The Coffee Cantata

"Doug?"

"Hey, it's my favorite patient! How's the sun treating you?" he asked as he sat across from her.

"It feels a little like heaven today. The air is just crisp enough, you know, yet the sun bakes the cool away. I could sit here forever."

"Nothin' like LA on a day like this. It's the cream in my coffee."

"So, what brings you to the neighborhood?"

"My dad. He's got COPD, he's in CHF, uh, emphysema and heart failure. He's not doing too well, I guess you'd say."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. How's your mom taking it?"

"Oh, she's strong. Old world, know what I mean?"

"No, not really."

"She was a kid when they came over, refugees, during the war. They had relatives in LA, made it here in '43. I think the journey was something else, Greece to North Africa, then Brazil and over the Andes, finally up to California on a freighter."

"How old was she?"

"I think around ten, when she got here, anyway. Took them years, I think."

"She met your dad here?"

"Yeah, in college," he said, pointing at the campus across the street. "He went into business, she went into medicine?"

"Oh?"

"Yup, she taught general medicine for years, supervised residency for internists, had a practice in the village. She was the bright one, and they're still devoted to each other, always have been."

"She came from Greece?"

"Yup, her family left when the Italians and Germans moved in. You want to talk to her about all this, I'm sure she'd love to."

"Yes, maybe, if she feels like it?"

"She misses working, so any excuse to get out and shoot the breeze is a welcome distraction. So, what are you doing these days?"

"Oh, I'm working at that little coffee shop down on Weyburn."

"No kidding? How long have you been doing that?"

"A couple of weeks? Not quite, but..."

He turned professional, his eyes serious. "Any fever, any night sweats?"

"Some night sweats, yes. But not often."

"Okay, you're coming with me. Time for some lab-work."

"Oh, do I have to," she said, purposefully pouting -- just like any other five year old girl.

"You can tuck that lower lip back in. Now come on," he said, looking at his watch, "let's get you dressed."

He helped her up and walked with her to the little apartment, and he waited for her while she dressed, looking out the window of her apartment -- watching his mother across the way, looking down at the pool, then at him. She was standing by the window in their living room, and he could see the scowl on her face from here, that scowl etched in oldest memory -- her lips always curved just so -- when she knew he was about to do something really stupid.

+++++

She felt much better the next morning, and one of her regulars stopped by the register on his way out -- and he smiled at her. "You look really good this morning, Lindsey," he said.

She looked at the man; he was really fat but she thought she recognized him, something about his eyes, then she remembered she'd never mentioned her name to him. She went to clear off his table, saw he'd left a little note and a fifty dollar tip, and she went to the window, watched him disappear down the sidewalk.She noticed he was wearing shorts, and she saw a scar on his leg. Pale and waxy-pink, like a long snake standing up the side of his leg, and she thought it looked angry, like a bad memory that just wouldn't go away.

She finished cleaning his table and went back to the counter, the fifty dollar bill he'd left in her hand. She walked over to Sara, gave her the fifty, and she listened while Lindsey told her about the exchange.

"You really don't get it, do you?" Sara sighed. "About half the men who come in here every morning come here to see you."

"What?"

Sara shook her head. "You know, since second grade every boy around seems to look at you just once and decide life would be a whole lot better if you were a part of it."

"Sara? What are you talking about?"

"God, you are so clueless. Go put on some French roast, would you?"

So she got back to work, getting ready for the mid-morning, professorial rush, but at one point she saw a student come in and sit by the window -- and something caught her eye. He pulled a book out of his weatherbeaten rucksack, it's red slipcover instantly recognizable. Her book, her book about the economic realities of life in working class America, and she turned away from the memory of the time she'd spend 'undercover' doing research. He was reading the book, she saw, her photo on the back sleeve standing out like a light house on a dark night, and she tried to ignore the boy. Perhaps an hour later he left, yet he never stopped to say anything to her. She wondered if her appearance had changed all that much and decided she really didn't care.

And a little after noon, Doug came in.

He came up to the counter and looked around, studiously trying to ignore her.

"I didn't know you make sandwiches here. What's good?"

"I like the chicken salad. It's got undertones of curry, and pecan."

"Okay. What should I have with it?"

"Iced coffee and tabouli."

"Done."

"I'll bring it out to you."

"Gracias."

"Por nada."

He took a seat at a table by the windows and pulled out a phone, scanned his email and she made his coffee, fixed his sandwich, then took it out to his table.

"How you feeling today?"

"Good."

"You look good. Your color's better, too. You kind of had me spooked yesterday."

"Did I?"

"Could you sit for a minute? While I eat, anyway?"

She looked at Sara -- who motioned "SIT!" -- and she laughed, sat in the chair by his side.

"Damn, this ain't half bad," he said after he took a bite.

"I hope not. I made it."

He looked at her, thought for a moment, then turned away.

"Doug? What's on your mind?"

"You, actually."

"Me?"

"I finally finished your book a couple nights ago. Wasn't quite what I expected, either."

"Oh?"

"Mississippi? You moved to Mississippi for six months, then West Virginia? Lived in flop-houses and worked all that time, in laundromats?"

"That's the epicenter, Doug. Where things are bad. Real bad. You don't learn by standing on the outside, looking in. You have to live the life to really understand it."

"Yeah, I get that."

"Have you ever practiced medicine out in the boondocks? Or overseas?"

He shook his head. "I've only been outside of LA on vacation, and only a couple of times, at that."

"Ever thought of going to the front lines? West Africa maybe, or Southeast Asia?"

"No."

"Do you want to? Did you ever want to?"

"Once," he sighed. "Yeah, once upon a time I really wanted to do all that."

"What happened?"

He snorted, turned away. "I got married, then applied for a mortgage and found I had three kids under the Christmas tree one morning. Should I go on?"

"No," she smiled, "not unless you want to."

"Everything changed, I guess, after all that. All my hopes and dreams."

"Everything changed? I wonder...did you change, too?"

"You're not, like, a shrink or something, are you?"

She laughed a little. "No, but I could probably use one."

"Oh?"

"I could never stand to see injustice, social injustice, and just turn away. I've always wanted to understand it. Not just how people endure living in an oppressed state, but how other, more fortunate people can look at that reality -- then turn away."

"And, what have you learned?"

"That I'll never understand humanity."

He laughed again, then looked at her. "You're not joking, are you?"

"No. I'm not."

"So, what's next? Are you going to write some more?"

"I am."

"About your walk?"

"Yes, in part."

"And after that?"

"I don't know. Learn something useful. Go back to Bhutan."

"And do what?"

"Build a hospital, maybe."

"Something really touched your soul out there, didn't it?"

"Life finally reached into me and took a look around. I think it found me wanting."

"And how would you fix that?"

"I think I'll learn to listen better."

"You're going to hate me for saying this, but I have to. I'm madly in love with you."

"You'd have to be a little mad to say that, I guess."

He nodded his head. "I know."

"Why?"

"I wish I knew. Something to do with moths and flames, I suspect."

"Or, perhaps, Icarus?

"Or Icarus."

"Tell me about your wife. Madeleine, is that her name?"

"Yes. She's, well, she likes to play cards. She likes to shop on Rodeo Drive. She likes her Jaguar."

"And she's sexy as hell, too. Isn't she?"

He nodded his head. "Of course she is."

"Oh, how have the mighty fallen. Is that it?"

"No."

"Of course. She's what you always wanted."

"Until I didn't. Yes."

"That's a helluva place to find yourself in."

She watched him finish his sandwich, and she liked watching him. There was something innocent, almost boyish in his movements, and she smiled when he finished. "Can I get you some more coffee?"

"No, I've got appointments in an hour, then rounds. Will you be home around four?"

She nodded her head.

"How much to get square with the house?"

"I'll get it -- this time," she said, smiling.

"And I'll get the next one?"

"Sure. If you like."

"Well. Gotta go."

"Yup. Seeya."

She cleaned the table after he left, then walked back to the counter -- only to find Sara and Melody waiting for her. Impatiently, it seemed to her.

"Well?" Sara said, leaning on the counter.

"Well what?"

"How'd it go?"

"He's my doctor, Sara."

"He couldn't take his eyes off you," Melody said.

"Yup," Sara added, "he's got it bad."

"Jeez," Linsey sighed, "he's married, you guys."

"And did I hear him say," Melody said, almost giggling, "that he's madly in love with you?"

"He said that about my book."

"Uh-huh, sure," Sara grinned, "like I believe that, too."

"Can I help with the dishes?"

Sara turned, looked at the clock. "Nah, I got it. Why don't you head home, get some rest."

"I need to go to the grocery store," Lindsey said, "if you have time to run me over."

"Why don't you buy a car?" Melody asked.

"I don't need the hassle, or the headache," she said.

"But you need a ride to the grocery store?"

"Never mind."

"Oh, come on," Sara said. "I need a few things too. Melody? Can you hold down the fort 'til I get back?"

"Sure."

They went out back, to Sara's Audi, and they rode over to Century City in silence. She got a few necessities and a couple bottles of wine -- and a bunch of flowers -- then they got in the car to drive back to her apartment.

"I know Doug," Sara said a few minutes into the drive.

"Oh?"

"I know his wife, too."

Lindsey looked at her friend, wondered where this was going.

"She's pretty, but real mercenary. She was a cheerleader, of all things, and sweet as could be. He never knew what hit him."

"And she just doesn't understand him, I guess."

"Oh, no, she understands him alright. My guess is she'd like nothing more than to catch him having an affair, too. But then again, I think she fucks every twenty year old pool man, every tennis instructor, and every plumber she can get her mouth on."

"What? How do you know all this?"

"Same country club, sweetie. The jungle telegraph doesn't lie. And I've known them both for years."

"What about Doug? I don't really know him."

"He played linebacker here, was an All American, played in two Rose Bowls. Went straight on to med school, again, here, finished his training downtown, at County SC. He's been on the front lines of the AIDs epidemic, made his name there. Liz Taylor loved him, thought he walked on water. He fights for his patients, and if he doesn't know something, he finds the answer, fast. He's kind of famous around here too, in some circles, anyway."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, he's not a social animal. He'll help raise money for charities, but he doesn't go to the balls, if you know what I mean."

"Madeleine doesn't like that, I guess."

"Like I said, she's mercenary. She's in it for the money, and whatever prestige she can wrangle off him. I'm pretty sure he's miserable, from the little I've heard, anyway. My advice? Be careful, be careful of her."

Lindsey laughed a little. "No need. I can't imagine getting involved with anyone at this stage of life?"

"Yeah? Tell me, when was the last time you were involved with anyone?"

Lindsey looked out the window, shrugged her shoulders.

"Yeah," Sara said. "That's just about what I thought."

+++++

She heard the knock on the door a little before five, and she went to let him in.

"Are you cooking," he asked.

"A little something, in case. I have some wine, if you'd like."

"I didn't want you to go out of your way."

"I was going to fix something for dinner anyway. I made a little extra."

He went to the sofa and sat, then leaned back and sighed.

"Tough day at the office, dear?"

He laughed. "Kind of. It's like the hard cases never end, never stop coming. Like yours. The bugs you had running around in your system were exotic, stuff we never see over here. I was online talking with docs in London ten hours a day, for a week, too, trying to get to the bottom of it. Trouble is, it seems like that's happening with more frequency now, and with new antibiotic-resistant bugs popping up almost daily, it's just getting worse."

"Sara told me you're like that. Tenacious, I think, was the word."

"Sara?"

"She owns the coffee shop."

"Oh. Whiteman. Yeah, I've seen her at the country club. And what else did Little Miss Sara have to say?"

"She gave me the rundown. Your wife, what she knows, anyway. And a little about you."

"Well, hell, you opened the door so it can't be all that bad."

She laughed.

"You want the unvarnished version?"

"Sure."

"She fucked around, a lot. Then she tested positive."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

"You're treating her?"

"Nope. Ethically not possible. We live on opposite sides of the house, her treatment is supervised by a colleague in my department."

"Your kids?"

"Two in college, one," he said, looking away, "is still in high school."

"I mean, do they know -- about the HIV?"

He nodded his head. "Yup. We told 'em a few years ago."

"What they must have gone through," she whispered.

"They're good kids. Better than good, really."

She looked him in the eye, and she could see his honest love for them, feel his concern. "Well, I've made a Caesar salad, sliced some apples and cheese, and broiled a little steak. You want to open the wine?"

"You know, that sounds really good..."

When they finished the dishes and put away the leftovers, he went to the sofa again and stretched out, and before she knew what had happened he was out for the count -- on his side and breathing heavily. She went to the closet and covered him with a blanket, then sat in the chair by the sofa and watched him sleep -- until she too fell away.

+++++

He came in early the next morning...the man in shorts with the long, waxy scar on his leg...and she watched him as he came to the counter...

"Good morning, Lindsey," he said when it was his turn. "Howya doin' this fine day?"

"Good," she said, "and I'll be a whole lot better as soon as you tell me your name!"

Yet he seemed hurt by that, and almost looked away. "John Asher? Ring any bells?"

"John!" she said, then she ran out from behind the counter and into his arms. "My God, that beard! I can hardly tell it's you!" She hugged him for all he was worth, her joy genuine, her surprise complete. "Now...what on earth are you doing here?"

Asher had been in the Overseas Bureau at the Times, and might have been considered a world class journalist if not for his comically ironic anti-intellectualism. His book, unmasking the origins of right wing death squads in El Salvador -- and America's hidden role in the assassination of Archbishop Óscar Romero -- had garnered his first Pulitzer -- yet the paper let him go a year later, claiming that his choice of subject matter was dangerously disingenuous, his investigative methods frequently incendiary, and not altogether ethical.

Yet while they were at the Times together they had renewed a personal relationship that had been killed a long time ago -- and they remained friends until she went 'undercover' -- doing research for her own book. By the time she came back he'd been discharged, and then disappeared -- to the Middle East, some said, while others claimed he'd gone to ground in Middle Earth -- and was tripping out on magic mushrooms. Still, she remembered him now for what he had always been.

A friend. And more than a friend -- from the earliest moments of her life. She remembered Asher -- Asher the class clown -- yet he had also been the agent-provocateur, the saboteur who taped condoms all over blackboards in the religious studies classroom -- just before a local evangelical group was due to arrive for a lecture. Who covered all the toilets with clear plastic wrap -- in the faculty restroom -- causing a mess of near biblical proportions to spread out across the floors. Who flushed waterproof blasting caps down toilets, blowing up pipes and sending tidal flows of raw sewage into first floor classrooms. He'd been an anarchist, and to school administrators, the anti-Christ -- yet he was brilliant, and had -- at times --an endearing, compassionate soul.

And like Lindsey, he had possessed a passion for exposing injustice, for shining bright lights on the dark underbelly of power. When he taped condoms over chalk-borne words, it was because he wanted to the world to know the preacher giving a talk that day was a pedophile. When he covered toilets with clear plastic wrap, he wanted teachers to know he could see the shit they were trying to peddle as truth. And when he filled the school with sewage? Well, perhaps, Lindsey thought, Asher was simply telling it like it was.

He'd gone on to Columbia, to it's famed Journalism School, then had come home. He covered the downtown beat for the Times, everything from politics to the struggles faced by the homeless, but he stirred up so much trouble the publisher had him promoted to the national desk. That lasted a year, lasted long enough for the White House to send a note to the publisher asking that Asher be sent to the North Pole, or perhaps Antarctica. So he had ended up in El Salvador, ostensibly to cover the simmering conflict in Nicaragua, then he discovered the conflict between the Salvadoran government and Óscar Romero. He photographed bodies of murdered nuns, and the savaged bodies of teenaged protesters when they were discovered in landfills.

Then one night he discovered links between the Salvadoran military and US Special Forces, rivers of dark money siphoned from obscure political organizations in Florida and Delaware being used to pay squads of mercenaries operating in Salvadoran villages. Mercenaries who rounded up protesters in the middle of the night, who drove them into fields and gunned them down. When he photographed a series of massacres, and got them published in the United States, assassins tried, and failed, to take him out. The bureau's office in San Salvador was firebombed, and reporters from all news organizations fled the region until the government issued assurances they wouldn't be targeted. And assurances were issued, with one notable exception: Asher was now persona non grata, unwelcome in the region.

By the time his chronicle of Romero's assassination came out, the Times had had enough. He was trouble, a born troublemaker, and his antics had apparently compromised the paper's integrity, not to mention reporters' lives. When governments applied pressure, and that was that.

He had languished as a freelancer after that, but the 90s were not, in general, a good time for investigative journalists of any ilk. Corporate takeovers reduced the moral integrity of editorial offices, and reportorial skills began to slip away as papers began to focus on delivering content suitable to advertisers, and not to the needs of an informed populace.