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"Hummingbird cake," he said.
I shook my head. "'I've never heard of it, Matthew. What is it?"
"It's a banana-pineapple cake. It's like banana bread but with frosting. And pineapple."
"Sounds tasty," I said.
"Have you ever tried it?" Matthew asked.
I shook my head again. "No, I haven't heard of it, remember? I've never tried it."
"But you might have tried it," Matthew said. "You might have tried it but just don't remember. Or you just don't know. You might have tried it."
"I might have," I nodded, trying to be nice.
"Did you like it?"
I fought the urge to sigh. "If I tried it, I'm sure I liked it."
This conversation had gone on a lot longer than I had anticipated. When I had walked in, Matthew was the first person I saw. He was a heavyset man in his thirties, sitting at one of the largest tables in the place. He had a cup of coffee and a newspaper—an actual, honest-to-God newspaper—and his expression was a little sour looking. I pre-judged him, I'll admit. I thought he was some angry local with small-town shackles. I thought he was the kind of guy who had wanted to leave here years ago, but found himself sitting at this table with a newspaper instead of ... well, it was hard to say what Matthew would be doing, if he weren't here.
I learned Matthew's name when another patron—another local—had come in for his coffee. "Heya Matthew, whatcha know?"
"Jesus is Lord," Matthew had said. And the other man had said "amen" before grabbing his to-go cup and moving away quickly.
I'm not an overly religious man. I believe in God, but I don't spend much time talking about him with strangers. Mostly I don't think about him much. So hearing him come up in casual conversation felt a little uncomfortable to me. And it was the first hint I had that Matthew wasn't feeling small-town-shackled after all. Matthew was what my grandpa would have called "simple," back in a less PC time, before we lost the ability to describe anyone with any word or phrase without offending everyone else around us. Me, I liked "simple." It said more about Matthew's life than it did about his mental illness, in my mind.
"Hummingbird bread is hard to make," Matthew said, and I nodded. He started describing the entire process to me, from ingredients to station prep to baking.
I listened. I nodded. I sipped my Americano, which was growing colder. I'd need a refill soon.
I had come in this coffee shop because it was exactly the kind of place I always look for on these trips. It faced Main Street, and it had big windows that could slide open and let in the fresh air from outside. You could sit and stare at the life passing by, going in and out of that large, square frame, like watching the world's biggest television.
I had work to do—a report to write that would set all the gears to moving. This place would be perfect. It had everything my employers needed, all within a few miles of the prospective site. The whole operation could be set up over the course of maybe six months. Within the year, this little dot of a town could be home base for the biggest battery maker in North America. And with everyone "going green," the battery business was about to boom. This town was going to see a lot of money soon.
If I could ever get around to writing the report.
Matthew had moved on from hummingbird cake to cars. "That's a 1974 International Harvester Scout II XLC," he said, rattling off the make and model with such proficiency I did a double take. "It's a rear wheel drive with a manual 3-speed gearbox."
"You're into cars?" I asked.
He nodded but without pausing he said, "It has a top speed of 84 miles per hour."
"Not that fast then," I said, smiling.
"The highest speed limit in the county is 70 miles per hour, so it's plenty fast," Matthew said.
I nodded, unable to fault that logic. "You know, my company is about to build something that will change everything about cars, houses, businesses—have you ever seen an electric car?"
"Tesla Roadster," Matthew said. "I saw one at the car show back in June. It was red. It has a top speed of 125 miles per hour."
I smiled. "Tesla started it all," I agreed. "And now other manufacturers are starting to get on board. And they need batteries for all those electric motors. My company makes a battery that charges in just a few minutes and can run for hours. We're planning to build a factory here."
Matthew sipped his coffee and suddenly picked up his newspaper and started reading as if I wasn't there.
I blinked.
"Is that boring?"
"It's almost 9:30. I have to finish reading and meet my parents at the donation center at 10 o'clock. I have to get my last coffee of the morning."
He got up and went to the counter to ask for a fresh cup, and I finally found myself sitting in a quiet space, without interruption. This was what I had hoped for over the past hour—a bit of peace so I could finish my work. Matthew had struck up a conversation with me out of the blue, and I'd felt it would be too rude to ignore him. And now, once the conversation had come around a topic I could warm to, he suddenly needed his last cup of coffee before hitting the road?
Matthew came back to the table, which was just to my left. I had turned to face him as it had become obvious that he was going to keep talking to me. I had leaned back against the wall with the large, open window to my right, and I had listened to Matthew prattle on about hummingbird cake and the weather and whatever else was on his mind. Now, as he pulled on his coat and wool cap—both of which seemed unnecessary on this spring-like day—he didn't so much as say goodbye as he walked out of the coffee shop, crossed Main Street, and disappeared around the corner of the building across the way.
He left his newspaper sitting in a disheveled pile, spread across the large table.
I shook my head, laughed a little, and turned back to write my report.