Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

I wait for him for hours. Then I read a book, drink, light a fire, watch television till there are no more programs on, and get in bed and try to fall asleep.

I’m sitting opposite her. I say “Do you want to?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve time. Waiter?”

“Yes?” he says.

“Check, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, what do you say?” I say to her.

“I still don’t know.”

“You going to make your mind up in the next thirty seconds?”

“Don’t be nasty to me.”

“Waiter?”

“It’s coming right up, sir. I have to write it up first.”

“Forget it for now. Or give it when you feel like it, not to mix you up. But I’d like another cup of coffee.”

“Another cup?”

“Another cup. You?” I say to her.

“I don’t know.”

“Have another.”

“I always get a little high and fidgety with two cups.”

“What’ll it be,” waiter says, “another round for you both?”

“Two cups, just to play it safe,” I say.

Waiter goes. She looks at me.

“Well?” I say.

“Well, what?”

“Well, have you made up your mind?”

The place is crowded. People are waiting for tables. We shouldn’t have ordered more coffee.”

“Come on, answer.”

“I told you, I don’t know. It’s not something I can make up about right away — I mean, my mind, your question.”

“I knew what you meant.”

Waiter brings a coffee pot and pours our coffee.

Thanks,” I say.

“You gave me too much,” she says.

“You don’t have to drink it all,” I say.

“I know, but I didn’t want to waste it. Coffee beans have become expensive.”

“Yeah, but still not as expensive as these restaurants want you to believe. I figured it out once. At least not to warrant eighty to ninety cents a cup.”

“Would you like your check now?” waiter says to me.

“If you don’t have it made out yet, don’t worry.”

“I have it right here.”

“Sure, put it on the table.”

He takes it out of his shirt pocket and puts it down.

Thank you,” he says.

“You too. Thanks. Should I pay you or up front?”

“Up front or me.”

“Which would you prefer?”

“Long as I’m here, and it doesn’t take you too long to check it, you can pay me.”

I look it over. “It seems good.” I give him a twenty and ten and he goes to the cashier with the money and check. People waiting at the door are looking at us.

“What do you mean you figured it out about the coffee?” she says.

The coffee wholesalers, they doubled the price of the beans from what it was a year ago, right? You feel the effect of that by the jump in price of coffee at the supermarket, though I don’t think any of them raised it by more than fifty percent. But restaurants, because most of them also doubled the price of their coffee — you know, the excuse that the wholesalers did it to them — are now getting four to five times the profit they used to for a single cup.”

“But you’re not considering their larger overhead in a year and that all kinds of wages and workers’ benefits and such are more. Cleaning bills for this napkin, tablecloth, the waiter’s jacket, for instance.”

“You’re right.”

“I waitressed for a while, so that’s the reason I know.”

“I know. I wasn’t figuring the rest. Cleaning. Overhead.”

“I still don’t understand how you got four to five times the profit for a cup of coffee when the coffee growers only doubled the wholesale price of it and the supermarkets only raised it by half. It could be you didn’t explain it clearly or it just went past me.”

“No, I think it’s my fault. Let me try again.”

“Here you are, sir,” waiter says, “and have a good night.”

“You mean ‘Here you are, ma’am,’” and I put the tray with the change on it in front of her.

“Oh?” he says. “Well, all right.”

“No, I’m only kidding. That was my money. Tonight was my treat, next week’s hers. Thanks. You’ve been very nice, and this is for you.”

Thank you.” He puts the tip in his pocket, takes our glasses, the spoon she didn’t use and the tray. Our table’s clear except for our cups and saucers, pitcher of milk and sugar — pepper and salt dispensers will stay — and my spoon. He knows I drink it with milk. I pour the milk into the cup and stir it. I drink, she sips. She looks at her coffee.

“I wish I had a spoon,” she says.

“You drink it black.”

“To stir like you. I like to do it.”

“Use mine. I’m finished with it.”

“You used it.”

“Only in my cup. I didn’t stick it in my mouth.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you had. But it has milk on it. I know it’s nutty, but I like my coffee absolutely black.”

“Lick it off,” I say.

That would look ridiculous.”

Then I will.”

“But no milk on it. It has to be licked clean.”

I lick it. It still has some milk on it. I lick it all the way in and out of my mouth, and look at it. It’s clean. I give it to her and she stirs her coffee with it.

“Well?” I say.

Just looks at her coffee and stirs.

“Come on. Do you? Don’t you?”

That question from before?”

“What other questions?”

“You could’ve asked other questions before.”

“I did ask other questions. But I’m asking now about this one, that one, the one.”

“I don’t know.”

“When, then?”

“I don’t like to be pushed or rushed.”

“I haven’t. I’ve asked you and you said you don’t know and you don’t know and you don’t know. And now we’re having another coffee and the customers waiting at the front want our table and the waiter wants us out of here and a question like the one I asked is best answered right here when we’re sitting and comfortable rather than when we’re on the street and cold.”

“Give me a little more time.”

“Everything okay?” waiter says.

“Yes, thanks,” I say. He goes. Busboy takes my empty cup away.

“If I had had it black like yours he wouldn’t have taken my cup.”

That’s why I have it black,” she says.

“To give yourself more time?”

“I don’t know if it’s that. More because I like it black.”

Busboy passes our table again, comes back and takes my spoon.

“I don’t think she’s through with the spoon yet,” I say.

“Oh, sorry.” And to her: “You’re not?”

“I don’t think so.”

He puts the spoon down and goes.

“You could have let him take the spoon,” she says. “I’m through with it.”

“I don’t like them shoving us out of here like that.”

They’re busy. It’s Saturday night. Dinner hour, the night and time they make about forty percent of their week’s tips and the restaurant its earnings and which makes up for all the nights they don’t have that many customers. I should be more understanding of them and just drink up and go.”

“First tell me yes or no.”

“Maybe I should just leave the rest of the coffee and go. I didn’t want a full cup anyway.”

“Yes or no?”

“And you didn’t tip him enough.”

“I gave him exactly fifteen percent.”

“You didn’t. I calculated it. You gave him about thirteen percent.”

“You must be figuring thirteen percent of the total bill plus tax. I gave him fifteen percent before tax.”

“Oh, maybe you’re right.”

“Not maybe; I am. And what do I have to do, consult you about everything at a restaurant?”

“Don’t get snappy again.”

“Why not? You’re more worried about the damn waiter, nice as he is, and the restaurant’s overhead and cleaning costs, than about me or us.”