by Peter Sassi

I just started my solo cross-country drive in my beater, air conditioning-free, tattered shell-of-its-former-self Mercedes. I stopped in a California Gold Country town for gas and noticed a lonely cafe across the street. I had a long drive ahead, and the cafe’s name — Coffee Time— was so straightforward that I did not resist its call.
When I walked in, my steps echoed. Half of the lights worked. No customers populated the tables, and one woman held down the coffee bar. She had a name tag, but no name on the tag. Lean and wearing a wide, low, flat-brimmed hat, I imagined that she was born into that coffee bar, grown up there, and was presently growing old there.
“Welcome in young lady,” she mumbled. “What can I get you?”
“I don’t see a menu board… uh…”
“Ab. Short for Abigail. We don’t have a board. The way it works here is you tell me what you want and I make it,” Ab directed.
“Do you have oat milk?” I suspected not, given the dustiness of the town.
“Oat, almond, non-dairy, cow, goat. Fat-free, Fat full, 2%. You order it, I make it,” Ab said.
I smiled, loving that my suspicions shattered on the spot.
“How about an oat milk latte? Large? And one of those cookies?” I queried.
“You order it, I make it. But I don’t recommend those cookies. Maybe just the latte.”
I chuckled. “Sounds good.”
Ab was a wiz behind the bar, and I had my latte in no time.
I sat down and pulled out my phone. No emails or texts from him. Good. The other emails asked for my dollars. Since I didn’t have many of those, I deleted those emails. I skipped along to social media.
Ab cleaned her coffee machine, leaving me alone to scroll while I sipped. The latte exceeded expectations.
An older man entered Ab’s cafe. His thin gray hair gave way to a scruffy gray beard. He was hunched a little and shuffled when he walked. He wore jeans and an old flannel shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal a threadbare V-neck t-shirt. The soles of his boots looked solid, but the uppers sported all kinds of stains. Unlike Ab, he had some heft.
I like to guess ages, but this man was anywhere between 60 to 75. It is hard to tell these days.
“Ab,” the man said matter-of-factly. He knew her.
“Corn,” Ab replied. She knew him.
“Costa Rican Black, Ab, and one of those cookies.”
I looked up, waiting for Ab to correct his order. But she didn’t.
Ab served Corn’s black coffee and cookie in a moment. He nodded his thanks to her and sat at a table. He played with the sugar in a small white package but did not open it.
Corn caught my eye.
“I don’t know you,” Corn pointed out.
“I don’t know you,” I replied.
“You kind of look like you could be from around here. But you’re not,” Corn observed.
“I’m not. You?” I played along.
Corn laughed. “Ab, what do you think? Am I from around here?”
“Nowhere else,” Ab confirmed.
Looking me over in that old-fashioned way, Corn said, “You’re rather pretty. Unkempt, but pretty.”
I did not reply.
“Ab,” Corn continued, “what do you think? Is this young lady pretty?”
Ab confirmed again. “Oh, yes.” Ab’s enthusiasm surprised and lifted me.
“Beautiful, actually,” Corn corrected.
“I see that,” Ab concurred.
Unsure, I replied. “Thank you both?” I was raised to say thank you when complimented.
After a beat, Corn said, “I was beautiful once.” He snapped his cookie in half.
“Oh?” I played along again.
“More than once. For quite a few years actually. Can you see that, young lady?”
“Maybe if I squint nice and hard. If you combed your hair, and shaved that beard, just maybe.” I joked gently. My dad used to complain about looking older, but he kept a lot of gray on his face, too. I always told him it was an easy equation. Shave it off, look younger. He never did.
“Quite a few years.” It was his turn to squint. “When I was beautiful, I was fit. My head was full of soft curly hair. Almost to my shoulders. My clothes draped nicely. My step was easy and long. I got what I wanted.”
“And romances?” I asked.
“I got what I wanted. Every time, when I was beautiful. I had my choice of partners. And I made those choices enthusiastically.”
“A trail of broken hearts?” I wondered.
“Yup.” He paused. “I regret the pain I caused, I guess. I can’t make that up to any of those women. More regret to that, really, than to the pain itself,” he claimed and took a sip of his Costa Rican Black. “You’ve broken some hearts.”
“One,” I admitted.
“Ah, a fresh cut. It will pass. And then you’ll find a new one. It is easy for the beautiful ones. Until it is not,” Corn explained. He snapped the cookie again.
“Ab,” he asked “do you make these out of plywood? Ugh, inedible.”
“You’ve had them before, old man,” Ab replied. “You knew what you were getting into when you ordered it.”
“Was Ab ever one of those broken hearts?” I inquired.
Ab laughed loudly.
“No. Even when I was beautiful, Ab had no interest. And I steered clear of her,” Corn explained.
Ab laughed again as she poured herself some Costa Rican Black.
Corn continued. “When I was beautiful, I mattered. People listened. They laughed when I laughed. Some even found me interesting.”
“Not so much anymore,” Ab chimed in.
“I’m not beautiful anymore. But, when I was beautiful, people wanted to touch me. I miss the casual touch on my shoulder. From all kinds. Do you know what it is like to forget the electricity of the human touch?”
I did not reply.
“No. You wouldn’t. Yet.”
Corn breathed deeply and looked out the window for a moment.
“When I was beautiful, they all thought that I had a future. I probably did, then. The world was ahead, and favored me.”
“How?” I asked.
“When I was beautiful, people wanted to be with me. It was easier for them to be with me if they agreed with me, or if they gave me things — or joy. So, with all of that coming my way, the world favored me. You know the feeling.”
“I do?”
“Admit it to yourself, while you can. Because it turns off like a switch. One day you’re old, or your pants don’t fit, or your hair thins, or you’re disheveled. Your knee hurts. Any of those, and you’re done. You stop registering on people’s radars. You are like the summer pop song that people can’t get enough of, and then all of a sudden — poof — it’s gone.”
I pulled on my waistband. Was it tighter than yesterday?
Corn continued. “People walk right by you. They don’t say hello. It is like they don’t even see you. Because they don’t. The same ones who used to stare when I was beautiful, now don’t even know you’re there. You’re not a ghost. Not an apparition. You don’t have a spirit because you’re not there.”
“I love your drama,” I let Corn know.
“It is not drama. It is tragedy. When you say hello, and people don’t even turn their heads. When I was beautiful, I didn’t need to say anything, and heads turned.” Corn said.
I realized that was the case for me now. Was I beautiful? I fought it. “I think you are overstating beauty’s power. You know they say that just beauty is not enough. It takes a beautiful soul, and an inquisitive mind too.”
“They do, they do. And a good soul certainly helps,” Corn answered. “Only ‘they’ only count on the soul if they aren’t beautiful, or are now beautiful. Those that have lost their beauty never say that. They know different. Because they’ve lost what others don’t have.”
“But plenty of people stay beautiful now,” I told Corn.
“What, those old celebs? They have armies of people making them appear beautiful. People whose very existence depends on making those celebs stay beautiful. I don’t have that team,” Corn explained.
“Well, Corn, if you bothered to develop a personality back in the day, or some wit, or a modicum of intelligence, or once helped someone, maybe you’d still be noticed. Or put in some exercise, even,” Ab chimed in.
“Maybe. But I didn’t need to. I played to my strengths,” Corn noted.
“And see where that has gotten you!” Ab pointed out.
Silence filled the cafe for a few minutes.
“I’m going to get going,” I broke the stillness and finished my oat milk latte.
“Yes,” said Corn.
“Thank you,” Ab said flatly. But she also gave me a wink.
When my hand touched the door on the way out, Corn called out to me, “Stay beautiful, if you can.”
Once I passed to the other side of the door, however, I overheard heard him say to Ab, “But you can’t.”
On my way to my dilapidated vehicle, I passed a young man on the street and called hello to him. He looked right past me like my voice created no soundwaves at all.