded in the linoleum floor. You could get a big cup of strong coffee or some fancy double-mocha-half-caf-skim creation there. It was just right.
Aside from free espresso, I wanted a dramatic scene to play out with Mona when I walked in. Maybe she’d abandon the line and bust out from behind the counter to hug me. Maybe she’d realize something was wrong and tease out the news that I’d been oppressed by the pigs. I’d even settle for a knowing look, held just long enough as she stirred a mocha. Or a quick hello on some “We’re so close that I don’t even have to act polite” type stuff. Anything to prove that we’d only hit pause after the night before.
Instead, I found Russell dead on his feet at the register, a comet trail of dried drool on his cheek, pop punk whining quietly on the house stereo.
I waited by the milk bar while Russell rang out one of the blondes from the hair salon down the block, wondering where Mona was and if Mason had already blown up my spot about the drunk tank.
The hairdresser opened her can of diet soda then sang out a goodbye. Russell gave her a dazed smile then beckoned me over. “Hey, uhh.”
His stubble was beginning to soften.
“Thought you were off today,” I said.
Part of my plan was seeing if he wanted to meet up for breakfast, so I could tell someone about last night, then maybe move toward a nap before our show.
“I got called in,” he said, with a sense of purpose. “Mona’s in the hospital.”
“What?” I said. “What happened?”
Did she get sick from the sushi?
He sighed. “I guess, she was in bed and a burglar attacked her.” He caught my eye. “Like, tried to rape her. But didn’t. But they like got in a fight and he stabbed her.”
“Come on, dude,” I said. “That’s not funny.”
I was almost impressed that he’d think of a joke that messed up, and started looking through the open doorway to the kitchen, expecting Mona to walk out and wave.
“Come on, yourself,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.” He wiped his hands down his apron until gravity took over and they fell to his sides.
When he said “come on, yourself” and didn’t laugh at the innuendo, I knew he wasn’t playing. I gripped the edge of the counter and asked, “She’s gonna be OK?”
“Yeah.” Russell nodded, then looked over my shoulder. While he pumped a coffee for the tired-eyed suit from the real estate office next door, I tried to understand how something so random and terrible could happen, and trees wouldn’t turn oily black, cars wouldn’t explode, the world wouldn’t stop.
I stepped aside again as the suit turned toward the milk bar. Russell said, “She called in from the hospital at like four.”
Mona is the type of person who’d call in from the hospital. That’s not the type of person who you picture something like this happening to.
“Shit.”
What else can you say to that? I tried it again a little louder, “Shit,” wishing I could go right into a loud, dramatic reaction. I just felt confused.
Russell and I looked away from each other for a second. The door closed behind the real estate guy.
“You’re up early,” Russell said. “Or still up?” He watched me, waiting for the rundown of last night.
“Early,” I lied. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Wish they’d called you in,” he said, and my fear flashed, Don’t let him try and guilt me into taking over his shift.
“Maybe next time,” I said.
The prep fridge’s metallic hum switched on while Russell screwed up his face and said, “Hopefully there isn’t a next time, dude. Come on.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Sorry. I’m so damn tired. So—”
“You were over there last night,” he said, still watching me.
“Yeah, but I cut out around ten,” I said. “I sure didn’t see anything.”
Had the burglar been watching and seen me leave? Would I have helped if I’d stayed over? Somewhere, Lucius was going, “See, you let all that out about feeling like a white boy and that kept you from being there to save the girl.” Where the hell was Lucius, anyway?
“Mind if I grab a drink?” I asked.
Russell shook his head and waved the back of his hand at the kingdom behind him.
I pulled an espresso into the biggest to-go cup, then topped it off with dark roast. Mona had touched that espresso machine. Mona had touched that coffee pot. Mona had stacked those brown paper cups on the counter last night. Someone had tried to rape Mona.
“Ready for the show tonight?” Russell asked.
I thought, No, then said, “Jackson Ward, right? With those idiots from North Carolina?”
Russell looked at me sideways. “With Dog Day Afternoon. They’re from Gainesville.”
“Ahh.”
“Were you talking about Kill All Their Infernal Soldiers?” he asked. “They the idiots?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, did a half-smile. “Who else?”
“Well, they’re coming here in a week or so,” Russell said. “Tonight’s different. But maybe we can sing some karaoke after.”
I laughed, dislodging some phlegm. “My amp’s still in the van.”
I felt as stunned as Russell looked, and lurched like a sleep-deprived mummy, getting a wet nose from sipping coffee backwards. I wanted to do something. There was nothing I could do. I lifted my coffee in a grim cheers to Laptop then dragged myself home, the new sun strange and sinister.