THREE

I spent most of the day at Vienna Place. Since I arrived early the place was empty aside from the two or three people working the early morning shift. The young waitress was there again, barely looking up from her copy of Cosmopolitan as I walked in and sat in a booth near the back. Instead, an older male waiter wearing a shabby blue button-down and a spotted bow tie came over with a menu, which I declined to take.

“Just a cup of coffee and a poppy seed bagel, toasted with cream cheese.” He blinked absently for a moment and went away with a small nod. A few seconds later he returned with a coffee pot and a mug, which he set on the table.

“Thanks,” I said with gratification. He nodded again in reply and made no attempt to suppress a yawn as he went behind the counter to fetch my bagel. I dug into it hungrily at first, eventually leaving it for awhile in favor of my coffee.

On the way I had stopped to pick up a copy of the Verdant Dialectic, the local newspaper. Something to read while enjoying my morning cup of coffee, something else to help me procrastinate before returning home to work for another few hours. Nothing all that different ever seemed to happen in town; most articles were about world news or entertainment or sports – the Rangers losing to the Flyers, 5-2 – or the same syndicated comics like Garfield and old reprints of Peanuts. On the rare chance something major happened in town, the story would make the front page in big, bold letters. Events like Omni Systems giving a large donation to the local high school, or something like that. Publicity stunts in other words.

The bell over the entrance rang loudly. The young waitress dropped her magazine on the counter and sprung to life as the old writer I had seen a few days ago walked in, black notebook in hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Jones,” the young waitress said excitedly, her face suddenly youthful and bright.

“Mornin’, Julie. The usual, and keep the black stuff comin’. Oh,” he paused and looked right at me. I lowered my head and took a long sip of coffee. “Seems like someone beat me to my usual spot.” He spoke like someone from the south, almost comically stereotypical for an old man.

“I could ask her to move if you’d like,” said the young waitress in a low voice, trying to keep me from hearing. While her tone was cheery, the way she spoke was somehow spiteful, annoyed.

“No, no. No need to cause a stir.” Mr. Jones chuckled audibly in a very ‘kindly old man’ sort of way, like Ian McKellen playing Gandalf. As I pretended to read an article about the BART expansions to Marin I could hear him make his way over and sit down in the seat opposite me. I looked up to see him smiling, hands clasped together on the table next to his notebook. His forehead and eyes were heavy with wrinkles, but the rest of his face was mostly hidden by his snow white hair and beard, both of which were neatly trimmed with an air of sophistication. “You look like an agreeable young woman, if you don’t my sayin’ so. Would it be alright if I park here to write? I like this spot best.”

I returned his smile slightly and replied, “Fine with me.”

“Very good,” he said with that Gandalf chuckle. The young waitress came over with an empty mug and a coffee pot which was set next to mine. She flashed me a dirty look that disappeared just as quickly as it had manifested.

“I’ll be back when your order’s ready,” she said to Mr. Jones, with that girlishly perky voice.

“No hurries, dear. Oh, and grab me this young lady’s check. I’ll take care of it.”

“No,” I interjected. “It’s fine. You don’t have to—”

“Now, now,” he calmly interrupted, waving a hand in my direction. “It’s already an inconvenience for you to have an old timer such as myself being seated at your table, ‘specially when there are plenty of other empty seats to choose from. And, to negate said inconvenience I will pay for your meager meal, which, by the way, is quite insufficient to sustain a lady as well-kept as yourself.

“Julie,” he motioned to the young waitress. “Bring the young lady a fruit salad with some yogurt and a glass of orange juice.”

“But—”, I started, but again was waved down by the old man.

“Need I go through that monologue again, my dear?” I sighed, defeated, and smiled at him awkwardly while the young waitress wrote the order down before finally heading back towards the kitchen.

“So tell me,” he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Picking up the mug with one hand the old writer shook it gently, swirling the black liquid around in slow, soft circles. After conducting this ritual for thirty-or-so seconds he raised the mug to his lips and took a long, quiet sip. “I’ve seen you around the Place the last few weeks. What’s your name?”

“Robyn,” I replied. “Robyn Ferrelli.”

He nodded, pondering a moment. “Italian descent, obviously. You look like you’ve got a touch of Irish in you. I’m guessing your mama?”

“Spot on. You’re pretty good at that, Mr. Jones.” And he really had hit the mark. My father had come to the United States in the 1960s and met my mother, a third-generation Irish-American, shortly after.

“When you’ve been ‘round as much as I have you pick up a few things, Ms. Ferrelli.” He took another long sip of coffee. I did the same, polishing off my bagel afterward.

“I also see you’re a tad familiar with my name,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. I’m a friend of Van’s. He told me a bit about you, sort of.”

“Arvandor?” He asked, somewhat surprised. I nodded, which seemed to disappoint him for some reason as he replied with a solemn sounding, “Ah.” He opened his notebook and commenced writing, saying no more. I shrugged to myself wondering what I said to make him react so indifferent. Something about Van?

We sat in silence. He wrote at a rapid pace, barely taking his pen off the page with the exception of pauses during his he drank his coffee, which he consumed at an equally rapid pace. I tried to go back to my paper but there was nothing of interest to read, so I turned to the daily sudoku puzzle to kill some time. It was more difficult than usual, if anything because it was hard to keep track of so many numbers without a pen to write them down.

Before long the young waitress returned, setting a glass of orange juice and a bowl of mixed fruit and plain yogurt in front of me while handing the old writer a plate of scrambled eggs and three slices of moderately darkened toast. Then she replaced his empty coffee pot with a fresh one.

“Will that be all?” she asked, trying to sound as perky and cheerful as she did earlier.

“Yes, thank you, Julie. That’ll suffice for now,” the old writer replied, smiling up at her and closing his notebook.

“Let me know if there’s anything else you need, Mr. Jones.” The young waitress returned the smile, showing off her straight and painfully obvious artificially whitened teeth before heading off to wait on other customers. She hadn’t even bothered to look at me the whole time.

The old writer picked up a fork and piled a small mound of eggs onto his toast before taking a loud, crunchy bite out of it. He smiled, releasing a small sound at the back of his throat. The process was repeated until the plate was empty. Watching him was almost surreal, like watching a movie in slow motion.

“Are you familiar with the writer Raymond Chandler?” he asked all of a sudden, just as I popped a blueberry into my mouth. His previous, outgoing demure seemed to have returned.

I nodded. “I took a class on crime fiction in college. We mostly read novels from Hammett and Spillane and Agatha Christie, but we read some of Chandler’s short stories. Really gritty stuff.”

“Yes, I’d have to agree.” He smiled yet again. “You see, I ask because I’m a bit of a crime enthusiast myself. Not a criminal, of course, but a bit of an observer from afar. Personally, I find it an interesting topic.”

I motioned to the closed black notebook and asked the obvious question: “Are you working on a crime novel?”

“A crime novel, yes. These days all I seem to do is write.” He chuckled in that Ian McKellen way again.

“Are you published?”

At that he stirred in his seat. “Well, let’s just say that you won’t find any books by Thomas Jones in the mystery section at Borders.” The name certainly didn’t ring a bell, but I made a mental note to take a look next time, just in case. He seemed honest enough, but I got the impression the old writer wasn’t completely there.

We made conversation as I slowly picked through my small meal, chatting about literature and art, New York, a bit of political debate, and life in the small town we now found ourselves living in. Our talk wasn’t entirely disagreeable.

At last I stood up to leave. “Thanks for the breakfast, Mr. Jones. It was nice talking to you.”

“Here,” he replied, rummaging through his pocket and handing me what appeared to be a business card with a name and phone number on it. “If you have any interesting ideas for a story, don’t hesitate.”

I pocketed the card and put on a humoring smile. “Sure, I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

“I’ll be expecting a call from ‘ya in the future, Ms. Ferrelli. Set my watch and warrant on it.” He raised his seventh cup of coffee and took another long sip. It was unreal how much he could consume in such a short amount of time, and without getting up to go to the restroom even once. Coffee always made me a little … well, you know.

As I headed towards the exit I paused and looked back at the old writer, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. He looked questionably as I asked, “Does the coffee here taste any different to you lately?”

He pondered for a short time, peering down at his mug before smiling up at me and shaking his head. “Can’t say I’ve noticed. It’s still the best cup in town.” I returned the smile and added a final wave as I left.