Crossroads

Sizzle. Ding. Brew.

The soundtrack of the Crossroads Cafe.

Sat stubbornly on the edge of Route 66, the Crossroads Cafe was a postcard of the American West. Its orange facade, faded from the ruthless sun, camouflaged with the Arizonan sandstones that lined the iconic highway. A beat pickup and a single Harley rested in the cracked, gravel parking lot, coated in a sprinkle of desert grit.

Inside, a bitter stench of coffee beans twirled with the tang of sun-baked vinyl from the cracked red booths. A jukebox tucked in the corner played half-forgotten country songs, the medley dragging listlessly through the heat.

A waitress, Maria (according to her crooked name tag), wiped away the morning’s muffin crumbs, coffee stains, and forgotten conversations that caked the laminate counter. The single customer in the diner finished signing his check, stood up, tipped his hat toward Maria and made his way toward the door.

“Take care, sir,” Maria called out.

The clock above the door struck 10:30. Maria looked up with easy breath and relieved eyes. Finally. The in-between-breakfast-and-lunch time was Maria’s favorite as she could atlas rest her customer service voice and aching feet. She threw the now dirty washcloth into the closest sink and moseyed her way to the stool situated behind the counter.

Ding.

The front door of the diner swung open and in walked an extraordinarily average man with a book in his hand. His slightly wrinkled skin clung to his careworn face much like his little-remaining grey hair clung to the side of his skull. He wore a casual button down shirt, untucked, and a pair of dark blue jeans. His hazel eyes, framed by tortoiseshell square lenses locked with Maria’s and quickly darted in the other direction.

“Good morning, sir,” Maria breathed out as she stood up from the stool she had sat down in.

The man nodded his head and walked away from where Maria stood, choosing to sit in the far corner of the counter. Maria slightly huffed, blew a tuft of hair that fell from her loose bun, and walked toward the man.

“Can I get something to drink, sir?” Maria asked, motioning toward the menu sitting on the counter top.

“Coffee,” he replied, opening his book and thumbing through the pages.

“Any cream or sugar?”

“Just a sugar packet,” The man said, finding the page that he was looking for and settling in.

Maria, with a new sense of purpose, walked toward the coffee pot situated on the opposite side of the counter. A fly circled the steaming crucible, taunting a dive into its bitter black nectar.

The man skimmed the pages of his book like an attentive lifeguard, his eyes travelling from left to right as he soaked up the life behind the ink. Above him a linoleum light twitched on and off; alive and then dead. The man was too enthralled to notice.

Maria returned with a glazed ceramic mug centered on a porcelain saucer. A single pink sugar packet tattered on the edge of the saucer.

“Here you go, sir.”

The saucer was placed in front of the man who didn’t even look up in acknowledgement. Smoke from the coffee consumed the man’s cracked hands and the open leather book, both mere inches from the counter.

“Can I get you anything to eat?” Maria asked.

“The coffee will do,” the man replied, still not looking up.

Maria turned and walked back toward her stool. On the way, she grabbed a clean rag, wet with cold water, and placed it on the back of her sweat-moistened neck. Her tired legs met the wood of the stool as a sigh escaped her lungs.

She looked toward the man and his book. He sat as he had been the whole time: content. And so was Maria, for she knew that his contentment meant her repose. She rolled her neck from one side to the other, eyes closed and tempting sleep. And she would have fallen asleep had it not been for the…

Ding.

Her eyes shot open.

In the cafe walked a man who looked like a shattered kaleidoscope. His white blazer emblazoned with electric green graffiti was almost as loud as the “Good morning” he yelled upon entering.

“Good morning,” Maria responded, a bit taken aback by the man’s enthusiasm, “you can have a seat wherever you want.”

“Oh, like a choose your own adventure,” the man replied, “I love it!”

Maria laughed automatically, as a good waitress does.

The cafe’s lights shone off of the man’s bald head like a beacon upon a crystal lake.

“The name’s Rory,” the man said, walking toward the counter with hand extended.

“Nice to meet you Rory”, Maira replied shaking Rory’s hand, “I’m Ma-”

“Maria!” Rory called out, looking down at her name tag with a proud smile.

“Well yes,” Maria said with another perfunctory giggle.

Rory released Maria’s hand and scanned the cafe. There were eight empty booths, five unoccupied tables, and twelve counter stools without a behind on them. Of all of these options, Rory skipped to the most unconventional: the stool directly next to the man with the book.

“Mind if I sit here?” Rory asked, while sitting down.

The man with the book looked up at Rory’s face, down to the stool that he now sat in, and back up at his face.

“Well you already sat, haven’t you?” The man with the book responded, planting his nose back into his book.

“Sure have,” Rory replied, “it’s the finest seat in the place according to my observations. Perfect view of the entire joint, appropriate proximity to the jukebox, and the company of a stranger.”

The man with the book didn’t stir.

“Do you get something to drink?” Maria asked as she approached Rory with a coaster in hand.

“Hot chocolate with a whipped cream mountain, please,” Rory replied.

Maria walked away, a slight smile painting her face as she turned from the counter.

Music cut through the suffocating silence. Rory tapped his fingers against the counter. His slightly off-beat tempo was like a ticking clock looming over you while you beg for sleep to overcome your body.

The man with the book side-eyed Rory’s peculiar percussion and let out a slight exhale through his open mouth.

“Come here often?” Rory asked, still drumming.

The man with the book did not reply.

A few moments of silence passed.

“This is my first time here,” Rory said, “not just this fine establishment but Arizona in general.”

The man with the book continued reading.

“I’m absolutely blown away by this place,” Rory continued, “not this restaurant. I mean it’s nice and all, but you can find about a dozen of these back in Jersey. I mean, this state. This region. It’s absolutely breathtaking.”

Still, the man with the book did not reply.

“This is my second day here. Yesterday, I went to the Botanical Garden and all I-”

The man with the book placed his book onto the counter, making sure to leave a finger tightly tucked in the page he left off on.

“Will you please find someone else to talk to?” The man asked, “I came here to read undisturbed and find myself rather disturbed at the present.”

Rory looked at the man, his smile still intact if not a bit more stretched.

“Of course man,” he replied, “I’ll leave you be.”

“Thank you,” the man replied, picking his book back up.

“No problemo,” Rory said, tapping the table once more.

“And will you please stop tapping?” The man asked “this is a restaurant, not a music hall.”

“Yes sir,” Rory replied with one more tap from each finger. “Consider me not even here.”

Rory stood up and found a new seat, the one on the exact opposite side of the counter.

The cafe returned to silence once more. Even the jukebox stopped, as if it too were scared to make a sound.

Maria walked toward Rory with a mug. Or rather a mountain of whipped cream with a mug underneath it.

“Here you go, hun,” She said, placing the mug in front of Rory, “Oops!” A small dollop of whipped cream graced her hand as she released the mug.

“Ah come on,” Rory said “lick it, you know what to.”

Maria laughed, this time for real, and licked the dollop off her hand.

The man with the book cleared his throat and slightly shifted in his seat.

“Is it good?” Rory asked.

“Decent,” Maria replied, “I prefer my whipped cream with some sugar sprinkled on top.”

“Well isn’t that the smartest thing I’ve ever heard.” Rory said, reaching for a sugar packet situated in a holder atop the counter.

He tore open the sugar packet with ease and released the magic dust upon his mound of whipped cream.

“So what brings you here?” Maria asked, wiping the counter free of the particles of sugar that didn’t make it into Rory’s mug.

“How’d you know I’m not from here?” Rory inquired.

“Well, people from here don’t wear such…” Maria scanned her brain from the proper word but settled for “bright outfits”.

“That’s a shame,” Rory replied.

“I suppose,” Maria said.

“To answer your question, my bucket list brings me out here,” Rory said, lifting his mug to his accepting mouth. The tip of the whipped cream mountain flattening against his nose.

“Bucket list, huh?” Maria asked, handing Rory a napkin.

“Oh thank you,” he accepted the napkin and balled it up in his hand.

Maria couldn’t help but giggle.

“Yes, bucket list,” Rory replied, “I’m trying to visit all fifty states before September.”

“That’s a great goal,” Maria said, “how many more do you got?”

“5 and a half,” Rory answered.

“What’s the half?”

“Arizona. I haven’t met anyone here worth counting yet.”

“Why September? Were you given an ultimatum or something?”

“No, but I wish” Rory replied, pushing his mug slightly to the side and pausing for a moment.

“Well,” he continued, “I suppose I can just say it. Just don’t go and treat me all weird after, you promise?”

“Promise.” Maria said, lifting the balls of her feet in anticipation.

“The doctor said I had until September.” Rory revealed.

“Until what?” Maria asked, confused.

“Oh, you know,” Rory responded, “until I kick the daisies or push up the bucket… whatever they say.”

He lifted his mug and took a sip of its contents.

For the first time since Rory and Maria’s conversation started, the man with the book looked up.

“Oh…” Maria managed to say through a downcast face, “I- I’m so sorry.”

“Ah you see,” Rory said “you’re treating me all weird when you promised not to.”

“I’m so sorry, I just-”

“Don’t look at me any different than you did 30 seconds ago. I’m still the same man, aren’t I? I didn’t grow a tail or anything.”

Maria wiped the perfectly spotless counter.

“May I ask what it- what it is that you…” she began.

“Stage four liver cancer.”

The man with the book grabbed the sugar packet on the edge of the saucer in front of him, placed it on the page he was reading, and put his book down on the counter.

A silence inflated through the cafe.

“Yep,” Rory cut through, “betrayed by the good old hepatic system.”

“I’m so sorry,” Maria said, her eyes beginning to pool with moisture.

“Don’t be,” Rory replied, “unless you’re the one that gave it to me. Then in that case, I’d like to have a word with you out back.”

Maria laughed as a single tear escaped from its duct. She wiped it with the back of her hand.

“I’ve never viewed it as something to be sorry for,” Rory said, “well maybe at first I did. I spiraled into a dark depression for about a month after the diagnosis. I would wake up angry almost every day. When I thought that I dug myself out of the hole, the treatment started. Boom. Down the spiral again. Needles here, scans there. You start to feel like a voodoo doll.”

The man, no longer with the book, rested his chin in his hand and looked in the direction of Rory.

“But here’s the thing,” Rory continued, “one day, I’m sitting in my room, IV in my arm, tired as sin, and I look outside and see this pigeon. Just this scruffy little thing hopping around the windowsill like it owns the place. And for a second, I envied it. Thought to myself, ‘That bird has no clue what cancer is. No clue about time running out.’ But then it hit me—that bird also doesn’t know how good hot chocolate tastes. Or what it's like to hear a song you haven't heard since you were sixteen. Or how a perfect stranger can laugh with you and make you feel human again.”

He took a slow sip of his hot chocolate. The whipped cream had melted into a soft cloud.

“So I made a list. Of every place I’d ever dreamed of seeing. Every silly little thing I wanted to try. And I started doing them. Not because I thought it would save me. But because... it felt like living. Like finally, after all these years, I was actually choosing to live.”

“What about your treatments?” Maria asked.

“I find labs along the way,” Rory replied, “those are the worst days of the trip. I like to spoil myself with a sweet treat the day before.”

He licked Mt. whipped cream which was slowly landsliding into his hot chocolate.

“You’ve got one life to live, Maria. You’re the author of your own story. No one wants to hear a boring story, now do they?”

The man with the book blinked. His jaw twitched. “That’s... quite the way to spend your last few months.”

Rory smiled. “It’s quite the way to spend any months.”

A silence unfurled between them. But it wasn’t stiff anymore. It was thoughtful. Soft.

The man with the book turned his eyes down to his mug. “I used to be a history professor,” he said quietly. “Wrote books. Gave lectures. People listened.”

Rory leaned in, elbows on the counter. “What happened?”

“My wife died three years ago,” the man said. “Everything just... stopped mattering. The books. The talks. The travel. I’ve been... drifting. Going from place to place with this damn book I wrote, hoping it’ll remind me of who I used to be.”

He touched the cover gently.

“But it never does.”

Rory sat back. “Maybe you’re not supposed to go backward to find yourself.”

The man looked up.

“Maybe, you’ve got to write a new book. One that starts with a man sitting in a diner, drinking coffee, and meeting some overly enthusiastic bald guy in a graffiti blazer.”

Maria let out a laugh that sounded like a window opening.

The man with the book gave a half-smile. “You’re exhausting.”

“Thank you,” Rory replied, raising his mug in a toast. “I try to be.”

Maria smiled at the two of them, wiping down the counter slower than usual, like she didn’t want the moment to end.

The man on the other side of the counter stood up, grabbed his book, and walked toward the direction of the door. Although, instead of heading toward the door, he changed directions and walked toward an open seat at the counter: the one next to Rory.

“Tell me more about these Botanical Gardens.”