From The Sky

CW: Strong language

I’ve never in my life been treated so badly by a stranger.

We had planned on having a regular day. A day at the beach. Just him and me. Soothing sun and tangy breezes, no jobs, no errands, no mess. No headaches or strange encounters with struggling strangers. We even got a bonus gift from some friends who handed us a hundred-dollar bill and said to get dinner on them. Our plan was set. The weekend away had already begun.

Yesterday we people-watched and played pickleball. Today I insist on enjoying the sunrise, just as I do anytime we’re at the beach. This time Drey wants to come along.

Now the phone comes alive by my head, piercing the peace like an abrasive gong. It’s so dark, I wonder if I’m still dreaming. The gentle hiss of the ocean soothes the corner of my awareness, swishing and swashing its maritime serenade. I reach out into nothingness to silence the unnatural sounds, feeling around for the edge of the dresser. It’s time to get up and chase the first light. Drey says if we’re following the sunrise, we’d better find coffee first. Something bigger than a groan comes out of him, a grizzly-ish growl with a wide matching stretch. The headboard creaks, a seagull squalls somewhere outside, and I tiptoe around with the dim light of my iPhone.

He mumbles, ‘What time do we need to leave again?’ I say, ‘in 10 minutes, if we can.’

We’re chasing the sunrise, and there’s only one shop on the Island open this early for coffee: Maylee’s Place. We’ve never been, but it has mixed reviews, so we throw on beach clothes, grab sunglasses and keys, and head for the door.

‘Do you have your phone? I didn’t bring mine. Don’t want it.’ I pat the front pocket of my jacket to confirm, ‘Yeah, I’ve got it. And the address is already in gps.’ The car door squeaks and I think to myself again that we need a newer vehicle. I thank the Lord above that we have a car at all, and settle into the cool leather seats to buckle. An incessant beeping commences, and like clockwork my ears are crackling and popping. Drey doesn’t like to wear his seatbelt at all. And he definitely doesn’t like to put it on right away. I hold my tongue as long as I can to be kind and gentle this early morning. He finally reaches back, as if the movement itself is admitting defeat, and snaps it in place. ‘Your ears were popping, huh? My bad.’ I say. ‘It’s all good. Just need coffee.’

The Island is still sleeping. We drive in companionable silence, adjusting our eyes to the fluorescent signs dotted along our path. I catch a crab doing his sidestep dance through the street. He looks like a cartoon thing that I caught after a shower and without his towel. Like he’s dancing off while embarrassed that he’s got no clothes on.

‘Hey, are you paying attention to the turns?’ I snap awake from crab daydreams and offer, ‘Oh, yes. We’ll take a U-turn up there at that light. The place is supposed to be back a quarter mile.’ He yawns, ‘And this was the only place open at 6?’ The blinker tick sounds so much louder in early mornings. ‘Yea, weird right?’ I point to the line of stores to avoid more words. We’ve arrived. Maylee’s Place is right next to a surfboard shop. Someone is shifting chairs in the front.

Drey hands me his card and rasps, ‘Just get me whatever you think is good.’ I ask if he minds sharing, and he nods his agreement. If I drink too much coffee, I’ll be chasing a porta potty instead of the sunrise.

The worker is aggressively moving chairs around, and I consider the reason. He might be chipper and energetic first thing in the morning. No nod of greeting, no smile or words, just iron screeching against concrete, and tension boiling in the atmosphere. Interesting, I think. What’s the story here? I open the glass door with the bell signaling a customer, and the worker follows behind me. A tall, whispy woman with graying blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail is quietly focused on organization in the open kitchen. She doesn’t look up for long, but forces a plastic smile as her duty to me. Tension cinches her shoulders. Something tells me she couldn’t keep her gaze up because of who walked in behind me. I’m beginning to see why. The disgruntled worker starts into a lengthy monologue, pretending I’ve been his audience all along. ‘The freaking chairs are all wrong. Of course they’re all wrong. Why would I trust someone to close or to be able to do anything with any kind of damn common sense. I’m— oh, hey ma’am, you’re here early.’

Oh, dang. This man is the manager or owner. I think, owner. It’s plain to see. And he has zero customer service skills. Or even human being skills. Insane. I’m more curious than offended, but the atmosphere is thick with resentment. It’s almost palpable. ‘Google maps said you’re open at 6 am. Is that wrong?’ Now clanging metal in the open kitchen with the whispy, tense woman avoiding his every step, the owner says, ‘yea Google maps is run by a bunch of retarded robots. We open at 6, but I don’t even care if our business info is on there. They’re only bringing us down. The small business owners are sinking fast. All of them. I mean, damn. I can’t even buy a house in this country. I mean, do you own a freakin house? Ah, man, I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m Marve. What is it you said you wanted?’ I wish he’d stop calling me, ‘ma’am.’ My heartbeat thrums faster at this point, and I’m genuinely intrigued by the man’s lack of tact. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I’m equal parts ticked and amazed. Never been treated so poorly at an establishment of any kind, yet I’m morbidly curious enough to stick it out.

‘Do you have a vanilla latte of some kind? Just give me one of those in your biggest size, please.’ The whispy woman sends silent messages of being connected to this man in a deeper way than mere business. I assume she’s his wife, as the shades of crimson creep up her neck and appear at regular intervals each time the owner opens his mouth. Her voiceless apologies hang in the air and infuse an element of calm to the otherwise edgy situation.

The brim of my hat suddenly feels tighter. I slip my first two fingers in between it and the skin of my forehead, loosening the itchy pressure. Sweat beads inch down my back in the middle, at the spot where the curve swoops in the most, the part Drey loves. He says he doesn’t mind that sweat at all. In this moment, the sweat is completely unwelcome, an uninvited guest triggered by a nervous system set on high alert.

This dude is one of a kind, with the stereotypical long surfer hair. Dishwater strands are pulled back in a low ponytail with stray pieces flying around his bronzed, jerky-like skin. His eyes are bright blue with dark rings surrounding the lids. His face is a paradox of dissonance: sun-kissed yet sad, healthy yet hardened, passionate yet supremely pessimistic.

Metal is clanging, espresso beans grinding, steam shoots are spewing, and creamy milk lapping: an orchestral backdrop to this bizarre scene.

‘I mean, I’m probably being too forward, ma’am, but do YOU own a home! I mean what do you do for a living?’ What a strange situation. I peek out the front window, hoping Drey isn’t coming in to check on me. He would be frustrated that I hadn’t left by now. But my curiosity is getting the best of me. And I do enjoy coffee.

‘Well, we do own a home, my husband and I, and he is a minister.’ I trail off at the end there, hoping against hope that it will be left alone, knowing full well it won’t be left alone.

‘Wait, wait, wait… so what do YOU do? Wait, is your husband one of those rich TV preachers, lying to everyone to steal their money? Claiming ‘God needs it?’ It figures.’ My pulse has to be visible as I feel it thrumming at the base of my neck at a very rapid rate. This guy. Clearing my throat I offer, ‘well, no. He is not one of those kinds of preachers. I homeschool our kids full time and he earns a decent salary at our church, but nothing that could be called ‘rich.’ We do just fine. God provides.’

He slams the mug down onto the stainless steel countertop and freezes, spritzes of tan liquid landing on the gray wall. His look is steely and suspicious, cold as his icy blue eyes: ‘You mean to tell me that you and your, and you probably have at least one kid…’—

‘We have two.’

‘Oh, beautiful. Two kids. Four of you in total, living on one preacher’s salary. And you own a home? How in the hell did you manage that? Please don’t tell me that ‘God provides.’ What does that even mean? Like, does money just fall from the sky?’

I will my body to relax and I urge my face to soften. I remember that I have nothing to prove to this strange coffee shop owner with a chip on his shoulder. He slides the freshly made coffee in front of me and I wave my phone over the machine to pay. He’s shaking his head now, grumbling something, cursing quietly and yelps as his finger gets stuck in the edge of the register. This guy has to be close to a heart attack.

‘Well, Marve, right? You said that’s your name?’

‘Yes.’

‘You might think I’m weird for it, but I don’t know how to explain how God provides. But I can promise you I’ll be praying for you and your family.’

A gust of wind blows in with the smell of dirty water and fish. A younger guy carrying a surf board walks inside and laughs, ‘Hey Marve. You bugging your own customers again? How long have you held her hostage?’ Marve’s wife shows open relief on her face, as this newcomer must be a middle-ground help in times like these.

‘No Jay, she caught me on a really bad morning. Wait, ma’am, what did you say your name was again?’

‘Whoa whoa whoa, she caught you on a BAD day, Marve? Dude. Your good days are bad days. Poor woman. I bet you’re ready to run.’

I grin and exhale a little more at the welcome break in tension. Giving Jay a knowing look, I turn back to look Marve straight in the eyes:

‘I didn’t say my name yet, but it’s Layla. And I’ve got to go. My husband’s in the car and we’re supposed to be sharing this coffee.’

I pause to take a sip and am instantly impressed as the rich, smooth flavor infuses my palate. The hint of vanilla notes are just the right amount of sweet, the nutty finale a tiny blessing in this weird setting.

‘And wow. Your coffee is excellent. Truly. Some of the best I’ve had.’

Marve seems visibly different for just a shade of a second, the compliment softening the harder edges around his hurting eyes.

‘Well, I’ve been an asshole to you this morning. But I’m just tired of things being the way they are. Our country is going down the damn drain. It sucks. But I don’t really believe in God, but I can’t stop you from praying for me.’

I smile and shake his hand. I thank him for the coffee and smile at his wife. I tell him I’ll be back someday. Now, to the car to exhale a second.

‘Wow, Babe. I was about to come in there. What’s up with that? Does that guy have a problem?’

Hot tears threaten to spill out like raging rapids and I want with all of my heart to stop them. Then I realize they have to come out, so I let it rain. Sobbing and swiping my nose over and over, searching for drive thru napkins stored in the glove boxes, I try to explain what happened. Drey’s eyes shoot up and cast laser beams into the shop. He interrupts my blabbering at one point and clips, ‘I’m going in there.’

‘Babe, no. Please. I’m not crying because he hurt me. Well, maybe I kind of am. But I’m not hurt, hurt. Im fine and it got resolved. And taste the coffee! It’s so good.’

‘Layla, only YOU would get chewed out by a store owner and still come to his defense afterward. It’s bull. What kind of a business owner does that?

‘A hurting one. Please, Babe. I want to make the sunrise! Don’t you? We got up for it.’

Sniffling like a preschooler who’s just gotten over his skinned up knee , with double breaths at the top of each inhale, I begin to feel that sense of divine purpose in this.

Drey has already put the car in reverse, scowling at the windows of the shop from our parking spot. He’s not a small, soft spoken man. That interaction would not be a pretty one. I’m grateful we’re already turning onto the dark strip of road again. Checking my phone, I can see that we will barely make it in time.

The barefoot walk with our backpack chairs isn’t a long one, but it’s harder in the dry morning dunes and with half-awake joints in protest of every step. But we make it.

‘Did you get your book?’

‘Yes, and my journal— oh look, Babe! The orange circle peeking out of the ocean horizon. You see the edge of it there?’

‘I see, Love. It’s beautiful. Let’s get these setup so we can relax and watch the rest. Here, give me that chair.’

With my eyes glued to the thin line where the endless sea meets the firmament in the sky, I slowly hand him my chair to unfold. I breathe in deeply and suddenly feel small. The smallness is the good kind. Where I feel a part of a much grander thing. That neon orange circular blaze is now fully revealing its splendor, filling the sky with sorbet ripples and apricot fields. Anything could come out of this majestic display.

‘Babe, you ok? Here, sit with me.’

Drey smiles, knowing I’ve been daydreaming a bit. Coming out of it, I slump down in the low sitting backpack chair. The sand massages the bottoms of my feet and I realize they’re already burning. Tension has reached all parts of my body prematurely today.

As we watch a foamy dance, hear the swishing rhythm, something hits me like it dropped right from above. That hundred bucks from our friends wasn’t expected. We planned this trip without it. We had all that we needed. Yes. This is an excellent idea.

After basking and sitting in the serenity of the sea for a couple hours, Drey says he’s ready to go and I quickly agree.

‘Babe. I was thinking … I mean, I think I’ve heard something in my heart.’

‘I think I know what you’re gonna say. I felt it, too.’

‘Yea? Can we then?’

‘We won’t feel right unless we do. Let’s go.’

We travel the familiar path to the light where we take a U-turn and go back a little ways. The door dings again as I walk inside Maylee’s Place. I stand in line, wondering if I’ll be recognized right away. The daylight casts a different mood on this shop. It’s a much better mood than the early morning dark. Marve notices I’m back and calls it out aloud in the store:

‘Wait, are you the lady from before? From earlier? Why in the hell would you come back here? I was a real jerk to you.’ I smirked and said ‘the coffee was that good, Marve.’

He shook his head, scooting ingredients around on the open stainless steel countertop behind the register. He presses, ‘No, but for real, why are you here? If I were you, I’d never come back.’ Smiling, I assure him, ‘For real. Your coffee is top notch. Customer service, maybe not there yet.’ He stares my way for a minute and then stammers, ‘well, then, what’ll it be? Same as earlier?’ I say, ‘Yes, please.’

Marve’s unimposing wife comes to the register with a wary smile, averting her eyes from me every time we make eye contact. She rings up the drink and tells me my total. Five bucks and some change. The screen offers the typical question about a tip. Marve is preparing my second latte and begins to ask about my family. I tell him we’re visiting from a town about an hour away, and while I’m sharing, I add a hundred-dollar tip to the screen and sign it electronically.

The wife’s bottom jaw slacks, hazel eyes larger than I’ve seen them yet. This time her gaze doesn’t turn from my face. She audibly gasps and Marve notices and says, ‘what’s up?’ She points to the screen, and he shifts forward to see better. He registers what’s been done for him, and immediately says, ‘No way. What? Why would you do that? What’s this about?’

My smile is reaching from ear to ear while I get to say the thing I’ve been waiting to say now all morning. ‘Marve, this is how God drops money from the sky. Have a wonderful day.’