Four Seasons…February

The alarm clock screamed at the same time it did every morning, but John did not pull covers over his head to smother the following fifteen minutes as he would have any other day. He leapt from bed, went to the bathroom, turned on the faucets in the sink and bathtub, and stared at his reflection as he waited for the water to warm from hot to scalding. Steam curled through the air and darkened the mirror’s face. John cupped his hands under the faucet, let the water singe his skin, then splashed it on a face he had no intention of shaving. He picked up his pants from the day before, removed his phone, pressed #3, and waited.

“Good morning,” said his boss, Mr. Sears. John pinched his vocal cords.

“Good morning, Mr. Sears,” he said. “I don’t think I can work today.” John didn’t wait for a response. As soon as his boss began to speak, John took the small bowl of pepper, prepared the night before,  put it under his nose and inhaled. The sneeze on Mr. Sear’s side of the receiver was deafening.  His boss tried to speak, but John cut him off. “I’m sorry Chief,” he said, “but I’ve got to go or I’m gonna be sick all over the place. John didn’t wait.  He flipped his phone shut, smiled an impossibly wide smile for so early in the morning, and began to peel the clothes from his body.

John hadn’t called in sick a single day in the fifteen years he’d worked for Mr. Sears, not even when he was. The few times that sickness called on him, it had always been on Friday, Tronix’s busiest day by far. John reasoned that if he could muscle his way through another day, then he would have an entire weekend to rest and wouldn’t be disappointing anyone. It was Friday and John wasn’t sick, yet it would have been impossible for him to care any less.  It was the 29 of February – Leap Year; life had seen fit to give John an extra day and he wasn’t about to use it stuck in the mire of his daily routine.

John stuck one foot into the water, then the other. He held his breath and lowered his body into water almost too hot to stand. John wanted to launch his long awaited Leap Year day with a long, relaxing bath, the sort which under normal circumstances he would never have allowed himself.

John could still remember the previous Leap Year clearly. The sun had hung large in a perfect blue sky, taunting him like a glistening pool surrounded by a high fence in the middle of August. John loved his job as Tronix. He loved watching the customers from behind his office window, balancing books as they browsed the store’s specialty, high priced electronics.  Even so, he still recalled the last Leap Year as a day of incarceration, branding in his mind the idea that leap years did not fall under the same calendar law from which he governed his own life with such precision. They were a gift, given with scarcity; rarer than an eclipse and far less celebrated.  

John had planned on calling in sick for four straight years and felt instant freedom the second he hung up the phone. The most exciting thing about his morning was that he had no idea where it might take him. He knew only one thing for certain: it would have to start at The Roasting Bean.

John believed, as just one of his many credos, that anything more than a dollar spent on a cup of coffee was about as absurd as a lottery ticket – you may as well lose it to the breeze.  Every morning John would scoop his carefully measured grounds into his single cup coffee maker, and no matter how many customers brought steaming cups of Joe, fresh from The Bean and into the store, John never felt so much as a tickle of jealousy. If he felt anything at all, it was only the soft tingle of superiority as he counted cups in his mind, alongside days of the month, then multiplied, imagining how much better off his retirement account was in the coffee’s absence. On Leap Year, John thought, the three dollars The Roasted Bean would likely charge him for a cup of black coffee wasn’t just fair – it was a bargain.

John stepped from the bath, his legs crimson, toweled off and threw on a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt – both stiff from the dry cleaners. He let his stomach growl, smiled at his reflection in the gleaming glass of the empty coffee pot, and grabbed his keys from the hook by the door.

He backed his fifteen year old corolla from the driveway and drove to the end of his street. At the light, he turned left instead of right, then drove for a block before turning into the crowded parking lot of The Roasting Bean. The earthy, pungent scent from a dozen mingling coffee pots slapped his nostrils as the glass door swung shut behind him. John studied the unfamiliar menu as he took his place in line, finally settling on a large cup of Sgt. Wakemup – a name he found surprisingly amusing.

A small carousel of confections stood to his right, beautifully displayed and perfectly placed for impatient impulse. Chocolate covered blueberries; peanut butter malt balls; dark chocolate espresso beans. John picked up a modest sized bar of dark chocolate and turned it in his hand, surprised by its weight. He held it under his nose, inhaled deeply and salivated.

John moved up in line, set the bar of chocolate on the counter and opened his mouth to speak. “I’d like a large cup of Sgt. Wakemup.”

“Ah, the Sgt.,” said the barista.  John wondered if the three rings hooked through his bottom lip caused him pain, and if they did, whether they were worth it. “We don’t have large,” he said. “Just Ultimo.”

John’s eyes moved to the menu: Alto, Proximo, and Ultimo. “Make it an Ultimo” he said, mildly amused rather than slightly irritated. John could smell the coffee as it landed in the bottom of the thick paper cup. His mouth filled with more of his juices and his stomach rolled through a growl. “Where’s the cream?” he asked, taking the hot cup from the insulated middle.

“Right over there,” the barista pointed a heavily ringed finger toward the wall, “but I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Why not?” John blinked.

“Because that there is a perfect cup of coffee and I wouldn’t want to ruin the flavor, man.”

John smiled, not annoyed at being referred to as “man.” It was Leap Year after all.  “Thanks, I think I’ll take your advice.”

The hooks in the barista’s lip rose as he smiled. “You want the chocolate too?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

“That’ll be $7.04”

John blanched, then grinned. He handed a ten dollar bill across the counter. “Keep the change.”

The barista handed John the chocolate bar in a heavy, copper colored bag. John ran his fingers over the paper, surprised by the quality. Even in bulk, the bag must have cost the coffee shop over fifty cents. John was in charge of ordering the bags at Tronix. They weren’t even close to the quality and they cost the store thirty-eight cents a piece.

“See you soon,” the barista said.

“Yes,” agreed John, “perhaps.” He hooked his finger through the bag’s handle, nodded at the barista and left the coffee shop.

He unlocked his car, but turned the key back the other way before stepping inside.  There was a park he sometimes passed about three blocks away and John saw no reason to drive when the park was so close. Not on Leap Year. He removed the lid from his coffee, dropped it inside his copper bag, then knelt to the curb to pour some of the steaming coffee down the gutter.

John began walking toward the park. At the first red light, John took his first sip of Sgt. Wakemup. It was the best coffee he had ever tasted; full bodied, but more like a new mother than a model. The decorated barista was right; even a splash of milk would have destroyed it.  He held the coffee until it cooled, then swallowed. The light turned green.

The three blocks to the park took him close to a half hour to bridge as he stopped to stare in nearly every window and nod at every passerby. When John finally arrived at the greenbelt, he was glad to see a bank of benches where he could spend the morning, sitting and sipping his perfectly priced coffee.

The interior of the park was a distant cousin to its perimeter. The park which blurred by at 35 MPH was pretty; seen up close, it was beautiful. One hundred trees swayed softly in a circle surrounding a placid pond where a dozen ducks danced in a crooked line across the water. February frost capped the mountains which severed horizon, completing the postcard perfect setting of his early Leap Year morning.

John sat on a bench, sipped his coffee, and watched the parade of people that he had never seen before and would never see again. An enormous man losing his leash, and the chihuahua attached to it, brought a quiet smile to his lips. The angry mother grabbing her toddler with enough force to bruise caused him to wince. It was the couple he spied on the other side of the pond who brought a full smile to his long face.

They were old and beautiful, weaving their fingers together so carelessly that John thought they must have been doing it nearly all their lives. They sat with long silences punctuated by the occasional exchange of nearly silent words, often followed by quiet fits of laughter. John wondered what it must be like to share so much with someone for so long. He had no true frame of reference; no memory of grandparents. His own mom and dad split up before he finished elementary school and  John’s own relationships seemed to have a shelf life of no longer than two years.

It had been a consistent article of faith that one day he would fall in step with the right girl and the perfect life would find him; his own happily ever after, forever around the next corner.  John had celebrated his fortieth birthday with a one night stand, and what had been a given for two decades, now felt like a dream circling the drain. Perhaps it was time to rethink his approach.

John was good looking, beautiful even. Though he was not vain, or in any way conceited, he could not be told something his entire life and remain clueless to the fact.  Despite knowledge of his handsome face, flawless skin, and brilliant blue eyes, John carried a crippling shyness when it came to meeting new people, worse when it came to the opposite sex.  Women approached him regularly, and whether out of loneliness or optimism, he often accepted their somewhat obvious invitations. More often than not, these were women sure in their charms and used to having their way. John tired of them quickly. A good relationship was like anything else – you could not simply expect it to be quietly handed over.  Perhaps he needed to start doing some of the asking.

John swallowed the last of his coffee, dropped the empty in the trash can, and started the walk back to his car.  It was late morning,  and the sun hung high in the sky. Most of the shops which were shuttered his first time by, were now were open for business. Because it seemed like a ridiculous thing to do, John did not pass by the flower shop, but instead walked inside and inhaled all of the hundred different scents competing for attention.

“What is that smell?” he asked the frazzled looking proprietor. She was carrying a bucket of flowers in each hand, along with another tenuously balanced under the crook of her right arm.

“Everything,” she said, not slowing down or even glancing in his direction.

John smiled. He approached a large display of roses, his eyes surprised by the variety of color and size. He felt a pang as he realized that another Valentine’s Day had passed with no one to send flowers to. He picked up a hearty looking red rose and held it beneath his nose, disappointed. The wrapped bar of chocolate bore more fragrance. “This doesn’t have a smell,” he said, as though there was something wrong with it.

“Most of them don’t. They breed them for longevity rather than scent. It isn’t like it used to be,” the woman added in a practiced sigh. “The less moisture the flowers have, the longer they live, but the moisture is what gives them their fragrance. Give me a garden full of roses over these any day.” She waved a thumb toward the impressive display.

John looked at the women. “You probably shouldn’t be admitting that,” he said.

“It’s the truth.  People don’t want a perfect moment, they want their money’s worth. Go ahead and try the lavender,” she added. “It’s as close as we’re getting today.”

John’s eyes moved to a bucket in the middle of the display, filled with lavender roses, some tight, some open – all beautiful, and selected one from the middle. He inhaled and was suddenly ten years old and on his fourth grade field trip to the public rose gardens. “I’ll take this one,” he said, handing the flower across the counter.

“Would you like me to fix it up for you?” she asked.

“How would you do that?”

“I could put some greens with it, maybe a ribbon.”

“No, thank you. I think I’ll take it just like that.”

“Is it a gift?”

“Just for myself.”

The woman smiled. It was not the sort of smile that John was used to. It was a smile which asked for nothing in return. “That’s gonna be four dollars.”  John slipped a five from the depths of his pocket, handed it across the counter, wished the woman a terrific day, and stepped outside. He dropped the rose in the bag alongside his bar of chocolate and crossed the street to his Corolla.

John had a rough idea how each of his days would unfold before the sun rose to color them. The joy in this one lay in its mystery. He sat in the car while making a mental list of the day’s possibilities as the sun warmed his shoulders through the glass. He thought about shopping at the specialty foods store, stocked with unfamiliar brands and softer colored boxes, then decided that  perhaps he should start doing that anyway. He could afford it after all. He thought of catching a movie. He couldn’t remember the last time he had caught an afternoon show alone, but the realization that he would be trapped indoors for two perfectly good well lit hours soured the idea and reminded him of the day’s intentions. He smiled, turned the ignition and started on his short drive to the perfect destination.

John was an avid reader – a single book on his night stand was never enough. He also had one in his car, a couple in the bottom desk drawer in his office, and one in each of his two lonely bathrooms. John sipped from the separate stories as though wine at a tasting, sometimes juggling as many as six books at once. The internet had made shopping for titles far easier, but less romantic. John used to lose hours wandering down aisles, picking up interesting covers with curious titles; the first explorer to thumb their pages. Now, shopping for books consisted of a virtual shopping cart, a wish list for later and a few perfunctory clicks. He never even removed the credit card from his wallet.

John decided to drive to the bookstore and stay until satisfied. He passed the bookstore with the larger selection and lower prices and headed straight for A Likely Story, a cramped book boutique three miles further, sandwiched between a pizzeria owned by a first generation Armenian family and a Greek deli owned by a tiny man with the last name Nguyen.

Mr. and Mrs. Stamp, the old couple who owned A Likely Story, and had for thirty years, were in constant disagreement, but John found their arguments amusing in an ugly sort of way.  He always felt like he was watching a stage play written by someone who had not lost their sense of humor even though they had been embittered by life. If Mr. and Mrs. Stamp had not read every book in their store between them, they were at least convincing in their charade.  Neither one was shy with their regulars, and would not hesitate to take the book straight from a customer’s hand with an unsolicited “Here, you’ll like this one much better.” John found no fault with their method. They had led him to “A Soldier of the Great War,” and Roald Dahl’s collection of ghost stories; both of which he never would have picked up on his own, yet treasured deeply.

John pointed the Corolla’s nose in front of the bookstore and exited the car, making it three steps from the entrance before pausing. He returned to the car and, without knowing why, removed the bag with the chocolate and the rose.

The bell above the door went tinkle as he entered the shop. Mrs. Stamp was finishing a phone call. “Been a while,” she said.

“Yes,” John agreed, looking embarrassed.

“Been busy?”

“No, not really.”

“Ah,” she nodded. “The internet. Just remember that when we lose our lease.” She let it sink in, then added, “I’m just getting at you. You know our customers aren’t exactly the online shopping type.”

“Where’s Mr. Stamp?”

“Probably off with one of his young chippies.  I don’t have the time to care.”  John nodded, no clue whether or not she was joking. “I’d ask you why you’re here on a Friday afternoon, but I’m not an idiot,” she said. “Happy Leap Year.”

John nodded, said thanks, and began to wander the cramped aisles. He had forgotten the smell of the shop and it hit him like the blunt perfume of nostalgia – sudden and fierce. He headed to a small table with a proud placard which read, “local writers,” all in caps, and picked up the book on top. It had a pencil drawing of a Colt .45 and a title of  Temporary Midnight. John read the description on the back. It didn’t sound especially good, but it was a local author and that meant something. John tucked Temporary Midnight under his arm and continued down the aisle.

He milled around for about an hour, never moving fast enough to gather static, then approached the counter with a half dozen selections – not a familiar author among them. Mrs. Stamp pulled the bundle from his arms, raising her features in approval as she set each book in a new stack in front of the register. When she got to the fifth book, she shook her head.  “You won’t like this one at all.” She set the sixth book on top of the others and handed a 3×5 index card across the counter. An Unearthed Era, by Sarah Scend, it said.

“We’ll keep these up here for you,” she said. “Your book is all the way in the back.”  Mrs. Stamp placed a large rubber band over the stack of books, turned her back, then placed them on the shelf behind her. John looked at the 3×5 again, amused, and headed toward the back of the store.

He rounded the last island, stopping short at the dawn of the final wall, where he saw a woman standing alone. There was something about her, perhaps the simple surprise of seeing someone where he had not expected, a scent he didn’t know he was smelling, or perhaps the heavy crash of serendipity. But something in the moment caused his heart to skip a beat, or maybe even two.

John kept walking, found his spot on the bookshelf, then ran his finger along the edge in search of the book. It wasn’t there. He looked at the 3×5 again, checking to see if he had the spelling correct. He did. John stood confounded, not wanting to leave, but hesitant to stand around without purpose. He pulled a book at random from the shelf and began to thumb through it, turning pages until he couldn’t stand feeling stupid any longer, then set it back on the shelf.

John stole another glance at the woman and noticed the book in her hands.  She looked lost, her eyes dancing across a page somewhere in the middle of the book and the edges of her mouth strongly hinting at a breaking smile. The cover of the book was facing down, but John could still clearly make out the title. An Unearthed Era.

The woman looked up. Four eyes met and both hearts hastened their tempo in unison.  Neither said a word. They just stood there staring, each one reading the other like an unfamiliar animal. Finally, when the silence was almost painful, the woman opened her mouth. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” John shook his head, “but I was searching for the book you’re reading.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “It’s quite good. Mrs. Stamp thought I would enjoy it. I suppose she was right. I’ve been stuck here reading it for fifteen minutes.”

John laughed, then handed her his index card. She took a quick look, smiled, then handed him her own matching 3×5.

“Looks like we’ve been hoodwinked,” she said. John’s laughter moved from nervous to raucous with the realization that he had never heard the word hoodwinked spoken out loud before. She was too good to be true. John felt the urge to flee and swallowed it.

“What brings you to the bookstore on a Friday afternoon?” he asked.

She looked embarrassed and broke eye contact. “Today’s an extra day,” she said. “It’s Leap Year, you only get one every four years. I couldn’t stand the thought of spending this one holed up in my office.”

John’s heart pounded in his chest. “What is it you do?” he asked.

“I’m a location scout,” she said. “You know, for movies.”

“I always wondered what that would be like.”

“It’s great, except for all the paperwork.”

He looked at her long skirt tickling the carpet, then looked up and met her eyes. He cleared his throat. “Would you allow me to take you to dinner?”

“I would love to,” she whispered, taking a step toward him, “but do you mind if we stop somewhere first for lunch.”

“Sounds perfect,” said John. He thought he could hear his own heart beating. “I believe this is for you.” He removed the lavender rose from the copper bag. The last ninety minutes had allowed it to open in full and the pungent perfume lingered in the aisle between them. John handed her the rose, then looped his arm in invitation. She slipped hers through the opening as though she’d been doing it for years.

“I’m Lisa,” she said.

“John.”

“Lisa,” John said, tasting her name. “Would you care to share a bar of chocolate?”

“I would love to.”

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