Storymania - Black Coffee by Jonathan Brucato

Black Coffee
Jonathan Brucato

Black Coffee

The old man sat alone that morning at his table for two in the hotel lobby, which is filled with rather fancy decor for a chain hotel. His aged hands gently nestle the now lukewarm cup of black coffee. These particular hands are the type that stay on your mind; course yet gentile. The kind of hands with road map veins that lead to a whole globe about his body. These hands are filled with scars that could inspire a series of award winning novels, if given the time of day.
The old man sips his coffee.
A newspaper dated February 19th lays folded in half, past the eggs and bacon, underneath a faded green camera bag labeled ‘Life Captured in Stills’. The morning newspaper keeps the old man in loop with the rest of the world surrounding him, given that the internet serves little purpose to someone of his age.
The old man chews a piece of bacon, carrying a slight smirk of satisfaction on his face.
His appearance comes straight out of every child’s vivid imagination sparked like clockwork on the night of every December 24th. The man carries a humble chubby figure, with a thick white beard to boot. His brow carries years of wisdom, weighed down by the passing of various misfortunes. Some may say that the man aged well appearance wise. Others may question whether or not anyone can ‘age well’, assuming that age is the progressive waning away of the child inside.
The old man finishes the last bite of eggs.
The fork is placed face down on the plate at 10 a.m. on the dot. Breakfast in the hotel lobby has become ritual every Saturday morning. It begins at 7:45, when a newspaper is purchased at the front desk. The same bacon and eggs (sunny side up) are ordered. The paper is read, the food slowly digested, and satisfaction is always achieved. The fork is always placed face down at 10.
The old man rolls up his sleeve, revealing a prominent cigarette burn on his left arm.
A young boy with bright shining eyes lays docile in his bed. He wonders what goes on outside of his room when the twilight moon hits the glass of his window, casting shadows of interesting shape. A room can become a different place when the moon makes shadows. Bedposts become pillars. Hanging coats become people. Lamps become creatures to ponder in dreams.
Bright eyes slowly begin to close when the door abruptly swings open. Though startling, the sound is not unfamiliar. In creeps the boy’s father, half undressed from his night on the town, with a cigarette pressed between his lips. Stumbling about in a drunken stupor, the father manages to make it to the boy’s bed. “You know son,” he begins to say; “The world is a beautiful tease. It’ll bring you all sorts of joy, and then strip it away just as quickly as it came.” The liquor on his breath creates an uneasy feeling in the boy’s stomach. He tries to concentrate on the shadows, diverting attention from his fathers rant. “You just don’t seem to be listenin’!” the man cries. He takes a drag from the cigarette. The boy’s arm is grabbed. He tries not to think of what comes next. He concentrates on the shadows. He searches about his room for some bit of hope, some type of diversion. Hope doesn’t find shape in the moonlight shadows. “Never forget your troubles boy! They’ll help you back on your feet when your down and you may just open someone else’s eyes with em’!”
The old man pulls out his wallet, pays the bill and leaves a charitable tip.
The green camera bag is slung over his left shoulder, the newspaper under his right arm. He puts on his worn brown coat, previously draped over the empty chair opposite his, and proceeds to leave the table, walking through the lobby. A bouncy strut carries him towards the elevator, where a button is pushed, illuminating a blue light. The old man glances back towards the lobby, noticing someone who was previously overlooked.
Malcolm Harris, 12 years old, waits patiently for his mother in an upholstered chair to the left of the front desk. His clothes seem to have seen better days and his hair could use a trim, but he appears to be contempt with the CD player he’s listening to. It too has seen better days, but that doesn’t phase the boy. Music puts a smile on his face, and a hopeful glimmer in his eyes.
The old man rides the elevator.
For months now, the old man has made this hotel his home. Keeping few possessions, the room he resides in remains spacious and clean, as if it was entirely uninhabited. The man sits at the end of his bed, briefly chuckling to himself. He then pulls out from underneath the bed, an old worn tweed guitar case. Rips and stains cover almost every inch of the guitar case, providing integrity and character. He soon leaves his room carrying the case in his right hand, gripping it gently.
The old man rides the elevator.
Returning to the lobby, the old man finds the Malcolm Harris just as he was before. He proceeds to walk towards the boy, guitar case still in hand. Normally in this day and age, any child who is approached by an unfamiliar bearded old man would scream for help. Malcolm was different. His curiosity would always outweigh his fears.
The old man stands before the child, who noticeably tries to capture and analyze the situation laid in front of him. The two are separated by the tattered guitar case, placed horizontally across their toes. “Who are you?” the boy says. The man smiles, replying with “Well son, I’m just a man whose had his day.” Crouching down, to eye level with the boy he continues, “You got a whole life in front of you, step by step. I just wanted to let you know that you have the world at your fingertips. Try your hardest to grab hold of it, no matter how hard the fight can be.” The old man stands up and proceeds to walk towards the exit doors, leaving the guitar case behind him. “Wait sir, you forgot your guitar!” the boy cried. The man glances over his left shoulder, adjusting the strap of the green camera bag. “Don’t let the world escape from your fingertips kid. Grab it before it grabs you. Hold on tight, day in and day out. Take every chance. Face every fear, and don’t let the bad times blind you from the good ones. Life is Music. Hear what’s goin’ on”. 12 year old Malcolm Harris sits speechless with his mouth ajar, as his mother returns to him.
The old man leaves through the front glass doors.
A young man in his Mid 20’s, who looks as though he’s lived a lot longer, glances in through the front window of a local pawn shop. On display was a brand new Fender Stratocaster electric guitar, with a tobacco sunburst finish and just enough lacquer to shimmer in the sunlight. How it wound up in a pawn shop in such good condition was a paradox. The young man stood in front of the window after a passing glance had caught his eye. Feeling indifferent, he began to walk away. It took about 15 steps from the store window before he stopped to think. Music had always intrigued him. At this point in his adulthood, he was already a war veteran, having fought the Nazi war machine. A hobby would do him good. Help ease him back into civilian life. And what better way to do it, than embracing the pleasure of musicianship. Not thinking twice about it, the young man went back to the store and purchased the guitar. Along with it came a fresh tweed instrument case, ready to be filled with memories.
The old man enjoys a refreshing walk in the park as he heads towards the public chess boards.
The sun came in through the trees of the park, creating a great atmosphere at the chess boards. Children’s laughter filled the air, making the traffic noises less noticeable. The tables are located alongside a duck pond. The park was a tranquil paradise of nature at the heart of a busy city, where people of all ages come and part take all sorts of activity. Children race energetically across the jungle gym. Frisbees exchange hands as they pass through the air. Devastating check-mate moves are used about various game tables, raising the spirits of one, and crushing the game of another.
The old man waits patiently at a neatly set chess table, until finally another aged man sporting a cane approaches the table. His name is John White, or ‘Johnny Grins’ as his war buddies would call him. A tall and slender man, John has used a cane ever since he was shot in the knee during battle. Johnny Grins takes a seat across from the old man, greeting him with a smile. A rigorous chess game almost instantly commences. Within an hour or so, John White finds himself in check-mate. With the same smile of which he approached the table with, John respectfully places his king on its side. “I brought you the photos I spoke of earlier” says the old man from across the table. “You know, these should be displayed in some type of gallery. It would really make some people think” replied John. “Life is funny that way” began the old man, “One person may look at these photographs in horror. One might see it as art. Another might have recollections of a bad past. Someone else might be motivated to pay tribute to something they were thankfully not involved with.” “At any rate, take the pictures old friend. You need them more than I do.” Johnny lost his smirk for the first time in a while. “I still don’t quite understand why you feel as though these belong to me.” “Why now?” asked John. “I’ve kept them as a story untold for too long now friend. Maybe you’ll have better use for them.” “And after all, a memory forgotten is no longer a memory at all” said the old man. The old man gets up from his seat, and proceeds to shake hands with his friend.
“Until next time” says Johnny Grins. The bearded man at the other end of the handshake simply smiles.
The old man sets course back towards the hotel, contempt with his outing.
Gunfire rattles throughout the air. There is a mixed stench of flesh and gunpowder lingering about the trenches. A young man in his early 20’s, leans back against a dirt wall. He wonders how he came about this mess in the first place. He was afraid to die. He felt the same way anyone would feel about running into an open field of sporadic gunfire. His legs wouldn’t let him. He grasped his rifle as if the harder he held it, the quicker his nightmare would end. Fighting a war was not what he had hoped for. He wanted to go to college. He wanted to be somebody, not just a military ID number on a dog tag. He didn’t want to be just another potential casualty. Hopefully if he were to die in battle, somebody would develop the film in his pack. The pictures would tell a story, and speak of the terror of war. All thoughts were racing uncontrollably through the young man’s head, drowning out the orders coming from a command leader. All thought process was abruptly ceased by a deafening explosion. A dust cloud filled the air. The young man wondered whether or not he was dead. The gun rattling was silenced. When the air cleared, a soldier that went by ‘Johnny Grins’ approached the young man and explained how it was safe to move forward; that the enemies bunker was bombed out. Progress had been made. The young man was allowed to live another day. Life is funny that way, sometimes completely unpredictable. A young man in his early 20’s had a new plan for his life. He would take the struggle head on, hoping that the next day would be better.
The old man enters the hotel lobby.
He decided to take advantage of the nice weather, by using the long route home. A good walk can be the healthiest thing for a man of his age. It’s about 5 p.m. when the old man makes his way towards the front desk. A gorgeous young woman whose name tag simply reads ‘Jessica’ is the current receptionist. She doesn’t appear to be working very hard as she reads a newly published romance novel behind the desk. Long, red painted nails hold the book-ends apart as she indulges in her read. At first, she doesn’t seem to notice the old man waiting patiently in front of her. Breaking the silent wait, the old man says “Good evening Jessica. Were there any messages left for me while I was out?” The girl responds with a short “No”, and buries her face back into her novel, considering the old man to be a waste of her time. Saddened by the short temperament of a naļve teenage girl, the old man turns around and walks towards the elevators. Not well aware of what had just happened, Jessica had looked up, feeling guilty. She had unfortunately missed her chance to apologize, for the old man had already taken the next elevator going up. Riding the elevator alone had never bothered the old man so much. He was stirred by his encounter with the unfriendly girl. Walking from the elevator to his door, the old man kept his head down. Wasted youth put quite a damper on his day.
The old man enters his room, closing the door behind him.
It was February 20th and the old man was dead. A maid had found him in such a state lying peacefully on his bed, his hands together resting on his belly. The police concluded that he had passed in his sleep due to various circumstances. The death was not covered by the newspapers. He left no will. He had no traceable family to be notified. He might not have been discovered for weeks had the maid not let herself in. Soon after the funeral, John White opened up an exhibit in a local gallery of all war photographs, taken by the old man. The exhibit reached extreme publicity. The media claimed it to be the most moving artwork of the decade.
Young Malcolm Harris would later grow up to become a blues guitar prodigy and travel the world, growing wiser with each day in passing. His hands were worn, carrying scars that told stories. He spoke to whoever would listen about seizing every opportunity life will give you. About his travels he too met a young boy deserving of wisdom, who eventually would inherit a certain worn old Fender Stratocaster, with a ripped tweed case.
Jessica was strangely affected by the passing of the old man. With hope of insight and comfort, she called her mother. She wanted the number of her grandfather, whom to her knowledge lived out west. She hadn’t seen him since she was young, but she remembered the soft, gentile nature of the man. The dial tone rang through her ears. It sounded like hope. The dial tone abruptly stopped, ending with an operator’s voice. There was no answer from the old man. A hotel receptionist stands behind a desk with her mouth slightly ajar.

End.