| About the Author |
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Joshua Covington is a young, previously unpublished writer who would is making his debut in Nuvein with The Spice of Life.
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Above his head, ceiling fans whir at a gentle carousel speed, sending a light breeze wafting down onto his bald but hat covered head, caressing his wrinkled ears. He is sitting at his usual table, complete with green checkered tablecloth. The menu is printed above him on the wall, but he does not even glance at it. Instead, he studies the specials board and decides on the smoked chicken salad sandwich, served on a toasted Kaiser roll. He never orders from the normal menu except of course on Sundays, when he treats himself to the grilled salmon. For him, variety is not the spice of life.
The dining room is empty except for him, not a surprising fact considering that it is still early and the lunch rush has not yet begun. By then he will be gone, just a memory for the waitress and a dirty plate for the kitchen. He doesn’t like to be here when the place gets crowded-- except on Sundays when the rush comes earlier and he cannot avoid it. Occasionally, he will chat with the owner for a few minutes as he passes through from one errand to another but for the most part he speaks very little to anyone.
The lone waitress comes by to refill his tea and he thanks her, his voice leaving his throat in something that more resembles a croak than a human response. She acknowledges his thanks but only briefly, eager to find something else to hold onto her attention before the rest of the lunch crowd filters in through the door. She does not waste much congeniality since he always leaves only a dollar tip. She is pretty for a woman nearing middle age and her sharp West Virginia accent excites him, as much as a man his age can become excited.
As he sits back in his chair and waits for his sandwich to be made, the melodic sounds of the local easy listening station fill his ears. Following “The Little Drummer Boy” is Bing Crosby’s classic “White Christmas”, redone by David Bowie. He doesn’t
particularly care for Christmas music, especially some as bad as this but he has little choice. This particular station has decided to play nothing but Christmas songs, hymns, and odes until New Years Day.
Christmas time has always been the hardest time for him, ever since his wife passed away several years before. He has no children, a fact that is by no choice of his own. His only sibling has not spoken to him in 22 years, the result of an inheritance dispute following the death of their parents. So he sits here, in this quaint country barbeque restaurant, dressed in plain, un-pleated khaki pants, a plaid powder blue shirt, and an unbuttoned trench coat, being served chicken salad by a waitress young enough to be the daughter he could never have.
He munches his sandwich slowly, taking care to savor the flavors but eager to finish and leave this place before it begins to get crowded. The food here is nothing spectacular; no culinary awards will ever be hung above the register. He does not care though, it is the atmosphere that draws him here everyday, rain or shine. Although he truly does dislike the crowd that will inevitably file in soon enough, he secretly relishes this little bit of company, this miniscule crumb of human contact. The place has a homey aspect to it, something hard to put your finger on but undeniable nonetheless. He would not trade this half hour of his day for anything. In many ways, it is all that he has.
The waitress returns once more to refill his tea and inquire about the quality of his meal. He wants to reach out to her, hold her and never let go but he knows that he cannot. He has a reputation around here to maintain and any expression of emotion would cause a stir that he is really not prepared to deal with now. Instead of grasping the little bit of humanity in front of him, he chooses to let it slip away today just as he has every day before it.
He was not taught to deal with emotion well; he has not cried in years. He has attended dozens of funerals in the past, some of them close relatives—his wife for example—some of them merely acquaintances, but has never shed a tear for any of them. He can remember when he was fourteen, attending his grandfather’s funeral, seated in front of that tiny country church with the other pallbearers, observing the dozens of mourners that surrounded him. Some had looked saddened, others completely devastated. Sitting in the front row he could clearly see his sister, her face a mask of grief, her eyes brimming with tears that would soon flow down her smooth cheeks. To his left, another pallbearer shook with the tears that flowed from his eyes and splashed into his lap like bombs dropped from a plane. Even as the ceremony came to a close and he helped carry his grandfather’s body out the church door and toward the grave where he would rest forever, still no tears came. He had simply stood there, hands clasped in front of him, seemingly a pillar of strength. This is the way that he lives his life.
He finishes his meal quickly as he normally does and the waitress brings him his check, flashes her fake smile, and thanks him for his patronage. To his left, the front door opens at the hands of four construction workers covered in the filth of their trade. They slide into a nearby booth, cramming themselves into the high-backed wooden bench like clowns in a circus car. He takes little notice of them and walks toward the counter to pay his check, every hitch in his stride evident. As the waitress rings up his check, he looks behind her at the sign on the dining room wall that reads: If you are grumpy, grouchy or otherwise ill tempered, there will be a $10 charge for putting up with you. He hands her a fifty, receives his change, and walks back to table nine to leave a minimal tip. He lets a dollar drift onto the glass-topped table and then after a glance at the waitress, lets a twenty waft toward the table as well. He takes a step toward the door and returns, picking up the twenty and sliding it underneath the single, taking care to ensure that the larger bill will not be noticed until after he has left the building. A trace of a smile rises on the corners of his mustached lips as he leaves.
As he steps outside, the sharp bite of an unusually bitter wind strikes him across the face like a razor, sending a chill straight through him. He cinches his belt-less trench coat against the cold and walks slowly over toward to his car, taking great care not to slip on the film of snow that has fallen on the walk. He glances upward toward the dismally gray sky, so overcast that the snow falling from it blends in and seems to be appearing from nowhere, cascading down on his shoulders from an inexhaustible source. He lowers his chin into his coat, raises his shoulders against the weather and finishes the trudge toward his car. He opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat without a single grunt or groan. The car starts on the second try, roaring to life like a large man who has been awakened from a deep sleep.
He pulls out onto the rural road slowly and carefully, his tires finding a sure grip, not sliding a bit. As his Buick glides safely along the pavement, he decides that he does not want to return home just yet. Home is cold and lonesome and he is not in the mood to be cold and lonesome. He takes the next right and heads toward the interstate, not bothering to check his gas tank level as he passes the filling station. Thursday is his day to buy gas, today is only Tuesday. He merges on with the rest of traffic and heads slowly and carefully toward the city.
He has never been a spontaneous man. Everything in his life has always been carefully mapped out, scripted as meticulously as any movie or play. He gets up every morning at 6:45 without the aid of any alarm clock. He has awoken every morning at this time for 35 years, his body has become accustomed and his internal clock never fails him. He never lies in bed for more than a few minutes in the morning; he feels that it is a waste of time and a sign of weakness. He gets up and fixes himself breakfast, nothing special but filling nonetheless, and sits down to read the paper. He has no pets, never has, so he has no need to attend to the needs of anyone but himself. It is this time of the morning that he misses his wife the most, when the empty house seems to be too expansive and lonely for just him. Some days are worse than others. Some days he thinks that he may burst out in a torrid display of emotion. Others, he simply sits there in his wicker backed kitchen chairs covered with the flower designs that his wife painted herself, drinks his coffee and eats his fried eggs in silence. After he is finished, he carefully washes his plate and glass, the only ones that he now owns. There is little reason for an extensive set of dishes; he never has any guests any more. He may watch some television after breakfast, usually just the morning news or Today show, or he may not, he is not spontaneous but his morning schedule is not set in stone. The news is the only television that he ever watches. Two years ago he had cable installed and then removed three weeks later. He hadn’t been able to turn off CNN, it had almost become an addiction to him and addictions were one thing that he can not tolerate. Then after enough time has passed for his stomach to become empty again, he heads toward the restaurant for lunch. It doesn’t matter if the dining room doors have not yet been unlocked when he arrives, he can wait in the parking lot. He is a patient man.
Today is different, though. Today will be a great day, one that should be marked in the history book of his life. Instead of heading home towards his cold house with his single dish and TV that seems to only be able to show bad news, he takes the next exit towards West Pump Theater. He steps slowly out of his car and walks toward the massive stone entranceway, a cathedral-like pavilion that only seems to be lacking a set of gargoyles. Along both walls to his right and left rest posters for upcoming movies that he knows that he probably will never see. Standing in the U-shaped outdoor section of the theater that provides protection from the snow that has now begun to fall harder, he stares blankly ahead at digital display of movies being shown. The massive amount of choice overwhelms him for a brief moment, causing his vision to blur and sending short waves of nausea upward through his time riddled body. The movie titles spelled out with letters formed with colored dots of light dance and scroll before his eyes. After a few seconds he is able bring the world back into sharp clarity and decides on the movie at the top of the alphabetical list for that reason and that reason only. He walks toward the window inhabited by a very large teenager who seems to have been crammed into the ticket booth and is not happy about it. Along with the teenager’s general unhappiness, there is a distinct glaze of boredom over his green eyes with sharp yellow flecks. The man balks slightly at the seemingly outrageous ticket price and then reluctantly slides six dollars through the tiny arch shaped opening in the glass that protects the giant teenager from a danger that he will never have to worry about in this wealthy section of town. He takes his ticket and fifty cents change and leaves the boy to his boredom. As he passes through the doors towards the smell of fake butter and disinfectant, he slides the two quarters off the tips of his fingers stealthily into the side pocket of his trench coat. He knows that soon they will lie at the bottom of a Salvation Army kettle, the one on the corner complete with a skinny, beardless man in a holey Santa Claus suit. The thought makes him a little happier and for the second time today, he smiles slightly.
He proceeds past the snack bar toward the left hand hallway, winds his way through yards of unnecessary velvet rope, and hands his ticket to another teen, this one with dull eyes and stringy blond hair. The kid tears his ticket with an air of indifference, wishes him a fabulous film, and returns the stub to his slightly arthritic hand. He walks across the dark red carpet toward his theater, stepping around a popcorn spill that lies halfway to his destination. He pulls the door open with more effort than should be necessary and heads up the slight incline toward the seating area. He makes a right and glances upward toward the stadium style seating area where he sees only three other people. Straight ahead, there is a seat far enough away from the other patrons to suit him. His feet do not stick to the floor as he had expected, the theater is very clean considering the obvious uncaring nature of its employees. His body settles slowly into his high backed chair that leans back just far enough to be uncomfortable. The armrest is the kind that can be raised so that two people can sit next to each other comfortably, or one person can have two seats worth of space, but he chooses to leave it alone. He’d rather not be reminded that he has no one to share this seat with.
The previews begin soon after he sits down. They hold very little interest for him and his mind wanders. For a moment he wonders if he chose wisely coming here instead of returning to the familiarity of his home. In a strange way, he misses his empty house and resolves to never deviate from his daily schedule ever again. He begins to debate about whether or not he should leave now, fleeing this place that only reminds him how much he wants to be nowhere but home, and returning to his now snow covered car. As he is about the stand up to leave, the lights dim and the main feature starts. He decides that it would be foolish to leave now and curses himself quietly for considering wasting the hefty ticket price by walking out before the movie has even begun.
The movie is nothing spectacular. There is very little plot and the characters are vapid and one-dimensional. He notes that the filmmakers seemed to rely on special effects more than story. It is nothing like the movies that he remembers from his adolescence which featured masterful writing and included true stars of the screen. He forces himself to sit through it, unwilling to even consider again wasting the five dollars.
The movie ends on a solemn but triumphant note, the basic Hollywood happy ending. As the meager crowd around him files out the double doors behind the seating area, he sits and watches the credits scroll before his eyes. Hundreds of names roll downwards across the screen, seeming to disappear at the bottom, to where he does not know. The screen turns black and the lights come up but he still does not move. Suddenly the very thought of raising himself from this seat seems outrageous and impossible. For a while he sits there unblinking, staring straight ahead. Then, the man in the trench coat with the lonely eyes puts his head into his hands and cries.
The End
