A Cup of Coffee and a Kiss
by
Richard Schweitzer
Copyright 2011 a TinDog Entertainment Stuff production
Smashwords Edition
Except for the butterflies, it could have been a morning like any other; a quick shower and a shave, a cup of coffee and shuffle Dewey off to his babysitter’s.
The butterflies were in the man’s stomach; Dewey was in the living room watching cartoons. It was the same one that seemed to make them both late most every morning; about a benevolent Studebaker from another galaxy (A Studebaker from another galaxy?) with arms and legs, that sprouts jets and wings at the first sign of trouble. Trouble always came in the form of a group of kids who have stumbled into the den of a demented techno-genius bent on the destruction of all intelligent life forms in the universe.
Through the fading haze of a lingering hangover the man could hear the distinctive sounds of the cartoon as he stepped out of the master bedroom into the hallway. He stood there, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, musing at the faint smell of hot coffee that reached him at the end of the hall— a tip off that he must have been acting particularly down of late. Dewey’s attempts at coffee were a love-knot, and could always be counted on when he thought Daddy was sad because Daddy had told him once that Mommy always made him coffee in the morning so that he could face the world assured that his breath smelled like everyone else’s.
He paused at the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen; he could see into the living room from there. Dewey was in front of the T.V., on his knees, sitting on the heels of his feet. His right hand lay in his lap, loosely cradling the remote; his eyes were one with the screen.
The man glanced into the kitchen at the steaming coffee on the counter, then back at Dewey. These days he thought “Dewey” was a horrible name, but he’d grown used to it and his son did not have a middle name to fall back on. He vacillated as to whether or not he would ever explain the name to his son, and thought he probably would not have the guts.
Five years earlier, in the dead of night, Dewey (although the offending name had yet to be attached) was being evicted from his first, best home; and he wasn’t leaving peaceably.
The man was sitting in his usual downtown bar, “The Time Out,” when his cell phone rang unexpectedly. It was his mother-in-law; the time had arrived, her daughter was in the hospital, and where the hell was he? Not a damned bar!?
He dispatched the drink in front of him and ran for the door, refusing several offers for rides. For no more than a second, it crossed his mind to accept, but he knew anyone else would drive too slowly for his frustration to endure, and he didn’t want to miss the birth of his son. The man was happy, excited, scared, late, in a hurry— and drunk; though not as drunk as he would have liked. Not even as drunk as usual.
Pulled over— tested— arrested— tested again, warned and released; all over the top of his frantic explanations and pleas— he finally arrived at the hospital too late for the big moment; and also too late to say good-bye to his wife, forever— ex-cheerleader, ex-business partner, ex-soul mate, ex.
Hence the name Dewey, in “honor” of his first DUI close call, so that he would never forget; not that he was likely to forget, or to change.
Dewey’s coffee was usually too strong and full of grounds—he couldn’t quite get the hang of the filter—but today it was clear and good. It was even in his favorite non-spill dashboard cup, a sign that Dewey was also aware they were running late. Dewey was always aware, as had his mother been.
After pouring his usual distilled grain-based additive into the coffee—just for flavor—he yelled a genuine, heartfelt thanks to Dewey, took a big drink, and set the cup back on the counter. From the other room he heard a soft, distracted reply.
Kids and cartoons, men and their pasts, gravity is in the id of the beholder.
This morning was to be a little different than usual, and that would account for the butterflies. He was facing a 275 mile drive, topped off by the most important meeting of his recent career. Even a nominal success today could put another proverbial stripe on his sleeve and fatten his paycheck considerably. Hell, even the cost of Dewey’s babysitters was enough to register as physical pain, much less everything else. Since he had already been passed over twice in a year, the chance of botching another promotion opportunity had become unaffordable. If he could make the right impression, he could call his own shots, for a while anyway.
That train of thought agitated the butterflies that the enhanced coffee was trying so hard to squelch, so he gathered up his briefcase and his son—who argued weakly that the cartoon only had 20 minutes left—threw them both in the backseat of the car and drove to the babysitter’s house.
Dewey had grown up quietly, almost alone. All of his mothers were paid by the hour. Not that they didn’t care, but somehow Dewey knew—even at his young age—that if the money wasn’t there, they wouldn’t be either. But in the last few months he had begun to understand—a little bit—why he didn’t have a full time mother like all of his friends. He started to feel sorry for his Father and his regular depressions; it was easy to feel sorry for him. The death of his wife had made him a pitiful man whose life had turned to one of often overworking himself and even more drinking, with a few more DUI incidents, and one conviction, for which he was still paying.
The man could feel his son’s pity, which of course, only made it worse. He was hard working and socially conscious, but he painted a different picture in all of the circles in which his life ran; at the office, at parties, at the bar and at home. The few friends he had were the kind that waited for him to call first. Those he did not call he rarely saw again. It had not always been that way. He sometimes wondered if maybe that was his own fault. Maybe he was too quiet, too pre-occupied or too boring. He didn’t wonder very often though, only when he found himself caring one way of the other, a phenomena that generally occurred when he was totally sober. These days even his happiest moments rarely consisted of more than a strained grin or a forced chuckle.