pops

Half-stumbling down the carpeted stairs, I find my way into the kitchen only by the soft voices of public radio, and the smells of his daily toasted peanut butter bagel. It is 7am and by now he has already gone for a long hike, spotted four blue jays on the new feeder, and made a list of "things to do before the weekend" - so that he may relax.

His eyes never leave the paper in front of him. "You're up early". "I couldn't sleep. And now I just feel like shit". Finally, his eyes dart upwards - contact. I take my finger and swab at the glob of peanut butter on his otherwise empty plate. "You want me to make you a bowl of cereal?" I soften and slump in my seat, "Yes, please".

The peanut butter crunch balls bob up and down in the cold, white milk. I push them down with the back of my spoon, not wanting to let any of them up for air. "I took your bike down to the shop", his voice breaking the BBC World news hour. "I noticed it was a bit banged up. Looks like it took a tumble." My cheeks flush. I'm replaying the exhilarating moment I threw the bike down the concrete stairs.

"My heart hurts"

"Your head hurts?"

"My HEART hurts"

"Did you fall off your bike?"

"It has a fissure"

"If you fell forward on your bike you may have some rib damage"

"My bike didn't do anything to me. Paul punched me in the heart. At our park"

Pops cheeks flush, "He punched you?"

"I'm pretty sure I can feel the blood dripping out..."

The radio is snapped off.

"I'm very confused, Claire. Did Paul hit you?"

The peanut butter balls are drowning. They're losing their peanut-butterness because I've held them under too long; drowning in the milk.

"Metaphorically. Yes. Very, very hard. With a large, metal club"

A deep sigh appears. I don't know if it came from me or pops. We stare at each other for a moment. He reaches out his large, weathered hand and ruffles my hair.

"I saw a Bewrick's Wren today. Not often you see them"

"Like 'once in a lifetime'? Or like, 'another one will come along'?"

"Oh sure, another one always comes along"

I brush away the stupid drops of water running down my face, and stuff a big spoonful of soggy peanut butter balls in my mouth.

(muffled due to peanut butter balls) "I'll keep my eyes open"

Rico

It isn't until his third trip up to the counter, to add more cream to his empty coffee cup, that I notice his shoeless feet. Shoeless Joe Jackson, in the house.

He takes tiny sips of half and half from the coffee houses' ceramic mug, nourishing his clogged arteries. It's the perfect distraction I need to assist in my procrastinating. No matter what my imagination is giving me today, I have yet to put pen to paper. We're at a standstill me and my imagination, and Shoeless Joe Jackson is just another reminder of that; here he is, in front of me, and I can't find the words to share.

'Portly hispanic man wearing his best tube socks waits in corner coffee shop for lightning to strike'. That's the headline bubble I imagine over his head. He stands up a few times to stretch and look out the great window that allows us coffee shop-dwellers a glimpse of the outside world. The sound of traveling thunder drowns out Thelonius Monk, and I see Mr. Shoeless eyes' grow large at the first streak of lightning.

"Tut-tut, it looks like rain", I hear the sounds come out of my mouth

Shoeless turns and looks at me.

"That won't do me no good", he glares.

"Rico, you're mother called and she needs you to pick up her dry cleaning", the sound of Marie calling out from behind the counter.

"Dammit", my portly friend responds. He walks over to my tiny table, sets down his mug and gives me a wink,

"Take care of that for me, sweetie?" I nod my head 'yes' or 'sure' and compulsively wink back.

He heads towards the door, where my eyes finally rest on a pair of green men's galoshes. He slips his socked feet into the boots. His final departing cry,

"'Til the rains come tumbling down!"