The Wilde Roast

by Michael K. Gause

I'm sitting at the Wilde Roast Cafe in one of those states that can only be described as precipiced, verging. Great stone truths have been waiting just beyond my daily grind. Loitering around the fireplace at lunchtime, waiting for a fitting victim, one of them just happened to see me tipping the waitress generously. Sometimes it is just your turn.



When karma lines up the planets for you, it does not pay to blink. If you're lucky you catch a glimpse of the way things really are behind the curtain. In this comfortable, pretentious cafe today I can see the words and movements around me as if scripted. I see clearly what they mean, and what they are supposed to mean, and in a place like this, you wouldn't believe the chasm between the two.



"Next time, Judy, you simply MUST show us the bracelet!"



Spoken loudly, and in that unmistakable, tight Minnesotan dialect; such talk is not frowned upon here. Such urban egoists are the validation, if not the success of this place, and being seen here is nothing short of strategic. It's an ascending symbiosis of victory after victory. I take a sip of my espresso and remember my mother had a bracelet, and it was a cheap piece of second-hand crap. Costume jewelry Š I learned the term early on, since it applied to whole of my mother's accessorizing. She never showed it off. Why would she? She wore all her clothes with the same humility she would have in a soup kitchen. My mother, the saint amid rich lepers. In her thoughts she would all but wash their feet, and would do that before ever casting a single aspersion. This made her untouchable, the same way her bent brass necklace never seemed to tarnish. Those words, hauntingly fresh in my head:



"Next time, Judy..."



Next time my mother would pay, again. Another hidden meal of government cheese on stale bread, so Santa could find our house again this year.



"...you simply MUST show us..."



Yes, Mother, show us. Show us the way. At 70, how you are now stronger than we will ever be. With your knotting hands, show how you move continents with a single modest glance down.



"...that bracelet."



This old thing?

Your dad bought me this when we first started dating.

It's cheap, but I love it.



Sometimes it is just your time. A simple act of kindness at the right time, and it is returned to you sideways. So next time you are at the cafˇ, keep your senses peeled, give karma a reason to notice you and while you're at it, try a double ristretto.