Read Online Seen It All and Done the Rest by Pearl Cleage - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pearl Cleage
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on, enjoying my solitude and wondering if I should fix Zora something special for dinner to tempt her appetite and how far I’d have to go to find some fresh food. It didn’t take long for me to find out. When I turned onto Abernathy, it was already bustling with people on their way to work, doing some shopping, or catching up with friends at the barbershop. The twenty-four-hour salon was as full as it had been the night before. Across the street, I saw a small market that I hadn’t even noticed yesterday that was already welcoming a steady stream of customers. If they had a decent produce section, I was home free. Now all I needed was a cup of espresso and a newspaper. Zora had assured me that the West End News had both.
Stepping inside, I felt like I was suddenly back in Amsterdam, except the cappuccino didn’t come with an invitation to roll your own. There were racks of papers and periodicals from all over the world and students with backpacks ordering the daily special blend to go. There were people sitting at small tables, catching up like Howard and I used to do every day of our lives. At the counter, there were two men who seemed to be regulars arguing about the sorry state of one or another of Atlanta’s sports teams while the large, serene-looking man behind the counter refilled their cups without being asked.
Stacked near the front door were
The New York Times
,
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
,
The Washington Post
, and
The Atlanta Sentinel
. I grabbed one of each. There were also copies of several international papers. I picked up
Le Monde
and the London
Times
and moved over to the counter to place my order.
“Here or to go?” the counterman said with a smile. He reminded me of those fat Buddahs I collected for a while—if Buddah had worn a spotless white apron and a pair of perfectly pressed black pants.
“Here,” I said, looking around for a seat near the window. I spotted a tiny table tucked into a little nook out of the path to and from the counter. It had a perfect view of the street.
The man behind the counter nodded. “I’ll bring it right over.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I sat down and scanned the papers to see which one caught my eye.
The New York Times
and
The Washington Post
were both full of the latest war news.
Le Monde
had French election coverage, and the London
Times
was clucking its tongue over the latest escapades of the doomed Diana’s grown sons. The headline in the
Constitution
trumpeted the city’s declining crime rate and praised the mayor for her innovative approach to community policing. All important stories, but none that seemed particularly suited to accompany my morning caffeine, so I sat back and just gazed out the window. It felt good to be here. I can’t say it felt like home, but it was close enough.
My Buddah with the big white apron came out from behind the counter and brought my espresso, complete with the little lemon twist that isn’t required but is always missed.
“We’ve got some lovely croissants this morning,” he said, trying to tempt me.
“No, thank you,” I said. “This is fine.”
“Well, just let me know if you need anything. I’m Henry.”
“Josephine,” I said.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said, heading back to his post where two girls with backpacks and iPod headphones in their ears were waiting to pay for their coffee. I wondered if they were together and, if they were, if they talked around the music, or just walked along together, each one in her own universe of separate sounds.
I took a sip of the strong, hot brew and realized he knew his customers well enough to spot a stranger immediately. That’s the thing about West End that I always enjoy. It feels more like a small town than a big-city neighborhood with skyscrapers in its backyard and a rapid-rail system carrying people to the busiest airport in the world fifteen minutes away. I wished for a minute that my mother had bought her duplex over here, before
Stepping inside, I felt like I was suddenly back in Amsterdam, except the cappuccino didn’t come with an invitation to roll your own. There were racks of papers and periodicals from all over the world and students with backpacks ordering the daily special blend to go. There were people sitting at small tables, catching up like Howard and I used to do every day of our lives. At the counter, there were two men who seemed to be regulars arguing about the sorry state of one or another of Atlanta’s sports teams while the large, serene-looking man behind the counter refilled their cups without being asked.
Stacked near the front door were
The New York Times
,
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
,
The Washington Post
, and
The Atlanta Sentinel
. I grabbed one of each. There were also copies of several international papers. I picked up
Le Monde
and the London
Times
and moved over to the counter to place my order.
“Here or to go?” the counterman said with a smile. He reminded me of those fat Buddahs I collected for a while—if Buddah had worn a spotless white apron and a pair of perfectly pressed black pants.
“Here,” I said, looking around for a seat near the window. I spotted a tiny table tucked into a little nook out of the path to and from the counter. It had a perfect view of the street.
The man behind the counter nodded. “I’ll bring it right over.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I sat down and scanned the papers to see which one caught my eye.
The New York Times
and
The Washington Post
were both full of the latest war news.
Le Monde
had French election coverage, and the London
Times
was clucking its tongue over the latest escapades of the doomed Diana’s grown sons. The headline in the
Constitution
trumpeted the city’s declining crime rate and praised the mayor for her innovative approach to community policing. All important stories, but none that seemed particularly suited to accompany my morning caffeine, so I sat back and just gazed out the window. It felt good to be here. I can’t say it felt like home, but it was close enough.
My Buddah with the big white apron came out from behind the counter and brought my espresso, complete with the little lemon twist that isn’t required but is always missed.
“We’ve got some lovely croissants this morning,” he said, trying to tempt me.
“No, thank you,” I said. “This is fine.”
“Well, just let me know if you need anything. I’m Henry.”
“Josephine,” I said.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said, heading back to his post where two girls with backpacks and iPod headphones in their ears were waiting to pay for their coffee. I wondered if they were together and, if they were, if they talked around the music, or just walked along together, each one in her own universe of separate sounds.
I took a sip of the strong, hot brew and realized he knew his customers well enough to spot a stranger immediately. That’s the thing about West End that I always enjoy. It feels more like a small town than a big-city neighborhood with skyscrapers in its backyard and a rapid-rail system carrying people to the busiest airport in the world fifteen minutes away. I wished for a minute that my mother had bought her duplex over here, before
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