Russell and I nicknamed all of the coffee shop regulars. Most are named after their orders. For example, Russell had a crush on Skim Milk, a shy blond yuppie who looked great in pink. Small Coffee tipped his one-cent change. Soy Latte left his drink on the milk bar while he blew up the bathroom. Ham was in an ad for the Japanese steakhouse where they cooked at your table. Tea with Lemon was a guitar teacher with a million classic rock T-shirts. Laptop didn’t drink her computer, but you get the idea.
“Here comes Three-Piece Tarik!”
Mona’d been getting in on the game. The man himself was gliding across the patio like butter on a hot pan. Tarik was too mysterious to have a regular order, so he was named after the fancy men’s clothing store he owned. He was one of our few black customers. I watched him closely for pointers, wishing my closet full of thrift store western shirts and tight jeans would transform into the type of clothes he wore: linen pants, and blazers for all weather. Wishing I wasn’t wound so tight and could convey that much feeling with a nod and a “My brother” like he gave me at the counter, hand outstretched for a fist-squeeze handshake.
I lit up a little bit when he called me “brother.” I’ve even caught Lucius adding a Three-Piece Tarik–ish roll to his walk, moving like a funky Rube Goldberg device, his center driving forward with purpose, each limb playing a different drum.
He greeted Mona with another nod and an approving, friendly grumble, more sound than word.
She said “Hey” back.
I took up space between the counter and espresso machine, wanting to listen, wanting to join in.
“Coffee today?” I asked, then worried he’d think I was trying to rush him out.
“Yeah,” he said slowly, with the nod to match it.
I cut behind Mona and poured light roast into a blue mug that set off Tarik’s pink oxford shirt. Mona’s rootsy soul CD ended and some slick mall punk came on, that Russell and I played at work because it didn’t have screaming. I cringed at the dentist’s drill guitar and the singer’s first nasal note as I sat the coffee on the counter.
Tarik had a way of looking surprised, where he slowly drew up to full height and gazed in silence for a moment before exhaling and sinking back into his catlike hunch. He did that at the musical transition then told Mona, “Hey, I tried that sushi place.”
“Oh, did you like it?” Mona rang in the coffee with her left hand.
“Yeah,” Tarik said. “Especially the California roll.”
Being around him, I felt blacker by proximity, until I thought about it too hard and wondered at weird, small stuff, like what he ate for breakfast and if I had the same English muffins, would it make me blacker?
“What’s in a California roll?” I asked, thinking of the huge burritos Paper Fire ate on tour in San Francisco.
“You never had one?” Mona asked. “It’s got avocados in it. It’s a good one to start with.”
“Oh, OK.” I nodded, a little embarrassed, and retreated to the kitchen, where I went back to scooping cream cheese into little plastic cups, a task that always ends with sticky hands. Not eating sushi would’ve earned me black points from Lucius, but it set me apart from Mona and Tarik.
It was the tail end of the shift, quiet before lunch. Coffee beans were portioned and ground. I was staring into the middle distance above the patio, seeing a whole lotta nothing, dreaming up black people coffee drinks that’d get me back into Lucius’s good graces. Cognac mocha. Blacker’n a mug coffee. Sweet tea latte. There was a coconut shampoo smell and a smack on my upper arm. Mona. Perfectly familiar.
“Hey.” She put an elbow on the counter and shook her head. “You’ve really never had sushi?”
I smiled, sheepish, and said, “Yeah.”
We had a lot of chicken and mac ’n’ cheese growing up. Chinese takeout was as foreign as we got.
“Well, look,” Mona said. “We’ve got some nori at my place. You wanna come by? I could make some tonight.”
Oh snap. Oh snap. Oh snap.
“Yeah. Yeah.” I nodded. Then kept nodding. Then felt stupid and stopped. “What time you thinking?”
“Say seven?”
I’ll always remember the way she flicked her wrist and spread the fingers on her left hand, as if she were waving the seven into the air, so everyone could see we were about to hang out.
“Seven’s cool.” I didn’t nod this time. “What’s nori, anyway?”