COFFEE JITTERS

by Jim Woods

On the nights that I had to change the marquee, three times a week, I usually was kept at the theater late enough that I missed the last bus home. When the last movie let out and I had time to run for the bus, I would do so, but when I was too late for the city bus, my walking route home took me by the Greyhound bus station. The Greyhound station had a coffee shop, The Post House, that never closed. Anyone out late around town in Paducah, Kentucky, and in need of a cup of coffee or a sandwich took it at The Post House.

Because of the lateness of the hour those three nights a week, I became a regular at the Post House. The rest of the regulars, all of whom had their own reasons for roaming at night, would greet me as I entered, usually asking me about the new movie that would play the next day. The restaurant accommodated twenty customers on pedestal seats around the L-shaped counter, but seldom more than six or seven seats were taken at my time of night. All loners, but somehow drawn to the lights and casual friendliness of the late-night oasis, no one sat side-by-side with another. I always went to the same seat, as did the other night-owls. No one would have taken my seat on Saturday, Monday or Thursday nights. If a stranger made a move to fill my stool, he would be warned off. I had witnessed such care-taking at times when other regulars were absent. A stranger about to occupy the seat of a "club member" would be informed, "That's Charlie's seat. He's late, but he'll be right along."

The Post House double glass doors cut diagonally across a corner of the all-glass enclosure that defined the coffee shop and separated it from the waiting room. The stools were on a platform one step above floor level. The diners within had their backs to the waiting room.

The usual sparse crowd that Saturday night was interrupted by a commotion just outside the coffee shop doors which were blocked open to catch a little fresh outside air from the main doors to the building, which likewise, were blocked open. It sounded like a good Saturday-night scuffle.

Pretty soon, we heard a gunshot outside, and a man came running through the open main doors, headed down the length of the waiting room, presumably to find safety from his attacker in the restroom. The attacker, whom we recognized as one of the cabbies that parked out front, was in hot pursuit though, punctuating his chase with more shots from his revolver. The pursued individual, thinking better of trapping himself in the closed restroom, circled through the waiting room with his pursuer close behind. Another shot rang out and very quickly the man being chased found his way into The Post House. The cabbie was right on his heels and when the man he chased had no further avenue of escape, the cabbie fired one more time. The man went down halfway onto the stool platform and I pulled my feet off the rail under my own stool and swiveled away to prevent his falling into me.

The cabbie disappeared; we were to find out later to drive himself to the hospital for tending his knife wounds. Much later it came out that the cabbie was the victim of an attempted robbery, this at the well-lighted bus station, possibly the brightest, or most illuminated anyway, place in town that time of night. The cabbie was convicted of manslaughter and served six months. But, back to the Post house on that fateful night . . .

We all realized quickly that we had witnessed a killing. There was no doubt that the man at my feet was dead. The police took our statements and sent us all home. The Post House was closed for the first time anyone could recall.

It was operating as usual by Monday night when I put in my appearance. Instead of the welcoming camaraderie that I had come to expect, my associates were noticeably subdued. I wondered what was going on. Sure, our last meeting had been disrupted but I assumed that, at most, the previous Saturday night might be the subject of conversation, but not a wake. My thoughts were interrupted by, "Nathan, you gotta see this."

The speaker led me out the coffee shop doors, followed by the entire midnight entourage, around the corner of the glass wall where we shuffled to a stop in front of the cigarette machine. The machine had been damaged in the shooting. A bullet, from the shot just preceding the cabbies's final and fatal shot, had pierced the chrome framework of the machine near the top. My eyes were drawn to the glass wall above the machine, to The Post House beyond, to my empty stool. I turned to face the cluster of my colleagues, they nodding in silent affirmation that had the errant bullet ranged less than an inch higher in the wild spree, it would have cleared the cigarette machine and proceeded, undeterred by the plate glass, directly to the space above my now empty stool, space that I had occupied at that crucial time.

The waitress poured somber coffee for all her regulars and didn't ring up a charge up on her cash register. I sipped in silence and once in a while glanced around to see the others similarly engaged. Someone coughed and drew the attention of those seated around him, but he was just clearing his throat and had nothing to say. I finished my coffee, pushed back the cup and saucer, walked out and stopped at the cigarette machine, solemnly touched the bullet hole, waved to my comrades-in-coffee, and walked on home.<