Like a Girl
Gregory Range entered the coffee shop just as the rain started coming down. Fat sloppy summer drops. Bloated and hot.
They quickly covered the city’s many neglected buildings and streets, pulling months of accumulated grime down to earth. Then to drains clogged with garbage. Then to wherever such water goes. Back into our faucets, Greg supposed. Eww. That’s why he drank from bottles only.
The coffee shop was nearly empty. Two baristas stood behind the counter, doing whatever it is baristas do. A single patron stood off to the side, doing what every patron in a coffee shop does—waiting for his order.
Walking up to the counter, Greg ordered his usual.
“Tall, nonfat latte, three percent foam. From bottled water.”
The barista who took his order threw a squint at Greg as he handed over exact change. Greg answered without emotion. Just the facts.
“Three’s the perfect number.”
Greg took the receipt, folded it hamburger-style, placed it in his now empty billfold, then stepped to the side. Next to the only other patron.
Taking a quick survey of his fellow javaaholic, Greg noticed that he was a dirty man. He wore threadbare clothes. Hadn’t shaved in days.
And he smelled.
Greg took a small step away and looked at his watch. He still had 15 minutes to get to court. Plenty of time.
“Boy is it raining!”
Both the voice and the smell penetrated Greg’s personal bubble. The dirty man had stepped closer to Greg. Regaining the lost ground. He wore a crooked grin. One eye looked in the wrong direction.
“Yes, it is.”
“I hate rain. Especially in the summer. It reminds me of getting licked by a dog.”
Involuntary shivers traveled up the dirty man’s body. From his filthy feet below to the tips of his greasy hair above. He steadied himself on the nearby napkin dispenser, coming away with a fist-full of cheap paper and a nauseated “Whoa!”
Politeness prompted Greg’s response.
“I’ve never thought of it that way before.”
“Oh, yeah. Haven’t you been licked before?”
“Uh, no.”
“That’s a good thing. I think it’s highly overrated. Hot and wet and sticky. And it’s unsanitary!”
Greg reigned in his involuntary scowl before replying. Avoiding eye contact.
“I agree with you there.”
Greg looked to the baristas for salvation. Both were huddled by a machine. Hunched over it. Whispering tensely back and forth to each other. Hissing quiet profanities. Blocking Greg’s view of his heart’s true desire—his cup of coffee. And his freedom.
The unwelcome voice came again.
“I’d say they’re having a wee bit of trouble with the machine.”
Greg’s body shuttered at the sound. Startled.
“Looks that way.”
Greg looked at his watch while he answered. There was still time.
“What’d ya order?”
The dirty man was a step closer now.
Greg couldn’t step away. Not without the man noticing. Not without potentially offending. So Greg tried to lean away. Just enough to give his nose some relief. But a display stand of rainbow drinkware blocked his reprieve.
He answered. Wary.
“A tall, nonfat latte, with three percent foam. From bottled water.”
“That’s very precise. Vereee precise. Why three percent?”
Greg’s response was immediate. Reflexive. Just the facts.
“Because three is the perfect number.”
“It is?”
The dirty man’s voice rose in pitch. In tandem with his eyebrows.
Greg looked hard at the dirty man for the first time. Interest gleamed from both eyes. The normal and the screwy. Curiosity leaked from filthy skin. Anticipation bubbled from a frothy tongue.
Greg’s brain recalibrated. Baited by the question. Ensnared by the sincerity. His heartbeat surged. His words raced. His excitement spilled out into the air. Compulsion had overcome revulsion.
“It is! Three’s the perfect number. It’s enough to fit in your pocket but big enough to form a pattern. Life plays out in threes. God works in threes. Math and music and celebrity deaths. All threes!”
The dirty man nodded his understanding. Good eye growing wider. Crazy eye spinning.
“Of course. Three! How long have you loved three?”
Greg nearly swooned.
“Since I was three! When I learned my first number! Love at first count.”
The dirty man’s eyes narrowed. His lips pressed together. His voice grew earnest.
“How do you feel about thirty-three? Percent, I mean. That’s how much I pay in child support. Thirty-three percent. Of bubkes. Bub. Kes. Bubkes.”
Distracted by the percentage, oblivious to the blather, Greg’s head shook. His expression matched the dirty man’s. Remorse mixing with sorrow.
“You have my sympathies. Thirty-three is a charlatan. Almost a third, but not quite. The false twins of perfection. Proof that doubling digits doesn’t necessarily double one’s pleasure. Or one’s fun.”
“Bonza! You must be a genius!”
Greg chuckled. Too modest to admit out loud what he knew to be true. The dirty man’s attention diverted during the silence. Before Greg could feign humility.
“Say, what’d ya thinks taking them so long?”
Greg followed the dirty man’s crooked gaze. The baristas hadn’t moved. But their murmurs had grown louder. Their profanities more frequent. And more vulgar. One of them slapped the top of the machine.
“I wish I knew. I’ll be late for court unless I leave soon. And I need my coffee.”
“Court? You a lawyer?”
Greg’s modesty delayed another response. But it came in time.
“Yes, I am.”
“Very impressive! I had a lawyer once. Frank Tsakataki. You know him?”
Greg hadn’t heard the name before.
“He defended me against my ex. She said I attacked her with a shoe. Can you believe that? Wanted to put me away. But I beat the charge. They couldn’t prove the shoe was mine! Even made me try them on. But I pretended they didn’t fit! ‘Too small’ I mouthed. The jury saw it. Let me go! Can you believe that?”
Greg considered the rhetorical. Willing to engage. But the dirty man’s attention moved on. Like a buck in the thick of the rut. Close by, but a different target.
“Those shoes look like they’ve walked a lot of street.”
A dirty finger pointed down to Greg’s shoes. Greg followed the finger’s aim. True enough, the shoes were old. Greg had had them for years. Brown. Leather. Scuffed. Worn.
“They certainly have.”
Greg lifted his left foot. Showing its sole. Thin as paper. Smooth as silk. The dirty man whistled before stating the obvious.
“Not much tread left.”
“No, sir.”
The dirty finger retracted.
“Don’t you slip? When it’s wet out, I mean?”
Greg nodded, his answer spilling out without consideration. Just the facts.
“Even when it’s not. The trick is to take little steps.”
“Little steps? What'd ya mean?”
The dirty man’s voice rippled earnestness once again. A single eyebrow raised. Accentuating the lazy eye.
Adrenaline took hold of Greg’s innards again, squeezing out the excitement. Squirting like toothpaste.
“Little steps. Not big ones. Not long strides. But short one. Baby steps. Nearly vertical shuffles. You have to keep your weight over your lead foot at all times. Otherwise, it will hit the ground out front and slide forward. If that happens, BAM! On the ground!”
“Doesn’t that get old?”
“Most certainly. And tiring. Your buttocks are always clenched. Your sphincter is always clamped. But more than that. You look funny too.”
“Funny! Hoo! Funny how?”
“Well, uh, the last time it rained—months ago now—I had court. Just like today. I was hurrying. And man stopped me on the street. Asking for money.
The dirty man listened intently. One hand to chin. The other to pocket.
“I didn’t have any, of course. I rarely do. But I didn’t want to offend the man. And I always check. Mentally, at least. Just to make sure.
The dirty man nodded knowingly. Nose scrunched.
“So I’m standing there. Thinking. Doing inventory in my mind. While he watches me. Waiting.”
Greg bit his lower lip. His brow furrowed. His eyes looked up and to the side. He was thinking. Remembering the story. Reassuring himself that his previous calculations had been correct.
“I had nothing. No bills. No coins. Nothing. So I told him that. I also told him I was late for court. That I had to go. So I did. Towards the courthouse. Quickly. But carefully, you understand. Taking little step. Baby steps. Weight over the forward foot. You know.”
The dirty man puckered. He scratched his neck.
“That’s when I heard it. A shout from behind me. Long and sing-songy. From the man asking for money. He thought I’d lied to him. Just to get out of giving him money. ‘You Walk like A Gir-aaalllll!’ That’s what he said. Just like that. ‘You Walk like A Gir-aaalllll!’ It was mildly humiliating.”
Quiet punctuated the end of Greg’s sorrowful tale. Interrupted by the hiss of steam, the slap of high-fives, the relieved voice of a barista.
“Your tall, nonfat latte, three percent foam is ready!”
Greg nodded appreciation as he took his steaming beverage. The dirty man followed up with a question.
“What about mine?”
The barista stared hard. Lips pursed. Eyes narrowed.
“I’ll let you know that when you finally order something.”
Greg turned to look at his cue-mate. Confused. Concerned. Even a little embarrassed.
“Aren’t you waiting for coffee?”
The dirty man looked at Greg with a crooked smile. Good eye staring straight ahead. Lazy eye twitching.
“Absolutely. As soon as you pay for it. What’d ya say?”
Greg reeled. Heart racing. Hands shaking. He bit his lower lip. Brow furrowed. Eyes looking up and to the side. He was thinking. Taking inventory. Double checking. He felt betrayed. Offended. Angry. But he didn’t want to offend. Nevertheless.
Greg answered. Stammering.
“I . . . I’m sorry. I have no money. And I have to get to court.”
The dirty man scowled. Greg turned hard and left the coffee shop. Shuffling through the remains of the summer rain. Off towards the courthouse. Short steps. Not long strides. Trying not to slip.
That’s when Greg heard it. A shout from behind him. Long and sing-songy.
“You Walk like A Gir-aaalllll!”
Greg paused. But he didn’t look back.
He continued his careful trek to the courthouse. Baby-stepping down the street. Buttocks clenched. Sphincter constricted. Weight over his forward foot.
Greg slipped anyway.
And spilled his coffee.
A triumphant cackle weaved its way through the lazy rain from behind.
Copyright © Graham, 2024; All Rights Reserved
