Hunter and I ambled out to the car on a cloudy summer day, stoned as hell; but I was good to drive. His wife had asked us to run to the market for food while she stayed with the dog in my cabin. It had been a fun, relaxing night and a wake and bake morning. But it was going on the afternoon and the munchies were drizzling fatigue over us. So Hunter got into the passenger seat and I turned the key in the ignition.
“This is cool,” he told me. “We never get to chill one on one.”
“I know, right?” I responded. “Bonding time, what what!”
The store was only a couple miles down the road, so our Tom Waits discussion ended early when we pulled up. It was a small country deli and convenience store, run by Ahmad, who always greeted me with a “Hey buddy!” and a handsome smile. We smiled back and did our best to feign sobriety as we shopped.
It didn’t work that well. We ordered some cheddar and Virginia ham to make omelets, and set it down at the counter. But then I wandered off to peruse the aisles of assorted chocolates, canned goods, and random household items like superglue and kitty litter. I grabbed a can of Hormel chili and one of sweet corn—I was still living on a college budget even though I’d graduated years earlier. I couldn’t complain about my situation, since I knew many others were worse off than I, but it did singe my mood to gaze longingly at the items I could not afford. I suddenly remembered what we were doing there, and wandered back to the counter. But then it was Hunter’s turn. He had spied the coffee and was off. Finally, after a couple more tries, we were ready to check out.
Hunter went first and briskly walked outside afterward to have the smoke he’d been fiending for since we’d run out that morning. I finished my transaction and headed outside, too. He was sitting in my car with the door propped open, since I had the keys. Ahmad had given us our groceries in large, flat, cardboard trays, and I handed mine to Hunter to balance on top of his. I walked around the car and got into my seat. I turned the key again and grabbed the shifter to put it into reverse.
At that moment, I glanced over at Hunter to say something when I noticed it. In the cup holder sat my purple travel mug… and on top of that, Hunter’s coffee was balancing precariously at an angle. I calmly froze in the same manner as a mountain climber realizing that the foothold they were on was not steady, but holding. I checked the shifter again to make sure it was still in park, then took my foot off the brake.
“Hunter, do you realize what just happened?” I said as I pointed at the coffee.
He understood that he shouldn’t have left it there, but didn’t understand my question.
“Rather, do you realize what didn’t just happen?”
He smiled then, getting it. “Holy shit!”
“Dude, this never happens… the coffee ALWAYS spills on you… It’s like a sad rule of nature, I’m pretty sure.”
“You’re right!” he agreed. “Mark this on the goddamn calendar—it’s a red letter day!”
“The coffee always spills on you… but not today! Not for us!” I couldn’t believe it. It was a gift, and we both knew it. We sat there for a holy moment, gratefully imagining the pain that was not searing our thighs. Then he picked up the coffee, took a sip, and we pulled out of the parking lot.
5/27/13
