The Bernie Factor
By Joseph S. Davis
Copyright 2014 Joseph S. Davis
This is a work of fiction. Any character names, locations, or events are products of the author's imagination and should not be considered factual in any regard. Any similarities to actual events, persons, locations, or professional groups is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
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Chapter 1
“You shouldn’t be alone,” Vincent blurted between careful sips of steaming, hot coffee. “You need a companion.”
“Is this another shameless ploy to get me to go online with www.dateme.com and pad your economic interests?” Nick asked, stirring his latte in slow, arcing figure-eight motions. Some three odd years ago at this very coffee shop, Vincent pleaded his case to Nick, urging him to invest in the online coupling service, arguing it was a goldmine. But Nick told him it seemed more like a glorified escort service, and he preferred the healthy alternative of meeting intoxicated females in bars. Besides, he never felt comfortable when it came to business decisions, and large monetary numbers made him feel uneasy, be it a goldmine or not. Not even Vincent’s track record of success in the stock market assuaged Nick’s looming sense of dread and unfathomable burden when it came to dollars and cents.
“You know I don’t pressure my friends with financial matters. I’m an investment advisor, not a salesman,” replied Vincent. The very words eased Nick’s churning belly. “I’m thinking you need a dog.”
Vincent leaned back in his metal chair, balancing on the rear two legs with his arms crossed, searching Nick’s face for a reaction. Nick continued swirling his stir stick in figure eight patterns, switching directions every so often. Nick knew Vincent was trying to read his reaction, and he purposively kept his head pointed down.
They started meeting at GFD Coffee on a regular basis two years ago and knew each other’s nuances and quirks. They accepted these behavioral patterns as part and parcel of the friendship. Not even Vincent’s 17-year age superiority hindered the rapport they developed. Vincent led like a father, encouraged like an older brother, advised like a trusted coach or teacher, and slugged it out in the caffeine trenches, sharing life’s battle scars and victories with his consummate caffeine cohort, Nick. The GFD served as command and control, the proverbial headquarters where they mapped out each day’s decisions and discussed future dilemmas. Over the years it evolved into ground zero, the birthplace and sometimes catalyst for life’s most important decisions. Nick had no idea how explosive Vincent’s new suggestion would become.
Nick momentarily glanced up as Vincent peered over his black-rimmed reading glasses that rested halfway down his nose. Vincent’s shoulder length gray and black wavy hair, bushy goatee, and Birkenstock sandals belied his conservative nature. An accountant turned options trader, Vincent relished delving into the world financial markets and all things business, but you’d never get that impression by looking at him. His cargo shorts and wrinkled Hawaiian shirt, minus a few buttons, suggested more an aged surfer bum looking for his next Viagra fix than a man entrusted with college funds or retirement investments.
Nick quickly computed the added responsibilities of a dog and felt certain it could only distance him from gainful employment. Not exactly what an out of work writer needs. However, Nick’s inability to find work, let alone awaken his internal writing muses, made him question if being an author lay in the cards for him at all. It was as if all his creative spirits found a better day job and left on the midnight train to prosperity without him. The odd bartending job at the local brewery helped fill the gaps, but each shift made him feel more desperate to get back on track.
However, the tips buoyed his head above water, and the brewery hours left his days open, ostensibly allowing him to conjure the next great American novel. But sleep, too often became a priority during the day after late night beer sampling parties with the staff at the Slippery Beaver Brewery. Caffeine abuse during the late afternoon became his next logical indulgence. Nick rationalized a coffee shop represented the sort of venue where successful writers hung out. Besides, he loved this cafe’s dark, rich coffee, and the menu offered a multitude of culinary surprises.
Nick adjusted his stirring pattern into a counter clockwise figure-eight motion. He learned this trick from his father years ago. Establish a physical pattern that one can quickly change as a means to refocus your attention and mask facial expressions that might otherwise show your hand. Unnecessary considering the circumstances, but Nick’s dad earned his living as a professional gambler, and he shared this little trick with his eager son at an early age. Even though he mastered this gimmick, Nick could still feel Vincent’s eyes boring a tunnel through his receding hairline, and he knew his friend would not avert his stare until he gave him a reply.
Nick focused on the swirling patterns he made in the latte’s creamy top before withdrawing the wooden stirrer and slowly dragging its smooth, thin surface between his lips. The sweet foam mixed with the dark roast espresso grind that filled him with a richness Nick often times thought his bank account would never possess. Nick glanced outside the coffee shop window and eyed two attractive soccer mom-types, chit chatting on the sidewalk as their respective, leashed dogs lapped water from a large plastic bowl the coffee shop workers strategically placed every morning for their canine loving customers. He wasn’t certain of the statistics, but Nick felt confident that everyone in Colorado, but him, owned a dog. Well, at least in the sleepy city limits of Pine Valley, Colorado.
“I’ve never owned a dog before in my life,” Nick replied as he returned his eyes to Vincent. Even using his dad’s gambling trick and redirecting his attention to the women on the sidewalk, he still felt a kind of nakedness when Vincent cast his patented stare on him. It didn’t so much make him feel uncomfortable as it made him feel an unavoidable proclivity toward honesty. He just couldn’t lie to Vincent. Heck, he couldn’t even tell him a fish story.
“Yeah, but tell me you’re not interested in the idea of getting a dog. Man’s best friend isn’t some cliché. Dogs and us have a specific affinity in each other’s hearts. It might even make you feel like a Coloradan.” Vincent smiled a little broader after delivering the non-native jab at his friend’s face. Vincent was the rarest of rarities in these parts; born and bred in Colorado. It seemed that almost everyone was from somewhere else, and Nick fell into that somewhere else category, transplanted from the state of Washington via Nevada.
“Oh, great, let’s begin the assimilation,” joked Nick. “Please, Mr. O’Fallon, drink the Kool-Aid,” he said, acting out his words. Nick cradled his latte’s thick, green cup with both hands and pretended to gulp down its contents, completing the show by looking up with wide, eager eyes. “Very good. You’ll soon be rewarded for your obedience.”
Vincent smiled as he replied, “Yes but it’s grape Kool-Aid, Mr. O’Fallon, your favorite. You loved it as a kid, just like you probably loved dogs, whether your parents let you have a pet or not.” Nick shared many stories with Vincent over the past few years, the funniest usually revolving around his childhood antics to convince his parents to embrace pet ownership. In the end, Nick decided his petless status made him stand out, segregating him from the masses.
“Then I’ll just be cookie
cutter, like everyone else.”
“That’s not true. And you just had to say that damn word, didn’t you?”
“What word?”
“Cookie!” exclaimed Vincent. “Do you know how hard I’ve been fighting to stay away from those delicious bastards?”
“Vince, it’s not a fight worth winning,” Nick said. “Hell, it’s not even a fight worth having.” Nick returned to his clockwise, figure eight coffee stirring. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to throw in the towel for you right now and order a cookie.” Nick motioned his free hand in the owner’s direction and shouted, “Miguel, uno cookie, chocolate, por favor! Nick glanced back at Vincent and asked, “Unless, of course, you’d like a bag of six to go?”
“If you’re buying cookies, I’ll take whatever increment your cheap ass is willing to afford. And stop changing the subject,” said Vincent. “They’re a great way to meet women.”
“I can meet women eating cookies? Sign me up, brother.” Nick’s brow furrowed upon further contemplation. “What kind of women? Are you suggesting I should date Lane Bryant models?”
“I’m suggesting a dog, dammit.”
“No, thanks. Bestiality is not a path I choose to travel. However, I’m not averse to the corn fed runway walkers.”
“I’m pretty sure any model is too much for you to expect, plus size or not,” Vincent replied. “Can we get back on track?”
“Sure,” Nick said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Maybe you should just start with a female dog. Get used to a four-legged girl in your life and then start to meet women on walks or trips to dog parks. You might even meet somebody through all those silly doggy daycares. This could be the re-emergence of your social life through man to canine bonding.”
“So you’re saying a bitch today will cultivate a soul mate tomorrow?”
“Worse things could happen to you,” snorted Vincent through a laugh. “I’m beginning to worry I’m the highlight of your social life.”
Nick switched his stirring pattern to a counter clockwise figure eight motion, hoping Vincent didn’t get a good read on how well that last quip rang true. Nick had not seriously dated anybody for the better part of the past two years. A few short-lived romances and lunch dates that never progressed to anything greater than what they were at face value – physical needs met and nothing more. It left Nick fairly empty and calloused to the prospects of meeting somebody that might amount to more than the here and now. He rationalized that Pine Valley was a small town and the pickings were slim, even for a widower like him. But at the heart of it, he knew all of the blame rest squarely on his shoulders.
Miguel Delalonti dropped a bag of cookies on Nick’s and Vincent’s table. “It’s on the house today, gentlemen,” Miguel said.
“On the house?” Nick inquired. “Since when is anything on the house? What’s the catch?”
“No catch, vato. Just leftovers from yesterday and I’m always looking out for my regulars. Even the cheap ones,” Miguel replied in his heavy Spanish accent, winking at Vincent. Nick’s head perked up at the verbal slap and he eyed Miguel who stopped to speak with a few customers as he made his way back behind the counter.
“Did he really just call me cheap?” Nick asked.
“If the shoe fits,” Vincent replied. “Besides, one should always look a gift cookie right into one’s mouth,” Vincent said as he opened up wide for Miguel’s special treat.
“I’m pretty sure that’s taking poetic license further than allowed,” Nick said still watching a busy Miguel interact with customers at the front counter.
Miguel owned this little caffeinated and gastrointestinal oasis. Originally planned as an escape from corporate America for Miguel and his wife, Gina, it became a true test of perseverance. The economy hit the skids around the same time Miguel and Gina drew up their final plans for the grand opening. Their bank closed up shop, leaving them in a state of flux, not having the necessary cash to finish the project. Originally known as the Gina Familia Delalonti Café, their new business sucked up their respective 401K’s and most of their spare cash in an attempt to be masters of their universe, or at least a little corner of it. The stress from the impending financial collapse pushed their relationship to the edge, teetering above the abyss.
Gina decided to call it quits and go back to what she knew. She grew up poor and was in no way prepared to return to the hardships or difficulties she saw her parents endure, not to mention what she and her five brothers and sisters went through. She might have to swallow her dignity, but that would go down easier than eating other people’s garbage. Sure, she had no idea what that was like, but Gina convinced herself that could actually happen when there wasn’t a steady, albeit paltry check, rolling in every two weeks. Miguel convinced her that this was their shot at economic freedom, the embodiment of “the American dream.” She bought into the shiny part of the vision, but never truly understood the hard work and sacrifice that create the necessary foundation.
Miguel, however, possessed more of an entrepreneur mentality. His outward, gregarious personality stood in stark contrast to Gina’s quiet, introverted characteristics. He loved the challenge and the battles that never seemed to end. He loved the highs and was willing to experience the lows if it meant he could touch that brass ring again. Gina lived in fear of the worst and did not feel comfortable reaching for the sky, too scared of falling into the unknown. Miguel personified the barrel that rolled on the waves, cresting to new highs and crashing to bottomless lows while Gina more resembled the thimble that gently danced on the surface, staying dead set in the middle, never experiencing the summit or the valley. The saying “opposites attract” never seemed more apt than when comparing Miguel and Gina.
However, in the end, their differences drove a wedge between them. You couldn’t really say the café ended the marriage. They never built a firm relational foundation and hard times quickly eroded their home perched on sand rather than solid rock. Miguel left early for the café one morning, dead set on putting the final touches on their dream as Gina mapped her way out the nightmare. By noon Gina still had not shown up at the café and Miguel sensed something uneasy with her absence.
By 3pm a distraught Miguel returned to their 1200 square foot bungalow to find Gina, her clothes and immediate worldly possessions, gone. He found a simple and cold note sitting on an otherwise bare kitchen counter. It plainly read, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. G.” Miguel tore through the small house looking for signs of his absent wife, finding nothing. The process server who arrived at the house the following morning officially put to rest Gina’s marital intentions.
Many men crumble under this type of pressure, but not Miguel. He dug his heels in even further. The café and his ambition drove him forward. Gina and the marriage could crumble to the ground, but this would not fail, with or without her. Miguel gave up the house in the divorce settlement as the lawyers wrangled for the fate of the café. Miguel instructed his lawyer that under no terms would he surrender the café. He argued that any money she lost in the business, she regained in the sale of the house. But Gina became vindictive about the business, and if the marriage collapsed, she wanted the Gina Familia Delalonti Café to suffer the same fate, too. Her attitude strengthened Miguel’s resolve, which grew as large as the Rocky Mountains, just visible outside the front corner of his American dream. Eventually, Miguel agreed to change the name of the business, and Gina and her lawyer considered it a victory, getting the house and giving up on an unproven business venture.
On February 14, 2005, Miguel opened the doors to Grounds For Divorce Coffee for the first official day of business. Friends, family, and business associates strongly advised him against the name, citing it attracted too much negativity. Miguel argued he already made the “GFD” signs and any new design changes cost him money he did not possess. Plus the uniqueness of the name would surely attract attention, and once he got
a customer inside, Miguel considered them a convert to GFD and treated them as lifelong patrons. The fact that he opened Grounds For Divorce Coffee on Valentine’s Day was just an ironic twist of fate.
As it turned out, Miguel’s optimism, business acumen, and unwillingness to accept defeat proved a stronger force than the name. The buzz around town created by this crazy marriage-deflating business that opened on Valentine’s Day helped propel GFD into the Pine Valley Chamber of Commerce’s business of the year and brought in more customers than ever anticipated. Although coffee was the main attraction and Miguel’s true passion, after the first year on the advice of a friend, Miguel hired a pastry chef fresh out of culinary school. It was a match made in heaven.
The pastries nicely complimented the coffee, but the two men became inventive with the menu and began serving breakfast sandwiches, croissants, burritos and the like to the appeal of the masses that flocked to his shop. Lines stretched down the block as word spread about this quirky little cafe. The menu expanded with the increased flow in business, and it soon became a hotspot “to do lunch.” Miguel’s passion still rested with the coffee end of the business, but there was no denying that the food brought in a slew of customers. And you’d never hear Miguel complain for a second about it. The birth of Grounds For Divorce Coffee extracted significant pain, but Miguel now relished watching his baby grow.
Gina made several half-hearted attempts to reconnect with Miguel over that first year, but as far as Miguel was concerned, that ship set sail long ago. Although Gina would always have a place in his heart, he firmly decided that a fair-weather wife was no kind of wife at all. If she couldn’t tough out the hard times with him, he wasn’t willing to share the joys with her. So some 15 odd months after the divorce, Gina left Pine Valley as quickly and unceremoniously as she left her husband. Sadly, nobody really noticed. Miguel proved to be the only person that gave her a second thought when he read the “G” on the Grounds For Divorce Coffee sign. No sense in changing it now, he reasoned.
Nick groped inside the pastry bag and pulled out a day old cookie. “You gotta love a place that gives away cookies that are 24 hours old.”
“You gotta love a place that feels compelled to make everything fresh each day,” Vincent replied as he reached for cookie number two. “So I’m thinking you should try the local animal humane shelter.”
“I’m not much interested in what gets made fresh there on a daily basis,” said Nick.
Ignoring Nick, Vincent continued,” I don’t think there are any out of pocket expenses, and those dogs need homes. You don’t have to pick one when you go the first time. You can come back and see what’s new.”
“You know I have no idea how to potty train a dog.”
“The chances of finding a puppy there will be slim. Most of these dogs are a bit older. People give them up when they decide they can’t afford them, can’t handle them, or come to the realization that they just aren’t dog people. Some are just plain old strays. Puppies don’t last long, so you’ll probably get to skip the destructive, messy puppy stages.
“Wow! You really know how to sell it. If I get a puppy, my house will get destroyed, or I can nab somebody else’s rejected, maladjusted dog. Maybe I should have a lawyer on retainer for when my rabid poodle bites little Johnny down the street, and the parents want to take a chunk out of me.”
“Holy crap, Nick!”
“What?”
“How is your cup is always half empty?” asked Vincent. “I see you order it, I see Miguel fill it to the brim, but somehow it’s always half empty.” Nick shook his head from side to side and gave Vincent a surly grin.
“It probably has something to do with the humongous thorn I’m feeling in my side right about now,” Nick stated. “O.k. Mr. Positive, when I finish this latte with you, I’ll drive my happy, dog-loving ass right down to the shelter and pick the first pooch I see lapping water out of a half full doggie bowl. Does that make you happy?”
“Just knowing you’ll soon be scooping dog crap off your finely manicured lawn makes me happy,” Vincent said as he raised his coffee cup in a toast to Nick. Nick greeted Vincent’s cup with his own as he tried to swallow the gravity of this new commitment. It had been awhile since Nick felt the desire to let someone or something get emotionally close. Some things in life take time to get over, and sometimes those things leave walls standing longer than ever intended.
The Bernie Factor Page 1
