I have only the courage for a perfect life.

                 —Louis C.K.

 

He walks into my café, I know the guy so I make him his large regular, stat—with a drop of cream.

Sometimes he “beg[s]” me for another “drop” and I tell him, “Gary, man. You don’t need to beg. We’re friends, man. What else can I get you?” But today, Gary leans forward, breathing emotionally like a heavyset wolfhound, pained, invites me animally into his personal funk (I don’t mind the intimacy, I’m in a good place in my life now), and pulling me in close with his big brown furry eyes—they’re frame-draggers reflecting morass—he moans, “It’s over. It’s over.”

 

When I was a kid I was short for my age, and inarticulate. I still feel that way, liminal between stunted and advanced. I don’t have anything of interest to say to anyone, but I’m a good listener.

“What the hell, Gary?” I say. The lights overhead perceptively flicker. The ceiling, loaded, pendulous, suggests the stakes are high. I hope someone extraterrestrial is sending me impulsive sympathetic messages. It’s either that, or it’s a wiring problem I’ve been trying to ignore. I purchased this building three years ago and every last of my nickels are promised to the bank. “Gary man,” I plead. “What could be that bad?”

Gary drops his head, it’s just too heavy for him. He thuds the sound on my counter then rolls again and again the cranium, side to side, ear-to-ear, crimsoning, repeating, “There are black spots on the roses. There are black spots on the roses.”

 

…

 

As usual, Vladislav rings the countertop call bell. Childlike, he brings down his thick right open palm like he’s cuffing something negligibly sentient. The ring reverberates insufferably, like a lady’s shriek.

 

Vladislav is what you’d call a happy guy. Probably sixty-years-old. He was fired up in ’22 when Russia invaded Ukraine. He came draped in blue-and-yellow and hurling curses at the Russians, and also at figment enemies derived from Foxhole, an immersive MMO war game he plays with anonymous pals. Vladislav has relaxed significantly since then over the situation, and is back to his former go-lucky self. He is convinced it’s just a matter of time. He’s like a diehard fan of a losing team—breaks my heart.

 

The bell is yellow, nickel and plastic. It was here by the cash register when I bought Café Délicieux. That was too many accent aigus for my taste, so I renamed it Gabrielle’s. I haven’t moved the bell and it hasn’t moved itself: It has an imploring smiley face on it, so that’s maybe why.

“Morning Santino!”

“Good morning, Vlad. What can I get you?”

Vlad bonks the bell again. He thinks he’s hilarious. Vlad bellows, “Service!” grinning exceedingly. I contort my face into something unperturbed, composed. Vlad puffs out his barrel chest. He’s misshapen, looks like a purple organic potato. It strikes me though that the stuff Vlad is made up of—white starchy flesh with a sweet inner heart at core leading vascularly to each pullulating eye—is satisfied with the lodgings.

“What can I get you today, Vlad?”

“Give me a plain croissant, a diet peach yoghurt, a spoon, and give me a large cup and a water,” blares Vlad.

Vlad wants the same things every day, but I ask him anyway. It makes guys like Vlad feel good to be asked—esteemed. I plate him his pastry and run up the total.

“Santino, how do you know when to water these plants?”

I have plants all over the café: hanging ones, standing ones, crouching ones. My wife brought them. Vlad is standing on the customer’s side and I’m standing on the barista’s side, between us the bell, a display of chips and energy bars, a small staghorn fern, another fern of the rabbit foot variety, the register, Vlad’s acetonic breath and a world of difference between me and Vlad in terms of life experiences. I’m divorced. My wife is somebody else’s wife now. I still call her my wife. I named the café after her. Vlad had a girlfriend once, he told me. He kissed her just one time upon which immediately she told him that she wasn’t feeling it and that she was an asexual.

“I water them when they look sad, Vlad.”

“Santino, take a look at that one. It looks dry,” says Vlad pointing.

“No, Vlad. That one has withered away beyond hope.”

“Is that right, Santino?”

“Yes, Vlad. That’s seven dollars even.”

“Santino, this being Sunday. And as after church I have nothing to do. How about I make you Crepe Suzette?”

Vlad invites me to things. He has invited me to a Ukrainian Kupala night of singing, dancing, lighting fires and hunting witches. He has invited me to his house for barbecued chicken—shashlik. He has invited me to American-Ukrainian Orthodox church. I haven’t gone to any of those things. Vlad and I will never hang out. It’s understood, withstood stoically, as is Vlad’s fruity breath between us.

“Sounds good, Vlad,” I say. Vlad pays with his card. The register does its magic. I don’t know how these things work. I’m just happy they do. Last month, my bank informed me that someone had hacked my account and cleaned me out. Then the bank replaced all the dough, no questions asked. They asked one question: Do you know someone named Rough Redding? I don’t. I wish I did. Rough Redding sounds like a cowboy’s name, and he was clever enough to steal my fortune of thirty-four hundred, so I wish we could meet and talk and I could find out what makes Rough tick. I imagine Rough found my measly savings a disappointing take.

“What’s the matter with him?” says Vlad indicating Gary down at the other end of the counter. Gary is bent forward at the waist almost ninety degrees. His fists are frozen astride his head, his forehead buttering my countertop with sweat, his brain bobbing in a puddle of cerebrospinal protective fluid. His coffee steaming sluggish. In his own way, Gary’s taking care of himself. I’m reminded of my mother.

 

She used to keep me in the bathtub for hours as though trying to shrink me enough to fit back into her womb. That woman refused to ever officially close for business, even though there were no more customers after me and none before. My father didn’t want any more dependents.

I loved when my mother told me stories which she made up off the top of her head. They were Orwellian, without her knowing they were, about regular pigs that ate like pigs versus radical pigs that fed on power. My mother grew up in German-occupied 1940s France. Her parents were murdered, she survived in the countryside with gangs of orphans.

My mother used to say that having me was the only thing she thought she did on her own and right in her life. I could have done without the shrinking though.

 

“What’s wrong, chief?” shouts Vlad across at Gary.

“Never mind, Vlad,” I say.

“Maybe he needs coffee. You need a cup of Joe, chief?”

“He’s got coffee. Just go sit down, Vlad. Let me deal with it. I’ll bring you the rest of your order.”

“Okay.”

 

Vlad lumbers with his croissant to the table right next to the table where Rhoda is sitting working on her laptop. Wherever Rhoda sits, Vlad sits as near as he can. At one time or another Rhoda has tried all the tables to get away from Vlad. Vlad is tenacious. I used to wonder if he was predacious. Today there are three other free tables he could have taken.

“Good morning, Rhoda. You wide awake this morning? From all that partying last night?” says Vlad, trying to be funny again. Rhoda puts on a surgical mask. “I went to Coney Island and rode the Big Wheel,” continues Vlad. “Do you like the Big Wheel, Rhoda?” Rhoda puts headphones on. Vlad is undeterred. From somewhere habitably safe and dark he talks to Rhoda. It’s a place where he’s all alone. He really shouldn’t be thinking he can invite someone, anyone, especially Rhoda, into that isolated country. I mean, he should defend it better.

Vlad unpacks his knapsack. Out comes an eight fluid onze carton of BOOST glucose control creamy strawberry drink, three different kinds of diabetes medications, an inhaler, an orange flavor 36.8 onze sugar-free fiber powder, Robert Harris’s novel Munich: The Edge of War, Vlad’s electric bill and his phone. I bring him his peach yoghurt, a plastic spoon, a large glass of water and a large empty plastic cup. “Napkins,” he yells. I take a deep breath.

I know that Vlad doesn’t mean anything by his bad manners but some days I want to bounce him out of here. And some days, when Vlad walks in, instead of ringing the bell and yelling “Service!” first, he rings the bell and yells “Napkins!” first. He arrives with a bulbous runny nose, which he wipes with a napkin I hand him, and then he yells, “Service!” In other words, it’s always the same routine but sometimes Vlad countermarches. I extend him a handful of napkins which I anticipated he’d need.

“Thank you Santino.”

“No problem, Vlad.”

“Santino.”

“Yes, Vlad.”

“Sometimes on the avenue I see a truck that says landscaping and groundscaping.”

“Groundskeeping.”

“Groundskeeping.”

“Yes, landscaping is creative but groundskeeping is just mowing grass, trimming hedges, pulling weeds.”

“Oh.”

“I better go back to the counter, Vlad. I have customers.”

“Okay, Santino. Thank you.”

Vlad knows that I used to have a landscaping-groundskeeping business. I’ve always enjoyed working outdoors but I needed a change. My wife suggested we go in on this café together. I put up all the money. My wife is considerably younger, so she didn’t have the financial capital that comes from years of working and saving. My wife enjoys decorating and I like people. Besides, I had this chronic back problem which made it hard for me to continue manual work. She picked out the new paint color for the walls. She picked the scented soap and air freshener in the bathroom. She picked the art and knickknacks. She picked the plants. I have already mentioned the plants but they’re a particular sore spot because they keep growing, trying to live, and requiring my time and good will. It’s a lot to ask. After two years I still find it hard to refer to my wife as my ex-wife, but that’s what she is.

 

My father called me “Stretch.” He would say it encouragingly, if not affectionately. He’d forecast it from the porch —he was tall with a booming voice—to give the neighbors the impression that he was proud of his son. He wanted the neighbor boys to know that despite my short stature I was every bit their caliber. When someone walked by the house, my father would yell, “Way to go, Stretch.” I’d look up surprised from my book, wondering what I had just done that was praiseworthy. Then, my father would go back to varnishing the front door or fixing the car engine or watering the lawn or just standing holding the railing, smoking a cigarette and thinking hard about something. I worried it was me, that I was disappointing him just by existing. I found it hard to focus on anything but worrying. A lot of times, I just pretended to read.

 

There is music coming over the speakers. I keep it low and random. Right now it’s something Latin.

“Rhoda! Want to take Merengue lessons, Rhoda?” says Vlad. Seated, he jerks his upper body, truckish—outsized cabin, big blind spots, doesn’t handle well, crash risk—showing off his moves. Rhoda never introduced herself to Vlad. One day, about a year ago, Vlad overheard me calling Rhoda to the counter to pick up her cold brew, and Vlad hasn’t stopped saying “Rhoda” since.

“Rhoda! Want to dance?”

Rhoda hunches and stares fiercely at her screen as though she wishes it would swallow her up.

 

I’m not worried about Rhoda. I’m worried about Vlad. Rhoda will take her laptop and her icy brew and leave soon. She’ll choose flight over fright, she always does. One time, Vlad said, “Bye-bye, Rhoda. Let’s see a mediator.” It was actually funny. But that’s when I realized that Vlad knows exactly what he’s doing. And also, he can’t help it.

 

Vlad is stuck with an obsolete strategy. It’s not up to today’s challenges. I could explain it to Vlad in terms he’d understand. I’d say, Vlad. Remember you told me about those 18th-century infantry line formations? Slow-moving, comprised of low-ranking men equipped with just swords or lances or bayonets on muskets. Eventually they faced formidable opponents much better equipped. Rhoda is new technology, man. She’s machine guns. You’re muskets. It’s certain demoralization for you, and death.

“You going already, Rhoda?” says Vlad.

 

…

 

Margaret is beleaguered by medical problems. She doesn’t tell me the details. She walks with a cane. She’s thin and sharp and irritable and fragile and tough.

Margaret wears a knitted red beret. She didn’t knit it herself. She doesn’t have patience for the crafty arts.

Margaret is old. She’ll tell you upfront how old. “I’m eight-four,” she’ll say, “and not a day younger.” She won’t abide saccharine compliments saying she’s eighty-four years young. “I’m old, and that’s all there is to it,” she’ll say.

A few years ago a cancer tried to kill Margaret and the other morning a mockingbird dove at her, almost knocked her off her feet which at Margaret’s age could have been a death sentence. The bird was trying to steal Margaret’s red beret or maybe it wanted the few gray hairs she has left on her head but Margaret was having none of it. She swung her cane at the foolish bird. Margaret will fight just as bravely on her deathbed one day. But not because she’s afraid or because she thinks she has any right to win in the end. “All living things die,” she’ll say.

 

Margaret places her cane on top of a table. She takes off her beret and puts it and her totebag also on the table. The cane lands percussively but the stuffed tote and hat come down settling. Margaret always takes this table if it’s free because it’s the one nearest the door. Concierge-like it meets her, unburdens her.

“Here comes my security,” I joke. I pretend I’m Margaret using her cane to beat off a bird, or cancer. I clench my right fist and wave my right arm about in the air. I stab imaginary foes who have the power to become real overnight. My little pantomime amuses Margaret in spite of herself, but her response is not so much a laugh as a measured statement of tolerance.

“Ha ha,” she says dryly, and “Okay Santino.”

If Margaret doesn’t like something I say, especially if she smells hyperbole, she puts me in my place. For example, I once made the mistake of complimenting a pair of sporty new sneakers she came in wearing. She told me to lay off.

 

“Should be called a mugger bird,” Margaret says unsmiling while I make her a macchiato and plate her a banana muffin. She notices Gary who is no longer bent over but standing straight up and down. He is maybe too erect looking at, as though focused on, the menu board above us, and rocking gently helplessly side to side to the dynamic rhythmic grinding of the espresso machine. It’s almost imperceptible but he’s very softly whining. Margaret frowns. She disapproves of Gary’s kind of crazy.

“I don’t want to hold you up here,” she says to me and pulls out of her fanny pack the exact amount she owes, including a dollar bill tip. She lays down the trembling bills and dark pitted pennies.

“You’re not holding me up Margaret,” I say. “I always enjoy our conversations.”

“Okay Santino,” she replies brittely, “That’s enough.”

 

Precariously carrying her coffee and muffin Margaret shuffles to her table. Before she has a chance to sit down, Vlad greets her from two tables away, “How was your weekend, my dear?”

Margaret winces to the “my dear” part. Vlad’s nonsense is a price to be paid. “Fine,” she says, sits down, and turns her back to him.

 

Margaret gets The New York Times delivered to her doorstep every morning. She brings it here to read every day. After shaking the rolled-up paper out of its protective blue plastic sheath, she takes a moment to glower at it. She’s thinking, okay, what hellish battle will I have to fight today? Clear-eyed she’s anticipating getting worked up about the state of the world.

Margaret quickly, deftly, folds the paper the Brooklyn way, in half lengthwise then horizontally in the middle. Everybody used to read the paper this way, and it wasn’t a hundred years ago. I remember my father used to drive to work, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding the paper. (Regardless what it sounds like, it didn’t feel unsafe.) One eye on the road, the other on the sports section when the papers had daily morning coverage with game summaries, box scores and standings. Now it’s all health and wellness crap. There I go bringing up my father again.

 

Dutifully, Margaret starts with the front page. She moves on to the Metro section and then to her favorite op-ed columns. She frowns while she reads. She takes small bird-bites of her muffin which she washes down with foamy coffee. The hand holding the paper is steady. The hand feeding herself shakes. The paper is off-white, smooth, heavy-duty. Margaret’s skin is transparent, wrinkled, papery.

“Tsk,” she says, and “Awful,” she blurts out. She can’t help vocalizing her reaction to what she’s reading.

“Upset about the stock market, dear?” roars Vlad.

Margaret says, “Humph.” She has bigger problems than Vlad.

This morning she is reading about the billionaires who are throwing their fortunes at immortality schemes. Guys like Jeff Bezos, Peter Thiel, Larry Page—and isn’t there another Larry?

“And what about the nut who wants us all to live on another planet? When there are children starving in the Democratic Republic of Congo,” says Margaret.

Whether it’s Elon Musk’s Mars or Tom Hank’s Heaven, Margaret is not having any of it

 

…

 

Gary is gripping the edge of the counter. His knuckles are bloodless islands. His nails are bitten down to their raw limits.

 

There are mornings Gary comes in, stands by the register for an hour and gives me a whole presentation. He lists year to daily data. He  refers to studies. He explains indexes. He shows me pie charts, histograms, and scatter plots on his phone. He cites references. Vehemently he calls out conflicts of financial interest. When he goes into “quintiles” and “logistic regression,” he loses me.

Gary wasn’t always a fanatic. He used to be a truck driver for Tyson Foods. He used to play bass for a cover band performing Springsteen, Kravitz, Dylan, the best of Motown, and “you name it,” at weddings and corporate events in New Jersey.

Whenever Gary gets upset, raises his voice, I just ask him to lower it.

 

In walks a tall fellow draped in rags. He’s treading sandals like they’re slippers. A pair of dirty sneakers, tied at the laces, hangs off his neck. I guess it makes sense, just in case, to have a second pair of footwear, if your days are spent wandering. I’ve seen him before, down a few blocks near where I park. I’ve seen him drag a dirty blanket, like in that cartoon strip that character Linus does. Except that the cartoon Linus sucks his thumb and this tall fellow wasn’t sucking his thumb when I saw him (I’m just saying without judgment) and he isn’t sucking his thumb now.

“Sir, can I have a tea.”

“Sure,” I answer. “What kind? Orange pecoe, English Breakfast, peppermint.”

“Give me English Breakfast.”

I hand it to him. On the house.

“Thank you, sir.”

“No problem. Have a good day.”

He moves down to the other end of the counter where he puts his medium tea next to Gary’s large coffee. He picks up the sugar canister and pours and pours maybe a quarter cup worth into his tea.

He is standing shoulder to shoulder with Gary who is frantically straightening the piles of cup lids and stir sticks. “Excuse me, sir,” says Linus. (In my mind, for clarity sake, I’m taking the liberty of calling him Linus.) Gary doesn’t stop organizing. “Excuse me, sir,” he says to Gary again, not any more forcefully but he reaches for a stir stick from the stir sticks dispenser and accidently brushes Gary’s shoulder. At this point, probably no one but me can predict what’s about to happen. I know Gary too well so I yell, “Take it easy, Gary.”

 

I’m too late. Gary freezes. He’s like a robot rebooting. His eyes disappear in his head then resurface like cannons. He turns, lunges at Linus, Gary starts beating on Linus’ chest because Gary’s much shorter and Linus is pegged to the floor because he’s shocked and Gary’s not hitting all that hard. Gary’s arms flail like a mechanized thresher. Linus shrinks somewhat, but reluctantly lifts his fists to defend himself.

“Hey, fellas,” I shout. “Gary man, stop!”

 

When I was a kid my taller wider-shouldered peers, new baritones when I was still cracking mid-range, used to pick me to settle their fights—only skirmishes. They thought I was smart because I wasn’t particularly athletic. I worked hard and enjoyed being out on a field or the court. I sweated. But I didn’t have the confidence or the grace of the other boys. What I was good at was making a case in very few words that nobody was totally right or totally wrong. Back then “both-siding it” was considered admirable. The truth is, I was very afraid of making a mistake.

I try not to hate my wife for leaving me. I have a drinking problem. I couldn’t pick a side, hers or the bottle’s. So she picked for me.

There go the lights again. Signaling.

 

I run around the counter. I get between Gary and tall Linus. Gary quits thrashing. Linus takes another step back, he seems not offended. In fact now he has only a quizzical look on his face.

“Gary, man. It’s just fungus, man! Fungus,” I say.

Gary is sorry for flipping out. I can tell from the way his brown eyes hang wet and wooly, stretched out of shape.

From a few steps back Linus takes a hard look at Gary as though recognizing something. Softly he says to Gary, “Sir, it happens. No hard feelings. It’s a bad time for everybody. Don’t watch too much TV, sir. Don’t listen to what they say. You’ll be all right,” and he leaves—good old Linus, wise—with his energetic tea-sugar solution.

 

My father was right, it’s important that people know you’re loved—it’s arguably as important as being loved—because it’s insurance that you’ll be treated okay. It’s a proven theory that hospital nurses will treat a patient better if the patient has a lot of visitors. When my father was in hospice dying of chronic pulmonary disease my mother and I were at his bedside night and day. When he died the nurses cried too.