Aimee's window on the world

There’s only a four foot band of window that matters across the front of the coffee shop. From the high counter overlooking the food and drinks preparation area, the bottom half of the window mostly looks out on the gray sidewalk. But in the late afternoon - my usual time if I do stop in for an egg crème - the sun is on its way down, making the colors and shapes from across the street bright, reflecting back into my comfortable cave. Within this particular frame there is little real rhyme or reason to my vision - rectangles of pale yellow, a row of varied newspaper and circular stands line up as if the bagel business at Einstein’s Bros. across the street were booming for boxes. Tree branches and leaves. Cars, catching the waning daylight, drift by soundlessly.

There is nothing to see and yet my eyes are drawn to the light and occasional movement, my mind opens a little with each blink of my eyelids.

Inside are sounds. The machine slushing the ice for smoothies. A coffee grinder grinds. The espresso maker gargles and shushes. And voices - human voices - bouncing vaguely off the walls.

Perhaps, I have failed to mention what might catch your attention if you were the one sitting where I sit, and there’s more that grabs my gaze from time to time, but I have an egg crème to sip. That simple blend of chocolate and milk with soda water and ice has come to satisfy certain moments.

When I was much younger, I worked with kids in an arts and crafts room at a boys and girls club. When nothing more involved had been planned, we made collages. Old picture magazines, scissors and glue – a little imagination, a lot of happenstance. I think ‘Collage’ would make a good name for a coffee shop. This one was called Aimee’s. The large reversed letters arced in a rainbow over the upper right side of the front window – from the inside.

I scribbled on a scrap of paper in between sips of my egg crème. Sometimes I paused to join my voice to a wandering conversation inside. Usually, though, my thoughts came in with me from the sidewalk and often I just sat and let them talk among themselves.

I had met Jen at Aimee’s. That is, she introduced herself to me one afternoon while she worked, making coffee drinks and hash browns and such.

While waiting behind a couple who were ordering ahead of me, I had peaked at a picture of an upcycled wine glass holder in a feature article in GO magazine and had mentioned it to her when my turn came.

Jen, I didn’t know her name yet, had told me she had never noticed the new shop only a block up the street, but when I pointed the picture out to her from the magazine she sounded interested.

That day I ordered a cherry turnover and ice water for a change.

I had stepped around to the high counter, taken off my jacket, and sat down nearly leaning against the wall.

She soon brought over the slightly warmed turnover, and we had chatted a bit while I took bites of the turnover, cherry-red juice, oozing out from under my fork.

I remember that she had plugged her phone into a box next to where I was sitting to listen to some music. She had said she thought I might like some of her choices, too. Jen had turned out to be right about that.

Then she had introduced herself to me and offered me her hand over the counter.

She remembered that I sometimes came into Aimee’s and usually ordered an egg beater. She meant egg crème. Jen would have to get those details right if her application to Tulane Law School was going to be accepted, something else she had mentioned along the way.

Two men who usually sit on benches and planter boxes holding cardboard signs on Mass Street had walked in as I sat thinking, my plate empty, me shaking my glass of ice. I think one of those men ordered some kind of sandwich for them to share. Jen filled a bowl with water for Gabby, the service dog, according the ragged-edged sign I had read many times.

As I sat, sucking on ice cubes, I had recalled that my dad liked to call lawyers, ‘liars.’ He meant it a little and I also think he liked the wordplay a little.

I say that if Jen manages the details and stays as good as I’d seen, she’ll be a good lawyer.

I had watched her make that sandwich from my perch at the high counter, she layering slices of tomato on lettuce on one cut-half of a short loaf of bread, and adding layers of meat and a small handful of shredded cheese on the other piece. After she flipped the two sides together between two steady hands, Jen then sliced the sandwich in half cross-wise. And then, after sticking two long skewers into each half sandwich, she set the two halves into a basket and scooped in several spoonfuls of what looked to me like slaw or potato salad.

Jen had carried the basket back to the two men sitting along the wall at a table behind me. I knew by then I’d be sorry to see her move on from Aimee’s, but the world needs good lawyers too, whatever my dad used to say.

Of course, my dad never had the chance to actually meet Jen. I barely did. I hope she got into Tulane. I would have liked to have bought my dad an egg crème from that young woman. At least he and I could have stared out that window together. Sometimes the colors and the shapes catch my eye in the most peculiar way.

From 'Little Bird'