Rough Draft Short Story

He has a wonderful mind. So wonderful, in fact, that he remembers every event that has ever happened to him. Every individual in detail. Every day in crystal clear awareness. He can even recall being born; the extreme, painful pressure and wet warmth surrounding his, nearly, newborn body. He can remember the first powerful difference he felt- the drop in temperature; the cold stiffening every tiny joint, throwing him into shock. He can relive the relief from the intense pressure and, after being placed somewhere warm, somewhere perfect, he can remember the security. The perpetual beat of his mother’s heart vibrated through his entire body as he lay on her chest; the familiar sound that had accompanied him his entire life had followed him into this strange new world. He has every delicate detail of his mother’s exhausted, euphoric face memorized as she looked upon him for the very first time. And, when the clock struck midnight, the very last.

As John walks towards his café for the thousandth time, he dwells on the faces of everyone he passes. He has made it a habit to collect surface information. Fourteen years of taking this route and John recognizes many faces- the stern woman with the slick, black suit and slim, black briefcase getting into her shiny, black car at exactly 7:30 a.m.; the sweet young boy who, over the years, had metamorphosed into a shattered bitter shell of a teenager; the wearied mother, whose ever-growing clan followed behind her as ducklings in a row. But, there are always new faces, faces of which he knows nothing of their evolution, how they came to look so wasted. These faces refresh him.

There is a massive hole in John’s world. A complete and total absence of something that is paramount to mankind’s happiness: recognition. This deprivation of never being remembered has forced John to live a life absent of love, proximity, and essentiality. Ironically, he has also been endowed with an impossibly phenomenal memory. He has the ability to remember everything he has ever experienced. Regardless of his wondrous ability, at the end of the day, literally, no one has ever recalled his name. Not even his own mother.

Though the walk to the café is short and straight, he knows every crack in the cement and every weed that pushes through it. He can’t decide if he goes there out of habit or hope- habit most likely. His café. He claims it as his own, despite the fact that he’s never gone inside. His café is where he sits outside the front on his tattered, damp blanket, asking for donations. When no one ever remembers having hired you, it’s hard to hold a job.

He learned from a very early age to rely completely on his own self, that he could squat in abandoned buildings for weeks at a time, that he needed to keep anything of significance on himself at all times. His cu+9rrent home is set up with a discarded mattress and outdated, abandoned furniture that is broken in one way or another. He has grown to love his things, feeling as though these lifeless entities would never forget him- despite the rest of humankind. He has also recently taken to writing his name on all of his effects, his reason being whoever ends up with the item will see his name and wonder about just who John is or was. They will think of him. Mostly, however, his memories are all that he owned that held any meaning. His mother, those few seconds, his most sacrosanct possession. The first, and last, time someone saw him and knew him for who he was.

John’s stained, graying beard and ragged hair do nothing to add to his appearance. Although only a man of thirty-three, time has wasted his body and soul, giving it characteristics visually and intrinsically of someone who has taken breath for far too long: deep-set wrinkles, scars and pockmarks, and small stains blemish his face and body. He would shave, he tells himself, if he could afford a razor, water, and soap.

John places two abused, black garbage bags on the wet ground in front of the outdated café, then lays his threadbare blanket on top. Delicately, he positions his belongings appropriately around him: his library book just off of his right side, his stained, plastic bowl in front of him for donations, his cardboard sign, “A*/NYTHING HELPS,” held with his left hand. It is the same as he has done it every day for the past fourteen years.

He patiently waits for the flux of people to begin, picking up his book and absorbing several paragraphs. The rain keeps a steady, light drizzle on the city, reflections of lights and movement bounce off puddles, keeping in time with the sounds of vehicles and pedestrians. A few individuals stop, making small talk and contributing extra change or even food. He turns no one away, reveling in and infatuated by people interacting with him, grasping hands as often as he can and making eye contact that leaves his benefactors uncomfortable. The chime of the café door dings upon opening and seems to be endless, having been here far longer than John, the café is a comfort for its regular patrons.

He has learned to welcome the sound of the chime, it represents the number of individuals within his immediate environment. Ting. Ting…Ting. Ting. There’s almost a rhythm to it.

“John?”

Ting. Ting-ting….Ting.

“John?”

He looks up. Confusion overwhelms him.

“John? I, uh, I brought you some coffee.”

He is staring at an older woman he has seen before, she’d walked past him earlier that morning, and nearly every morning in the past, and entered the café, but, today, not before she had stared at him brazenly. Her rugose face is swathed with washed-out blonde hair held back by two pink ten-cent clips. She’s outfitted in ill-fitting jeans and bulbous tennis shoes, a faded baby-blue t-shirt that clings awkwardly to her torso, and a worn out green apron, its pockets outlining the shape of what he assumed was a pencil and notepad.

John looks away. He’s dreamt this before, heard his name spoken as if it could actually be real. Looked into the eyes of someone who was never there-

“John? Well, I’m gonna leave this here for you.”

She sets the coffee down on the weathered cement to his left. Her voice is raspy, he can tell she smokes. His observations are confirmed as she takes out a cigarette and lights it. She puts the cigarette to her lips and takes a long, slow drag. She turns away. Minutes pass and John can’t stop staring at her. He can’t process the powerful emotions streaming through his mind, raising his blood pressure, forming sweat at his brow. Tears force their way into his eyes, developing small pools inside each eyelid. His entire body reacts to her as disbelief overpowers him.

At first he just mouths the words, unable to form the appropriate sounds to communicate with her vocally. She’s turned away from him, unable to see his immediate response to her simple, yet inconceivable gift.

“Yes?”

He’s angry with himself for being unable to voice a more complex answer or even, at the very least, a thank you.

She turns back towards him and smiles, taking the stubby cigarette butt out of her mouth and exhaling, “I thought you’d like some hot coffee, its black. Wasn’t sure if you’d want cream or sugar.”

He has yet to turn away from her, this woman who knows his name. He’s not sure how he feels. “Thank you.” He finally replies.

“You’re welcome. You know, you’re also more than welcome to come inside, sit at a booth. I’d be more than happy to give you free refills.”

“Thank you.” It’s all he seems to be able to say right now. John finally turns away, staring at the coffee. He moves to pick it up and despite the several minutes that have passed by since she set it down, it still releases a heat he hasn’t felt in ages.

“Feel free to come in, anytime, too. I own the place, there practically every damn day,” the grating of her voice almost has a comforting sound to it. Like white noise, filling in the empty space that allows for too much thought.

“You’re…..very kind.” He says it awkwardly, still unsure how to respond to someone who has remembered him. He can feel her begin to drift away. As the shock wears off and an alluvion of questions begin to flood him, he realizes he’s waited too long.

She’s already opened the café door and halfway inside. Unable to bring himself to follow her inside, too overwhelmed, elated, and frightened that someone finally remembered him, he chooses to pack up his belongings and go back to his collection of things. He packs up his bowl, his sign, his book. He folds his blanket delicately, then the large garbage bags. The blanket and bags have memorized creases from being folded so many times, making the process easier each time. Finally, he grabs his scalding, delicious coffee and walks home.

“Mary-Anne, where have you been? It’s been fifteen minutes.” The young waitress’ nasally voice fills her ears.

“Look, Julia,” she throws the words in the air, frustrated, as she steps back into the kitchen to help fill order, “if you owned the café, you could take fifteen minute breaks, but you don’t. I do. Let’s leave it there.”

She walks off with five plates on her person, two on her left arm, one in her hand, one on her right arm, one in her right hand. After forty-five years in the business, Mary-Anne has learned to multi-task. She’s thrown into the bustle that is the kitchen for some time, until she finally dares to take a break in-between the lunch and dinner crowds.

Carl, her partner and cook, joins her outside for their routine cigarette intermission. They begin their conversation the usual way by complaining about the customers, then complaining about the employees.

Eventually Carl asks, “Who was that homeless guy you were talking to this morning?”

She has to remove the cigarette from her puckered lips, exhales, inhales, then exhales once more.

“I dunno. I saw his name on his blanket when I came to work this morning. Thought he’d like a cup of hot coffee.” She shrugs.

“Hmph,” Carl throws his butt on the ground, smothering it with his dated sneakers, “never seen him around here before.”

“Yeah,” she answers, doing the same with her own half-smoked cigarette, “me neither.”