Every Night Crawlers

I’m hunkered down in the corner booth of the all-night coffee shop. Six people could sit here but I need this spot because there’s a plug for my laptop along the window’s bottom moulding strip. Besides, it’s 1:19 in the morning and what party of six - other than the beer-bar bums - is gonna come in as late-night transitions to wee hours.

My spiral notebook’s open to my notes, and I’ve already gotten alot done. Jeez, I must have had a dozen cups of coffee so far because I’ve had to ask Tilly (she’s the waitress for this section most nights) to guard my stuff, twice, so I could head for the hopelessly acrid men’s room where you should not breathe through your nose.

I’ve really been ’cookin’ with gas,’ pounding out my work and felt so good about my progress, that I turned the bill of my baseball cap to the back of my head as a sort of rally cap motivation to keep going and going. Guys my age prolly look stupid with backward caps. At least, I think they do... er... we do. But, hey! I'm on a roll, here!

The strange assortment of too-happy people at the four tables pushed together behind where the counter curves around is probably some AA crowd who arrived after their Alkie meeting or event. I don’t mean that judgementally because who am I to judge. When I was dating Tamara, she used to drag me out with her recovery crowd and all those people drinking coffee and eating sweets, back there, look just like that. I’d eat my Marlboro hat if they were anything else. They seem to be runnin’ Fat Calves’es ass off, too.

That goth freak and his pierced, pin cusion of a skanky girlfriend are three booths over, as usual, probably discussing the powers of crystal jewelry or bands whose names sound like diseases or crimes.

The counter creatures just getting around to reading (now-) yesterday’s newspaper are sucking coffee and sopping egg yolk with corners of cold toast.

The ’It’s Arizona and I think I wanna be a cowboy’ guy in his giddy-up get-up is sittin’ with his like-attired shit-kicker pal, probably bemoaning the fact their attempts to corral a drunken cow-chick failed at the boot-scootin’ dance bar a couple blocks South of here.

Chinese chickie is over there, again, with an impossibly high stack of folders and some sort of textbook open in front of her. I swear she’s never looked up, like… really, never. Pre-med? CPA? Is that racist? I don't think so. I do think it's generalizing and nearly racist to say "Oh, they're all smart," when as I can plainly see this girl's focus could almost burn holes in her materials like a magnifying glass over an ant hill on a sunny day.

The cowpokes prolly arrived in some hunk-o-grunt, bashed-up Kia or Hyundai. Either that, or they have one of those mini-pickups with yee-haw stickers all over the back slider windows.

I know I should tip Tilly more than I do because of the time I’m here, but don’t you think it’s weird to tip more than the amount of my check? After all, it’s only coffee. And I only order the side of rye toast to beef-up the tip I do end-up giving her. Who the fuck eats orange marmalade, anyway? Or buys mixed fruit jelly. I mean, have you ever seen a jar of mixed fruit jelly in any store?

Oh, now, there’s a sight! The host has just seated three doper dudes next to the two gay guys who seem to come here after work as waiters somewhere because what other men would wear matching Hawaiian-print shirts and black slacks and be seen in public, even at this time of day.

Let’s see what a bad case of munchies will cause to be delivered to their table by that waitress with fat, tatooed calves. I mean, how can she hustle food for a living and have fat lower legs? Her caboose sure ain’t that big. Damn, that woman needs to see a dentist. She could have been good looking, once. If I win the lottery, I'm giving her a complete makeover, dentist included. There's potential there, I'm tellin' ya.

Looking around, I wonder what these people do for a living. In a perfecter world, you’d think they’d all have night jobs or at least work second shift.

“More coffee, Ray?,” Tilly asks, tilting the pot hovered over my cup.

“I should git, Tilly.”

“Okay, hon. I’ll get your check on my next run.”

“Thanks,” I answer, and begin to gather-up my papers and spiral notebook and folder like sweeping a deck of playing cards into a centralized pile.

I unplug the PC and slip it into its bag, stuff-in my notebook and papers, and make mental notes for my morning ’To Do’ list.

Fat Calves drops a chocolate sundae, order of fries and side of bleu cheese dressing, an iced tea, a small teapot, one coffee, and slice of banana cream pie to the dopers’ table, which makes me chuckle for no known reason.

Tilly drops my check and knows I’ll leave both total and tip here on the table. I rise and give Tilly a wave.

“See ya tomorrow, Ray,” she says with blanked expression born of fatigue and familiarity.

Moving toward the register, I’ve already gotten a cigarette in one hand and my Bic poised to flick once outside.

As I’m walking out with my bag dangling from my shoulder, I take one more glance around the restaurant. I hear sound coming from my mouth and realize I’m muttering “Jesus, these people should really get a life,” as the heel of my hand hits the door and I disappear into the night.