Dateline: Bishop, CA.
At the Shell station on the outskirts of town, we gassed up. Deb obsessively scrubbed a dead bug off of the windshield that had been in her vision path for the last 250 miles.
Its morning, and my primary mission once gas is pumped, is to secure some java. With the pure intentions of the caffeine addicted, I went into the mini market.
The coffee appeared to be a premium brand that I had not heard of before. Since I am not one to fuss when I am in need, I grabbed a 24 ounce cup and waited for the older guy, 70’s or so, to finish his pour.
“Looks like you enjoy your caffeine.” I realized he was talking to me when he stopped pouring and gestured to my cup with the pot. He looked like a relative of mine from down South around Atlanta.
“You could say that.” I smiled and held out my cup.
After he topped me off, he finished his and put the pot back. He didn’t touch the cream and sugar, which didn’t shock me. That generation was big on having their coffee “Fighter pilot” black.
I creamed and sugared my trough of joe as the old guy paid for his coffee.
“Morning, Bob.” The guy behind the counter looked to be roughly the same age, and obviously knew him.
“Morning, Len.” The old guy put his coffee down and made a show of digging out his wallet.
“Len, can you tell me what in THE hell is wrong with the meskins in this town?”
I hadn’t heard the word “meskins” since I spent my last summer down in Georgia with my daddy’s family. His resemblence to one of my relatives was getting stronger by the minute.
Len chuckled and took the offered bill for the coffee. “What now?”
“I about had to kill one of the meskins that works for me Friday.” Bob sighed, pocketing his change.
“Thats the whole damned problem, Len. All of ’em, illegal as hell and high as a kite.”
Bob saluted with his coffee and walked out to his pick up truck and drove off.
Something about coffee just brings out the best in people.