Cup of Joe – by Sabha G.

It wasn’t easy for him to open the door to his office that morning.  He knew it.  He was through.  He had enough.  The politics.  The bullshit.  A couple of accountants and the government were on his back, trying to pull his strings.  And after thirty years.  Thirty years of playing the game his way.  Working it solo.  Nah.  He had to get out.  Live off his junk bonds and real estate.  Sure, he had a mortgage and alimony to pay, but he sure as hell didn’t need a couple of incompetents trying to run his life.  There were easier ways to live.
He managed to turn the key and enter his cubicle.  The desk was cluttered with journal articles, case files, memos, write-ups, and reports.  A real mess on a grandiose scale.  He took off his hat and tossed it onto the coat rack, then walked up to it and put it back on.  He wasn’t planning on staying too much longer.  The worry got to him.  Not just the worry, but the lack of worries.  He couldn’t decide which was worse, but for the moment he was willing to partake cooler climes.  Maybe take a long drive.  Wander for a bit.  He wiped the sweat off his brow.  Damn, it was hot.  The kind of heat that ends up sweating for you.  Muggy as only hell could be.
He took off his coat and draped it on the chair.  He was wearing his powder blue blazer, the same one he was wearing when he became a professional.  When he knew he was a pro.  When he was confident in his abilities and satisfied with his life.  That one day, the one moment, when he knew he was in this for the long haul.  He never likened himself as a quitter, but then again, he never likened himself to a whole lot.  He just did his job.  Kept things simple.  Now they expected him to change his ways.  Open up the avenues.  Complicate to simplify.  For Christ.  He never thought he’d ever be as old as he was right then.  How long was he in this?  Damn.  He was a dying breed.

All he wanted right now was a cup of java and a Havana cigar.  Throw in a splash of anisette for a kick.  Boy, did he need those grounds in his system.  Sleep deprivation really put his mind into perspective.  He’d been up all night reading.  Digesting the new facts, keeping up with technique, exercising the brain.  He strongly believed in what he called a life-long quest for enlightenment.  Surprisingly, he hadn’t gotten tired of it.  He was a fan of the Socratic method, posing questions for the sake of exploration.  He created wandering arguments.  He would get lost amongst the trees, but never forget about the forest.  The jungle clothed him.  The truth created light.  It lifted a heavy burden off his shoulders, but later always made him hungry for more.  He was never satisfied.  He always had an inner dialogue going, keeping his focus.  Lately, his head began to resonate.  He was feeling a little empty.

He likened himself as a detective.  What a thrill it was for him to be on a case, to investigate.  The history for him was everything.  He always said that if you can’t get a clue after looking over the straight facts, you’re clueless.  Then came the science behind it all.  The details.  The technicalities.  The patterns.  The procedure.  Sifting through the glittering generalities.  Grasping the intricacies of knowledge.  Dealing with human nature.  Making allies out of the right schmucks.  Using conversation as a tool.  Getting the unadulterated truth out of the hoi polloi.  He helped many a people in his day.  He learned to display tact when comforting grieving widows.  He could deliver bad news with grace.  He prided himself on his ability to exhibit genuine empathy.  Really, he didn’t give a damn about the lot of them.  He was a good actor, that’s all.  A sincere phony.  He was charismatic.  Charming.

He sat down in his desk and began swimming amongst piles of paperwork.  He glanced at a ledger.  Outstanding balances from some rabble he helped out.  He knew they would never pay in the end.  Write them off.  Write them all off.  He glanced at a picture on his desk.  The gang.  The boys and him.  He started to get sentimental.  He thought about the streets he grew up in and how they changed.  His old mean streak.  His naughty childhood.  His restlessness.  He thought about food, a flavor of American Sicily.  Thought about dropping by to visit his mom.  When she walked in.

The doll.  The dame.  All the curves in the right places, and more where that came from.  Meat and potatoes.  Parsley to garnish.  She was the type of woman who could melt the glue off your toupee.  She looked a bit distracted, but she went for a chair and managed to sit down.  There was a troubled look in her eyes.  Silence filled the room for a few moments.  He sighed in exhaustion…

“Lady, you don’t have an appointment, and I’m not taking any today.”
“I… I need your help.”
“How’d you find our about me?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Who told you to come here?  Babe, I’ve stopped taking any new cases.”
“I just heard.  I just heard about you…  Word on the street, mister.  You’re the best from what I hear.”
“Look, Doll.  Get on out of here.  Scram, will you.”

A teardrop rolled onto her cheek, glistening, refusing to fall.
“Look, you gotta help me.  I’m ready to pay anything.”
“I don’t want your money.  Get out of here before I have to toss you out.”
Her lip quivered.  The tear lost its grip and plummeted onto grime-coated tile.
“What makes you think I can help you?”
“It’s not me, it’s my husband.”
He glanced at the big spangly rock on her finger and smirked.
“Are you attached to that?”
“Huh?”
“Why ain’tch your husband here with you?  What do you expect me to do for him here?  Tell him to stop by himself… if he can find me.”
“He’s real sick, mister.”
“Really.  I couldn’t have guessed that.  Well, I don’t do house calls.  No one does.  Hit the road.”
She started weeping silently.  He made eye contact with her desperate eyes… and began to feel overcome with contempt and self-loathing.  She hid her face, then wiped her eyes and turned to get up and walk away.  Tried to keep the little dignity she had left with her.  She was out the door, with a slam.
He got to thinking.  Boy, a dame like that doesn’t just walk into your office everyday.  Who cares if she was hitched?  He was already beginning to feel drawn in.  He grabbed his coat and a black bag out of the corner and ran out the door into the hall to catch up with her.  He ran down the steps, out the archway of the entrance, then saw her back turned to him, waiting at the corner, trying to catch a cab.  “Hey!  Doll!”
She turned around.  He glided towards her.  He was back to his school boy charm.  “I apologize for my demeanor just then.  It’s no excuse, but I’ve been having what you might consider a bad morning.  Why don’t you start telling me about your husband.”  She pushed her long golden tresses over her ear to make room for her face.  She feigned a smile.  “Thanks, Doc.”  He grinned as they began to walk away together.  “Call me Joe,” he replied.

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