Waiting on the Roof

In the past week or so I've managed to write a couple of short stories, re-write an old one and start on a poem. That's not bad. I think I would have done more if it wasn't for a lack of time (or commitment). So here's a story for your enjoyment and any criticism is appreciated.



Waiting on the Roof

There is this story I heard a pastor tell once, it’s about a man in a flood. As the water is rising a neighbor comes and says to the man, “Come with me, I’ll help you get to higher land.” The man declines, chooses to stay with his house, and says, “No, if God wants me to survive this then he’ll provide for me.” The waters rise even higher and the man is forced to climb onto his roof. A boat comes by and the man in the boat says, “Come with me, I’ll take you to safety.” The man declines saying, “No, if God wants me to live then he’ll provide for me.” A while later, a helicopter comes and one of the rescue crew descends on a rope. Again the man on the roof declines saying, “No, if God wants me to live then he’ll provide for me.” Of course the waters rise and the man is consumed. He gets to heaven and he meets God and says, "What happened God, how come you didn’t provide a way for me to survive?” God says, “You idiot, I sent you the neighbor, the guy in the boat, and a helicopter.”

This story went through my mind as I received a latte from the barista at the Starbucks near my house. She flirted with me as she always did when I stopped in after work. She had one of those names that really seemed to suit her. “Thanks Leela,” rolled off my tongue as the image of her smile once again burned into my mind. I sat down in my favorite lounge chair; it was at an angle where I could watch her work all the way from the drive-thru window to the pastries counter. And I checked her out casually as I pulled out my lap top and again as I pretended to browse something online. I made sure to be subtle and never too obvious; the last thing I would want is to make her think I was creepy. Every now and then our eyes would meet from across the room and she would smile. Not the polite smile you give when you meet eyes with a stranger in the supermarket, but a heartwarming smile as if she was genuinely pleased to see me.
She wore the standard Starbucks uniform: black shirt with green apron, and she wore the optional green visor as well. Her wavy dark hair was up in a loose, messy bun on top of her head. The bun looked as if she must have put her hair up while driving, changing the radio, doing her make-up, and sending a text message all at the same time. It was sexy in its messiness. She smiled all the time and she would laugh at even the corniest of my jokes. She was charming and flirty and always left me wondering if she was interested in something more than just a customer/barista relationship.

I thought about the story of the man on his roof in the flood because I wondered if this would be another in a long list of women I was too afraid to ask out. Though she was well out of my league and a few years younger I was certain she wasn’t flirting just because she wanted a little extra tip. I thought about Lindsey in high school who was also out of my league. Even after having her crush on me confirmed by a mutual friend, I was still too shy to ask her out. And then a few years ago there was Robin. Robin and I worked together, got along great and even hung out socially from time to time. But I never had the guts to take it to the next level. And last year there was Janie. She was friends with a girl I was dating but was far more beautiful and far more interesting. I always felt like a more competent man would have went after what he wanted instead of settling for something second best. Most people set a minimum standard for who they’ll date but I seem to set a maximum standard. If the girl seems the least bit too good for me then I dismiss any notion of being with her.

I had started to feel like this opportunity was slowly slipping away from me as well. I watched as she flirted with a younger, more attractive guy ordering a cinnamon roll and a vanilla latte. How could I even think she would be interested in a poor, average looking underachiever like me? The only reason she flirts with me is because I am a sucker. I happily over tip the girls at Hooters when they causally touch me on my back, or shoulder or knee as they take my order. She senses that and works me over to get that extra dollar in her tip jar. I can’t blame her, God gave her looks and personality and she’s making use of her gifts, just like God gave me the ability to truly appreciate the beautiful things he’s put in this world. I just wish he’d made me a little less naïve and a little more confident. Even though I would get shot down, at least I would know she wasn’t interested, instead of spending fifteen dollars a week wondering.

She caught me staring directly at her. I wasn’t staring exactly but I was fixed in her direction as I pondered God’s greater plans. “Hey… Hey!” she has to shout to break me out of my trance. “How’s that cinnamon latte?”

“Oh… uh, great.” Crap, now I feel incredibly awkward.

“Did you notice anything different with it?”

I took a sip, “Umm, no. Is there something different?”

“Yeah, I did something different this time. I’ve been experimenting lately with some different flavors. I wanted to see of you noticed that I snuck something in on you.”

“What did you put in it?”

She didn’t answer right away. She turned to walk away. She grabbed a rag and came out from around the counter to wipe some tables. I took another sip as she approached and began wiping a table near me.

“I put in three drops of a love potion I got from a gypsy… nah, I’m kidding, I put in a little nutmeg.”

I took another sip, “Oh yeah, I taste it now… yeah that’s pretty good. I like it.” I couldn’t taste anything. It’s the exact same as it always is.

“I really like nutmeg and yesterday I tried mixing it into the cinnamon latte for myself. Pretty good huh?”

“Yeah, I’ve never been very good at mixing flavors around. When I cook I just use salt and pepper but everything comes out bland anyways.” This is not true, I’m a really good cook and I love to experiment with a variety of spices and flavors. I don’t know why I’m lying.

“Oh I love experimenting with food. Ginger is my favorite right now.”

“Really? Ginger?”

“Yeah, you should try some. When you leave here you should go by the store and pick some up. Then pan fry some chicken in olive oil and sprinkle the ginger on it. You’ll love it.”

“Huh, I’ll have to give that a try.” I like ginger but I find it goes much better with some citrus flavor. Usually I marinate the chicken with a blend of lime, lemon and orange juice. I put some garlic with it as well. But I go on playing dumb.

“Try it tonight, and then come in tomorrow to let me know how you like it.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that… Actually, I could use some help with the taste testing, to make sure I did it right.” Holy crap! Did I just say that? Is this actually happening?

“Yeah?”

“You could come by my place after work and help me cook if you wanted.” This is happening! These words are actually coming out of my mouth!

“Okay, I get off about 5:00.”

I sit there completely stunned at what has just happened. She walks away and back behind the counter to help a customer. My heart rate has quadrupled and beads of sweat have formed along my brow. I try to play it off by casually by taking a sip of coffee but my hands tremble slightly as I lift the cup. I pray that she doesn’t notice my nervousness. When she finishes helping the customer she comes back over. I feel a horrible anxiety consuming me. I know she's going to give me some excuse as to why she can’t tonight. I start trying to think of a little joke I can say to play it off and make us both more comfortable with the situation. She walks directly in front of me, hands me a pen with her right hand, and extends her left hand to me.

“Here, write down your number and I’ll call you when I get off.” I look up at her and she smiles, moving her left hand closer to me, gesturing that I should just write directly on her palm.

“You’re offering me your hand? I think we should get to know each other a little better before we tie the knot.”

She pauses and I freeze. She looks at me confused, obviously not getting my joke. I begin to check the exits to see how quickly I can get out of here. Then I see the light bulb go off as the pun sinks in. She smiles and then giggles saying, “Yeah right, you wish.” I slowly write down my number on her palm, making sure that each digit is legible. She returns to help more customers and I finish my drink. She's overwhelmed with caffeine craving teenagers as I leave so I simply wave to her as not to bother her work.

“Bye Steve, see you tonight.” She calls out across the store with a smile. Walking across the parking lot to my car I wonder whether it would be easier to correct her and tell her my name is Gary or if I should just drive down to the Justice of the Peace and have my name legally changed.