Good to the Last Drop!

He is a young man, about one third my age. He is short, with dark brown hair combed into a modified rooster's crown. He wears small frame glasses that suit his round face. He is not stocky, nor is he lean. An average body shape, an average face. He seems like someone my son Matt would have as a best friend. He is friendly, congenial, accommodating; a person with "good people skills".
    
I first became aware of him about six months ago, the beginning of summer.

Starbucks' music is always too loud.

It's A Grind caters to the early morning regulars who chatter away about golf and politics incessantly. 

When Roxio's Coffee Shop closed down unexpectedly one morning, I happened upon Saxby's next door to a vet and a cleaners in a small strip mall on a side street.

The shop is larger than any of the others I've mentioned, yet quieter then each of them. The walls are painted in discreet earth tones. There are maybe thirteen tables and booths combined around the room, a bar with four high stools that look out onto the exterior seating area, one worn and battered leather chair and, across the room, another next to a matching sofa that faces- in the center of the room- a gas fireplace. I try for one of the leather chairs whenever I go and sometimes I even take the grand prize; the leather sofa all to myself.

That first morning he greeted me as I entered. We never exchanged names but he knew the status of my health and how I felt about the gorgeous weather we were having even before pouring me my cup of coffee and handing me the last bran muffin. Let me explain here that my choice of muffin has nothing to do with the efficacious nature of bran, but that said muffin itself is heavier and seems healthier than apple cinnamon or chocolate chocolate chip. Of the two choices of coffee, I opted for the bold. Black. No sugar.

Since then it has always been the same choice for me unless, on the rare occasion they are out of bran muffins, I get a bagel. After six months we still have not exchanged names and I doubt he has any idea what I do for a living. All he is aware of is that I show up once or twice a week around the same time and always order the same thing. 

The last time I was there, last week, the door hadn't even closed behind me before he called out across the store, "bold, in a mug, no room for cream! Any pastry today?"

"Bran muffin."

"You're early!

"I have a meeting this morning!"

I placed my book down on the counter to reach for my wallet out of my back pocket.

"What are you reading?" He asked.

"A biography of Theodore Roosevelt."

"Any good?"

"It's great. I usually don't like biographies but this is written like a piece of fiction."

"He's an interesting person."

I agreed. "There are two more volumes as thick as this one. The third one just came out."

Now the thing about reading a good book is you end up wanting to share it. Because I never carry any cash and always pay by credit card, I never leave any money in the tip jar on the counter. So I thought maybe I'd buy him the book for Christmas as a cumulative tip for the past six months. But then again, maybe I won't. It seems a bit presumptuous and too familiar. Maybe I'll just hand him a greeting card with cash inside. Or better yet, a gift card for Border's.

But he's probably already forgotten our conversation.