I needed coffee. The lines in the book were blurring, and I couldn't get but half of the sentences into my brain in any meaningful way.
The small latte cart in the library is a sort of obscene luxury. It made the library feel perverted, like a phone booth in a graveyard, like a dumpster in a nursery, like a cellphone tower in a church steeple. I only bought there out of necessity, having timed my reading down to 1.15 minutes per page, leaving myself just enough time to slam the book closed and run into the classroom before the door closed.
I picked my standard Soy Vanilla Latte, a treat I rarely indulged in anymore since the stomach problems became overwhelming. While the barista cashier steamed away at the Soy Milk, I stared at the allergen information on the backs of the colorful little packages of snacks. I sorted them into two categories: a.) Dairy/Wheat/Verboten, b.) Bland but acceptable. Selecting a cruel mixture of unsalted mixed nuts, shaved coconut, and dried raisins, I stood by the counter with my credit card balanced on the pages of my book, taking in the scent of the old pages mixed with the over-roasted beans.
She set the cardboard cup down with its "ooh"-ing mouth sighing steam into 72 degree air.
"$5.82," she said, tapping the touchscreen of the register.
I held out my card, but didn't look up, and she took it without looking over.
"Now," she mentioned, "my machine has been having connection problems all day, so let me try this." She swiped the card through the reader, and an ominous window popped up. "Still acting up," she said. "There should be a sign over there warning people about it." She craned her neck around the edge of her register to look at the front of the coffee cart where no sign sat except the one with the prices of different cafe concoctions. "I guess they didn't put it up."
She stared at my coffee, the small trail mix, and then back up at me. I closed my book.
"Do you have any other form of payment?"
I stared at my card, still held in her right hand.
"No," I said. My pocket cash was gone from last night's trip to the next nearest major metro for a big game.
"Well, there's supposed to be a sign."
I nodded. I shrugged. I wasn't sure what else to do.
"Well, you can have the coffee, but I can't give you this," she said, lifting the package of fruit and nuts off of the counter and placing it out of reach. I watched it float away.
"Alright," I said, "thanks. If the machine begins working again, will you please let me know? I'd like to pay for these," I said, indicating the coffee and the now distant trail mix.
She nodded, and I turned to go back to my seat, flopping the book back open on my lap.
Coffee will do, that's all I really needed anyway. She was nice to let me have it. Who drinks soy milk if they don't have to?
I sipped the coffee, letting the subtle vegetation flavor in the foam rest on the broad part of my tongue, a ritual I usually engaged in with lattes to check that it was truly made without dairy. I guessed that's where I could taste the milk sugars. There were none.
I read a passage in which the character was considering raping a woman, probably not seriously. I scanned the lines, flicking my eyes over his scattered thoughts. His logic was flawed, but so was the situation, so it was hard to hold him in any low regard, or in any high regard.
The cashier leaned in over my shoulder, and I looked up at her over my glasses. She held out the trail mix, and I regarded it.
"One of the students over there wanted to buy this for you," she said, a faint smile on her face.
"Oh," I said. I leaned out to peer beyond the cashier. She glanced over her shoulder and back quickly.
"They wanted it to be anonymous," she said.
"Oh," I said. I bit my lower lip. "Thanks," I said, "that's really nice."
She nodded, smiling openly now.
Someone had done a good deed, and she had gotten to be a part of it.
I slid the package onto the small wooden table on which my coffee sat and stared at it. It had filberts in it. My father is allergic to filberts. I wondered how many filberts were in it. Probably only a few. I couldn't see any through the tree-shaped window on the bag. It was a tropical mix, apparently. It was manufactured in a plant that also processed dairy, wheat, tree nuts, and soy.
I felt my blush rise, my face going horribly red the way it always does when I get that pressure down to the tip of my nose, or when I'm drinking.
I wondered if the student who bought it realized I was a student, too. A Junior getting a late start in a formal education. I wondered if they thought I was one of the public visitors to the school's library, doing research, or just using the computers to check my email. I wondered if they thought I was one of the homeless men who sometimes visited the library to read the news online.
I straightened my collar, and brushed some of the cat fur off of the cuff of my sweater. There was so much of it, now that I was looking. I wondered if they thought my card was declined. I wondered if they were sitting over there at their table feeling good about themselves, feeling like they did someone a favor. If they were, I knew they would carry that goodness in their pocket for the rest of the night, and finger it under their pillow as they drifted off to sleep, a satisfied smile on their lips.
I opened the bag and ate a raisin. Shame swelled in my chest. I had wanted to pay. I was waiting to pay. I had the ability. I wasn't needy, I didn't ask for this charity. I didn't want it.
I had walked into the library with a sweater I bought in an English Sports shop in Bermuda, the same place that outfitted gentlemen with cricket whites. I wore a pair of designer jeans, my favorite leather sneakers, and a brand new snap-brimmed hat. I was on top of things, all about my business. I had known I was classy and smart.
Now my pride was limping, nursing a blow to the upper thigh.
I wondered if they were praising themselves right now for being a good citizen. I wondered if they were picturing me eating handful after handful, the first food I had eaten in 3 days, my stomach greedily lurching at nutrition.
I thought about setting the bag of fruit and nuts on the table and leaving, but instead I took a bite of shredded coconut, ate an almond, a date piece, a chunk of papaya. Soon all that remained in the bag was the single filbert I had been warned about. I pulled it from the small tear I had made in the bag, and stared at it.
Filberts are ugly. They're hard, and they have no moisture in them. They crumble into dust in your mouth, and they smell like that Belgian chocolate that always gives me a headache.
I placed the filbert on my molars, and bit down, feeling it shatter.
I pictured them watching me crunching the nut I typically avoid, though I've never had an adverse reaction to it. I pictured them staring across the room at me, one pair of anonymous eyes keeping vigilant watch over their ward, placing their hand over their mouth, and smiling as I brought each bite to my mouth. I pictured them lifting their eyes up to the heavens and blinking reverently, thinking of that piteous fellow who had his heart set on trail mix.
There, but for the grace of God, go I.
