Sak · Maps

Tip Jar

03.08.10 13:06
Section: Maps
Filed Under: Copyright - Sak, Vignette

“Hi. What can I get for you?” She said.

“Oh, you already have,” he said.

Once, when walking by, he made the mistake of thinking that the stand was closed. It was raining, gray, and miserable. He was huddled over, with his hands in the pockets of his jacket and the hood pulled over his head. While waiting for the light to change, he glanced up at the stand and saw this perfectly tanned, toned, young body displayed in the window. At least, its backside anyway. Through the wind and rain haze he saw only the skin and the lines; the black bra and tight, tiny boy-shorts that formed a heart-shaped crest, perched on the ledge of the service window. He thought it was a mannequin, an inflatable sex doll; that is, until he was less than a dozen feet from the stand, passing by, and it moved. Then he laughed to himself.

She stood there watching him. No disdain in her poise or manner, just patiently waiting to see what he’d do, or what he wanted. She had on a tiny, blue top, its silky texture shimmered in the sun and propped her b-cups up into little round mounds of succulent fat. A line of muscle tone chased her belly down to the sparkling jewelry that hung from her naval.

She thought about the local radio interview, and mentioning the weird ones. This guy might be one of the weird ones. Of course, there were all kinds that stopped by the stand. Married men, blue collar, white collar. Sometimes they’d bring their wives. Occasionally, the kids from the high-school up the street would linger, but only at a distance, by the street corner, where they were in view of the window but trying not to be obvious that they were checking her out. There were also the single guys that went out of their way to impress; regulars, leaned back loud behind the wheel, talking about the new rims on their car or truck while she prepared their Americano. Come to think of it, maybe she’d seen this guy before, walking by? He had an easy look on his face, confident, not practiced, and a casual smile of pure appreciation as he looked her over; eyes that shown like stars with soft lines that burst out across his temples.

“Thanks,” he said, bowed his head slightly, and crammed a five into the tip jar.

“You don’t…want a coffee?” She said.

“No thanks. I don’t drink coffee.” He turned and started walking away, turning back to smile one more time and wave. “Have a great day!” As he looked back, the shimmer of her top smoothed over the day like ice-cream in a soft-drink.

He merged back into the sidewalk. Back into the days, the weeks, the months. The station fueled the cars, and the girls served coffee from their little stand. Some nights they’d accidentally forget the jar of stale, shrink-wrapped cookies sitting out on the window ledge. Bums would muster behind the stand, next to the dumpster, leaving behind trash, piss, and empty beer cans. Once or twice a week he glided by on whatever breeze, aged and aching. But the girls were always young and sensual for the tip jar.