FICTION
Last Straw

His son finally came across and sat down with his drink, the Patagonia parka making as much noise as the chair.
He shrugged. “Rwanda Sholi.” He paused. “Shot of Ristretto. Two pumps of Honey Blend.”
The older man raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just . . . what’s all that about?”
He shrugged.
“Rwanda what?”
“Sholi. It’s women. They grow coffee in Rwanda after, you know.”
He nodded.
“Supposed to be like cherry and toffee flavored, but.”
“Sometimes I think wine snobs have been replaced by baristas and marketing guys.”
The son smiled a little. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“Can I try it?”
Another shrug. He slid the steaming paper cup across the table.
The father sniffed. “Ah, yes, the ‘odeur de molass-ay’ is a prelude to the nuanced joy of social justice.”
No smile for this, so he sipped. Set the cup back down, returned it. “Now that’s either the most subtle trifle of flavor or the best storytelling I’ve heard in a while. All I taste is that honey sugary crap.”
Another shrug, and the son shifted in the chair and took a long hit. “Either or.”
“What do you mean?”
“Either or, I mean. It’s one or the other, isn’t it?”
Now his turn to shift a bit. His left hand checked for the phone in his pocket before he remembered he had it turned down on the table in front of him. His own cup of undoctored dark roast steamed quietly next to it, still untouched.
“No. It doesn’t have to be.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
He didn’t answer. Looked across at the women with the straws, three of them now in strands. Whatever they were going on about, the stakes were getting higher.
“Sneaky,” he said quietly. “I was going to be the one to bring it up.”
“What else was gonna bring you all the way out here.”
“Come on. To see my son.”
Back to the shrug.
He sighed. “Yeah. What the hell. That, too. I mean, probably mainly that. I just–I want you to understand what you’re getting into.”
“Or what I won’t be.”
“There’s just so many opt . . . “ but that sentence trailed off quickly. They’d been down that road before. “I want you to think it through. Regrets later would–”
“Right.”
“Right.” He picked up the dark roast but set it down again. He saw one of the lights in the hall leading to the restrooms snap and buzz in a slow ritual of burnout. He eyes stared at the back of his phone.
“Have you talked to Dr. Harrington about it?” he asked.
“Harringwood. Phil? No. Haven’t seen him.”
“What do you mean you haven’t seen him?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“Can’t he make time for you? What’s the–”
“I. Haven’t. Seen him.” Another long drag on the plastic lid. “Besides, it wouldn’t change anything. I already know everything he’d say. You don’t think I haven’t run it through?” He pointed to his head.
“I’m sure you have.”
“Right.”
“You know. I just want to be sure that you are clear with it.”
“You think I’m not clear. How haven’t I been clear?”
“I mean.”
“I know. You think Phil can ‘clear me up’ with a new scrip or something. No, man. I am lucid.”
“Hmm.”
The shrug again. Over his son’s shoulder, a manager went over to chat with the Can Man. Probably a friendly hint to move on. Cold weather or no. What choice did he have?
“How’s classes?”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. I guess I don’t understand.”
“No.”
“You know. Your classes, your choices, your future. This here. Right now. It means something about what happens. Later.”
“You do understand.”
“I was reading. You know. Online. They say it’s reversible. If you decide later.”
“I won’t. And it’s about 50/50. It doesn’t matter.”
“That’s not what you want.”
“No?”
“No. That’s not what you want.”
“What do I want?”
The parka creased. “You came out here. You came to tell me.”
“What?”
“You want me to make you happy.”
“That’s not it.”
“No?”
“No.”
Can Man shuffled toward the door, a fresh cup in his hands. The two women engaged now in a fierce whispering contest. The second woman waved largely at the ceiling, the cafe.
“What do I want?”
“You don’t care about my future.” His son had been looking at him all along. “Only when you think it’s yours.”
“Ours,” he heard himself say.
His son smiled again, but more in self-satisfaction. “Even that ain’t it.”
“You see those women?” he finally said.
“Yeah.” Back to disinterest.
“What do you think they’re talking about?”
“What do you think they’re talking about?”
“They’re talking about sea turtles. They’re talking about the environment. And plastic straws from Starbucks. One of them is trying to save the turtles. The other one. She’s telling her I think, ‘Cutting up all these straws won’t change anything.’”
“I’m not trying to change anything.”
“No?”
“No.”
This coffee place. He’d never been here, but they were all the same. “These universities. They all want–”
“It’s not about that. Shit. It’s like you said. That’s just marketing. Just story. I can drink this Sholi. That’s all right. But I know it doesn’t change anything. Nothing does.”
“Nothing does?”
“And that’s the point, isn’t it? Nothing’s going to change it.”
“That’s not why you’re doing it?”
“Nothing. I’m not saving turtles. Your future is yours. Mine is mine.”
“There won’t be anyone after.”
The shrug. “Sure there will. Just not. You know.”
The manager turned and saw the growing pile of snipped straws between the two women, began the walk over. He stood; he knew. Watched Can Man disappear under the darkening winter clouds.
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