Something True

by Karelia Stetz-Waters

  Tate busied about the stockroom, still listening, then served the morning rush. Then, in a lull between customers, she rounded up Maggie and Krystal. They stood in a huddle beside the espresso machine. Tate put her hands on both their shoulders as she imagined a coach would when preparing her star players for the big game…or imminent death.

  “We’re not just selling Portland,” Tate said. “We’re selling Out in Portland Coffee. We need Laura Enfield…”

  “That horrible woman.”

  Tate guessed Maggie wanted to say “bitch,” but several decades of feminist consciousness-raising stopped her.

  “Laura Enfield,” Tate said, “whether we like her or not, needs to see that this is an amazing, productive, profitable business. It’s like her sandwich shop only better. She’s coming by at one p.m. I want us to be ready. First, I want to take down the Mariah Lesbioma dioramas.”

  “We just put her show up,” Maggie protested. “She’ll be devastated if we take it down. She’s worked on it for years.”

  “Years she spent in the loony bin,” Krystal said, readjusting one of the pigtails she had put in her short, pink hair.

  “Mariah is emotionally vulnerable,” Maggie said.

  “We’ll put it back up when Laura leaves, but we can’t have it here now.” Tate looked at the collage pieces on the wall. “They look like vaginas.”

  “They’re supposed to look like vaginas,” Maggie protested. “Mariah is reclaiming the gynic power, the female symbol. Every capitol building in America is a phallus. Mariah’s art says it is time for the female form to take its true place in art.”

  The shellac that held the collages together glistened. Inside Vagina Denta #13, Mariah had glued a plastic ball from a gumball machine. Inside it, a photo of George Bush leered out.

  “They’re terrifying,” Tate said. “Krystal, be careful when you take them down. Maggie, you call your women’s group and see how many people we can get in here around one p.m. I want every seat occupied. I want the coffee pouring. Let’s show Laura she would be crazy to close Out in Portland.”

  At twelve thirty, Tate had never loved Out in Portland more. Maggie knew everyone in Portland, and half of everyone had filed into the store. By the window, a group of graduate students spread their books out. In the corner, Lill’s husband plucked a gentle tune on his acoustic guitar while Sobia and Bartholomew sat listening and munching on flaxseed biscuits. Every two minutes, the door chime announced a new customer. Meanwhile Lill and Maggie swirled chocolate hearts on every mocha, a graceful, four-armed, two-headed, bighearted coffee-making machine—just like they had been when they were a couple and had run Out Coffee together.

  Tate smiled. It might not work out. Laura might not be moved. Out Coffee might close. Laura would probably never again press her sumptuous body against Tate’s. But at least she would see this. Portland at its best. Out Coffee at its best. People at their best. Tate stepped into the bathroom to collect herself so she too could be at her best. She took a quick look in the mirror. It wasn’t a gorgeous face, but it was the face of a good woman.

  Then she heard the sound of metal breaking, followed by Krystal’s scream.

  Stepping out of the bathroom, Tate froze. Krystal was sitting on the floor behind the counter, waving a book in one hand and a wrench in the other and swearing prodigiously. Maggie stood above her, her arms wrapped around herself protectively, saying, “I appreciate that you are trying.” From beneath the sink, a torrent of water poured onto the floor. A cataract. Much more water than ever escaped the sluggish faucet above.

  “What happened?” Tate ran over. She plunged her hand into the stream of water, reaching for the shutoff valve, just as Krystal yelled, “Don’t, it’s hot!”

  It was scalding. Tate pulled her hand back.

  “Get a bucket. What did you do, Krystal?”

  Krystal shoved the book at Tate and ran for the back room. Tate looked at the cover. A Woman’s Guide to Home Repair. It was her book, purchased months ago when she had come up short for rent, and her landlord had asked her to fix the splintered molding in Pawel and Rose’s apartment in exchange for the shortfall.

  “Krystal!” Tate yelled.

  The line of coffee customers had bunched up at the counter. Several were leaning over to get a better look at the deluge.

  “Can I help the next person in line?” Maggie called, waving her hands as though she could distract the customers from the disaster behind the counter. “I can still get you a cup of brewed coffee.”

  No one was listening except Lill.

  “It’ll be fine. It’s nothing. Just get a bucket,” Lill said.

  “Don’t tell me what to do.” Maggie was starting to pace, which was never a good thing. “You always tell me what to do, but you’re not here when it all falls apart.”

  “I’m present now,” Lill said, with a huff. “I am here with you, but your anger is separating us.”

  “Lill!” Tate shot her a look. She mouthed, Go away.

  “She asked me to help,” Lill snapped. “I could have told her not to let that girl back there.”

  “Krystal is not ‘that girl.’ She’s family,” Maggie protested.

  “Yeah. I’m family.” Krystal had returned with a coffee mug instead of a bucket.

  Tate plunged her hand into the scalding water again and felt for the valve. It was gone. She had to agree with Lill on this one. Krystal should never have been allowed behind the counter with a wrench.

  “Krystal,” Tate called. “What happened to the valve?”

  “It broke.” Krystal knelt at her side, pink pigtails sticking out of her head like antennas.

  “What broke it?”

  “You fix things.” Krystal’s lip was trembling. “You told me I should take responsibility for myself and learn new skills and…” A tear slid down her cheek, taking a stream of black mascara with it. “…it was your book and Maggie says it’s empowering.”

  “What is?” Tate’s hand stung from the hot water.

  The customers had moved away from the counter as the water began to run in rivulets across the floor.

  “Plumbing,” Krystal said. “The book said I’d be more self-confident if I maintained my own home. It said feminists should clean their own sink traps.”

  “Krystal, you’re supposed to be studying for the GED, and this is not a sink trap, and this is not your house, and you’ve seen the Pink Pages, you just hire a lesbian plumber. That’s all the empowerment you need.”

  “I just thought I could do it on my own.” Krystal’s eyes were going puffy. “I just wanted to help you! My dad would show me how to fix it. My dad would have wanted me to do it.”

  “Your dad is doing twenty to life. Your dad could turn this wrench into a switchblade.” Tate felt bad as soon as she spoke. It was only the pain in her scalded hand that made her honest. The mascara streamed from both Krystal’s eyes now. “I’m sorry, Krystal. Please, don’t cry. I know you were trying to help. Now, just get a real bucket. We’ll fix it. Find the Pink Pages. I think there’s a copy by the front door.”

  Krystal disappeared again. Tate grabbed her wrench and made one more go at the deluge. This time she was able to pinch the metal and turn the valve, reducing the torrent to a drip and then to nothing. She was soaking.

  The customers who knew Maggie were filing to the edges of the store, trying to look engaged in the seascape photographs that Tate had hung in place of Mariah Lesbioma’s vagina art. The customers who did not know Maggie were heading for the exit. Maggie had begun to dab at her eyes with a napkin.

  Lill was following her around behind the counter saying, “Maggie, Namaste. Namaste!” It sounded like something one might yell at a terrier.

  On the other side of the counter, young Bartholomew had taken advantage of his parents’ distraction and was emptying the sugar canister into his mouth. And right in front of the counter, little Sobia had taken off her pants, walked up to a stranger, grabbed the woman’s hand, and said, in a shrill voic
e, “Bartholomew has a pee-pee because he’s a boy, and if he doesn’t want a baby, he’s going to put a condo on his pee-pee.” She pointed at her pink underwear. “But I don’t have a pee-pee because I’m a girl.”

  Only it wasn’t a stranger. No. It was Laura who knelt down in the water so she could face Sobia directly and say, “That’s very interesting. Is your mommy or daddy here?”

  The rest of the afternoon was less disastrous but no more profitable. For one thing, Tate had envisioned spending the day alone with Laura, but Laura had brought her entourage. Laura, Tate, Dayton, and Craig piled into Laura’s rental car, a large, cream-colored Sebring.

  Tate had decided the first day should be a tour of Portland’s most eccentric coffee shops as well as a few empty strip-mall Starbucks. She wanted to show Laura that Portland loved its locally owned shops and that the big national chains did not have the same pull.

  Laura followed Tate from shop to shop, silent and incredibly poised. It was a little unnerving in fact; Tate had never seen anyone have such good posture for such a prolonged period of time. Meanwhile, Dayton complained like a boy on a dull field trip, and Craig pointed out a dozen flaws in every café they visited.

  Finally, around six p.m., as they sat in Rimsky-Korsakoffee House, Craig said, “I appreciate your effort.” He did not sound like he appreciated it at all. “But we have studied the Portland food and beverage market. That’s what we do. We wouldn’t move forward on a project like this without understanding the city. We know there are 493 independent coffee shops and kiosks, and 615 chain-operated and franchise coffee purveyors. Coffee amounts to 12 percent of the food profits. We also know that there are only 91 dedicated sandwich shops and those bring in an average of $49,000 a year profit, but we know the chains are the leaders by far, pulling the average up by almost 200 percent.”

  “Yeah. We know all this already,” Dayton chimed in, looking up from his phone.

  Tate glanced at Laura. She said nothing, but her eyes concurred. Tate had wasted their time.

  “Okay,” Tate said. “One more stop, and then I’ll let you go for tonight.”

  Tate was pleased when she paused in front of the Pied Cow, and Craig and Dayton looked confused. Laura looked up at the vine-covered Victorian house.

  “In here?” Laura asked.

  Tate nodded.

  Inside they were greeted by an entryway lined with Elvis busts, baby-doll heads, and glowing religious art from all faiths but particularly those that featured gods with extra extremities. Tate led them through the house and into the garden out back. The ground was covered in damp Persian rugs. Cold fire pits dotted the area, waiting for the fall days when customers would cluster around their warmth. That night, the only smoke came from an ornate hookah smoked, simultaneously, by three old men, each connected to the hookah by a pipe stem on a flexible tube. Craig coughed.

  “Here, sit.” Tate smiled at the waitress who was clearing a table. “Could we have four bowls of kava?”

  The waitress returned her smile, and, a moment later, came back with a tray balanced on her shoulder. She placed four mismatched bowls before them.

  “This looks like dishwater,” Dayton complained. “There’s a twig in mine.”

  “That’s the kava,” the waitress said. “We start by pulping the roots, then we steep them in water until they form the milk. It’s a Polynesian tradition. You’re supposed to drink it with friends. It relaxes you.”

  Again, the waitress smiled at Tate. She was cute, Tate thought, in a fresh, wholesome way that suggested she biked everywhere and ate vegan. Tate recalled all Vita’s outrageous encouragement. You’ve got that butch magnetism. Do you know who I would kill for your jawline?

  Tate flashed a smile at the girl. It felt awkward, but the girl put her hand on Tate’s shoulder.

  “Some people even say it’s an aphrodisiac,” the waitress added.

  Tate wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw Laura’s excellent posture stiffen.

  “What’s your name?” Tate asked the waitress.

  “Leaf.”

  Of course it was.

  “Do you have any books here, Leaf? A couple of books you could loan us to read while we enjoy our kava?”

  “There’s a box of books customers left behind.”

  “That would be perfect.”

  Dayton lifted the kava to his lips, then spat it on the dirt.

  “It’s warm, and it tastes like sawdust,” he protested. “Is this like some reality TV show? Like where’s the fucking camera?”

  Craig pushed his away.

  Laura took her bowl in both hands and took a deep gulp. Her face said skim milk and sawdust, but she said, “It’s a cultural experience. Drink it.”

  Leaf reappeared with a cardboard box and put it on the table.

  “Collected Works of Hegel,” she read as she lifted the first book out of the box. “The Homesteader’s Guide to Compost. Fight Club.” She read out a few more titles. “Will these do?”

  “Perfect,” Tate said. She passed Jeanette Winterson’s Sexing the Cherry to Laura. “This is good.” For herself, she took A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again. She opened it, took a swig of her kava—it really was disgusting—and pretended to read.

  Apparently bored after fifteen seconds of silence, Dayton said, “What are we doing?”

  Tate glanced over the top of her book.

  “I’m showing you Portland.”

  “Where?”

  “Here,” Tate said. “Your friend made it very clear you’ve done your research, so I’m going to show you something you can’t get from a spreadsheet.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at Laura. A slight smiled pulled at the corner of her eyes. She was curious.

  “We are going to sit here until this place closes,” Tate went on. “We’re going to sit and listen and read these books and drink this kava and just be. Because that’s part of Portland. Sure there are people getting ahead and working overtime and going balls to the wall every day, but those guys over there…” Tate pointed to the hookah smokers. “Fifty bucks says they’ve been here all day, and they’ll be here all night. People here know how to live, or at least they know there is a difference between living and working. And you can’t see it on a spreadsheet, and you can’t see it if you don’t slow down.”

  Craig sighed.

  “Are we really going to do this?” he asked Laura.

  Laura took another sip of her kava.

  “I am,” Laura said.

  Laura opened the book Tate had given her, and Dayton and Craig fell into disgruntled silence. She was the boss. Tate saw it again. The men could not move without her permission—and they weren’t happy about it. Dayton flipped through book after book, sighing as though each page personally offended him with its dullness. Craig folded his arms and glared at the bowl of kava.

  Then suddenly, Dayton said, “My lips.” He poked his lips. “My lips are numb. I can’t feel my lips. My tongue is all fuzzy. Is your tongue fuzzy?”

  “Don’t,” Laura said without looking up from her book.

  “No, I’m serious. Something’s wrong. I’m going all numb.”

  Tate glanced from Laura to Dayton.

  “It’s probably an allergic reaction,” Laura said.

  “You don’t feel it?” Dayton asked. “Aw shit, man, this is messed up!”

  Laura shook her head.

  “I need a Benadryl. Do my lips look swollen?” He stuck his tongue out. “My tongue?”

  “It’s still there,” Laura said, deadpan.

  “I’m not kidding!” Dayton started tapping his phone. “I’ve got to get help.”

  “Craig,” Laura said with utter indifference. “Why don’t you take Dayton back to the hotel? Get him some Benadryl before the inflammation gets into his brain.”

  When they were gone, Laura turned to Tate.

  “My lips are numb,” she said.

  “You were messing with him!” Tate did not expect someone with such
good posture to be devilish. Tate reached out and touched two fingers to Laura’s lips. Her hand trembled.

  “Can you feel that?” Tate asked.

  She expected Laura to flinch, but she didn’t. She just looked scared. Tate withdrew her touch.

  “Yes, but it doesn’t feel right.” Laura touched her own lips.

  “You didn’t read the menu, did you?”

  “No.”

  “You better text Dayton,” Tate said. “It’s supposed to do that. It’s got a mild anesthetic in it.”

  “Milky anesthetic water with twigs in it?” Laura asked.

  “It’s what’s for dinner.” Tate winked.

  Laura looked relieved. She wrote Dayton a text.

  “They are not going to come back, are they?” Tate asked.

  “I don’t think I could get them back here if their jobs depended on it.”

  Tate sipped her kava. “It really is awful, isn’t it?”

  Laura nodded.

  “They serve a nice port. Can I order you one?” Tate paused. She thought about the flood at Out Coffee and Craig’s litany of statistics. “You don’t have to stay, if you don’t want to. Craig is probably right. I can’t show you anything you don’t already know. This is your business. I guess people on the ground floor are always doing that. They think they understand the big picture just because they work somewhere.”

  “Sometimes,” Laura said. “And sometimes big companies with lots of analysts make mistakes because they don’t ask the people they’re actually trying to serve or the people who actually do the work. And yes, I’d like a port.”

  Leaf took the kava away and brought the port. Another table ordered a hookah and the cherry-scented smoke thickened. The sound of traffic died down and conversation filled the air, lending a cover of privacy to their talk.