Another Jewel in the Crown!

If I had any sense, I’d sold this business years ago.

Sylvia, is steaming Andrew’s Chai tea, and doesn’t hear me come in. Her NASCAR teased, brownish hair, carefully applied make-up, youthful tight jeans and tank top make us look more like a Mother/Daughter barista team, than sisters. Her college aged son, Maxwell, snoozing soundly on the couch before his morning shift, doesn’t hear me either.

Our regulars fill every table, fulfilling their daily roles.

“Maxwell, your Aunt Donna is here,” whispers Andrew’s wife, Tina, “she needs some help with the groceries.”

Max, looking like every waking, pubescent mammal, stretches his four extremities, rubs the confusion out of his eyes, scratches at his scalp, and falls back into the fetal position on the couch.

“I hope nobody orders KWAS-USNCTS today,” I enunciate, three gallons of whole milk, dangling from my hands. “Because I didn’t pick any up at SAMS this morning, because I don’t know what the heck they are.

“MAXWELL!” I bark, “Wake-up and help get the stuff outa my car.”

“I need a nine letter word for good scents? It ends with an ‘i’,” calls Fran from the front table, munching a biscotti, and doing the morning crossword puzzle with Harry.

“How many letters?” I ask. “Guess what, I’ll make it interesting for everyone…if you get the word correct…you win half ownership n a coffeehouse!”

“I’m not guessing then,” Andrew says, playing along with my weekly threat to sell, give away, close, or raffle off Ashley’s, my coffee shop.

“Come on Drew, you’d be perfect. Get rid of your suit n’ tie and Blackberry vibrating across the table. You know you’d love to kick the habit of running a Catholic Children’s Hospital. You’re the perfect owner. You’ve worked with Nuns for years; we’re sisters too, just of the non-celibate variety.”

“Speak for yourself Sista,” Sylvia quips, “My workaholic hubby hasn’t earned a paycheck in two years, so his bed is now a Jeff Gordon sleeping bag, on the floor of den….with no pit stops in my room.”

“How is scents spelled? Is it money kind, the smarts kind, or the stinky kind,” Tina asks, kissing her sweet hubby goodbye and reminding him to pay for her skinny latte.”Have a good Board Meeting. I’m going jogging then off to volunteer at school.”

“Donna, “Andrew calls from the doorway, “The bicycle guy with the bucket is still out here. He’s probably harmless, just…you know special, like the rest of us. All jewels in your family crown.””

“Oh, God,” I whine, pointing at the car pulling in, “and speaking of family jewels, here comes Robert and if he brings up his hernia malpractice suit and missing testicle I’m going to knock the other one off. Bye Andrew, have a great day!”

“MAXWELL, look at this list and tell me what this scribbled ‘kwasunscts’ is,” I insist, “then please go stock the paper goods.”

Max grabs the list from my waving hand, “Kwasuncts, kwasuncts….you know… the curvy bread things we toast and serve with jelly. KWASUNSCTS!

“Croissants Max? C-R-O-I-S-S-A-N-T-S?” I spell incredulously, “Honor Student Max? Really? You’re killin me Maxwell…K-I-L-L-I-N M-E! Sylvia, why is he making the list anyway?”

Sylvia can’t defend her firstborn’s bona fides, because she’s busy greeting our newest coffeehouse client; the disheveled, little man with the bike, now peeking his head in the door.

“Come on in. I’m Sylvia. Welcome to our family owned coffee shop. Can I get ya something?”

How uncomfortable he must feel. Six tables of staring strangers. What a brave soul.

“Um um I’m looking for work I wanna wash your windows once a week I’ve got the bucket and paper towels I won’t even come inside to get my pay if you want I do really good work I’m not late I won’t bother anybody or ask for nothing from nobody I give you my word…OK?” he recites in an oath- like, run-on sentence.

“Well,” Sylvia responds from behind the counter, pointing at me, on one knee, rearranging the milk jugs in the fridge, “my sister, Donna, really owns the shop so it’s up to her.”

“Thanks, Sista,” I mumble, standing now, and hiding behind her fluffy hairdo.

Before I could reach out to this awkward character, Robert throws open the door, shades slamming against the glass, Harry and Fran looking up from their crossword work, “Hey!” Robert screams, “You’re not going to believe this! My own uncle is going to testify against me!! He says I killed my own testicle by keeping the bandage on too tight and raking the yard too soon after surgery. He’s crazy! The hospital put the bandage on and the only reason I raked the yard was because my wife was bitching about the dog tracking leaves into the house. You know how Bridget gets when she’s pissed? She’s got borderline personality disorder and she’ll scream at me. So what do get? A shriveled-up testicle! Now I’m only half a real man? Right Max?”

“No Rob, you’re not half a real-man…you're still cool…and it sounds like you weren’t using that one anyway, “Maxwell slips in while stacking napkins.

“Nice Max, “Robert grimaces, “way to bust my balls.”

“Ball?” Max replies, awaiting the roar of the crowd.

“Maxwell! Hush!” I chide,” That’s not nice. It may be true, but it’s not nice. Go make Robert his double espresso and start a new SAMS list with croissants, at the top, spelled correctly.”

I walk outside and the Window Washer Man follows. We agree to his humble salary: five one dollar bills, a sandwich, fruit, and two cookies. Gently, I shake his hand, and he shuffles down the sidewalk to fill his yellow bucket up in the building faucet and get started.

“Is that weird guy OK?” Robert asks, chugging his morning espresso, as I return inside.

“He wondered the same damn thing about you!” I snap, “And no more testicle discussions, please, you’re making ME nuts!”

“So?” Sylvia asks, “Are you going to let him do the windows? We’ll all take turns paying him if that helps.”

I scan each table, face-by-face, all displaying the same pathetic plea. The “please Mom, can we keep him? Please Mom, can he work here? Please, pretty please, let him stay,” promise of every kid looking at a box of puppies.

“Yes…of course he's hired,” I respond, “It’s not like we’re in danger of being a real business anyway. We agreed to a regular weekly deal.”

“Come on everybody, think, a nine letter word for good scents, we really need this word, “Fran begs, wanting her opportunity as the center-of-attention.

“I got it!” Max declares, “Faux-pourri?”

“What.” I scowl, “is faux-pourri?”

“You know Aunt Donna, “Max responds, “the bags of good smelling dry leaves and shit, I mean stuff, that they sell in different colors.”

“No silly goose, that’s potpourri…potpourri, “I laugh, spinning around toward my sister,” Your kid is killing me. You’re all slowly killing me!”

“Sylvia’s Sister,” Window Washer Man shouts to me, tapping on the shining, plate glass window,” I’m outa here. I’m done with you people today.”

Now there’s a man with good sense........Another jewel in the family crown.........