## Coffee Time - Spring 1997 **This is a work in progress, not sure if I want to keep it and develop it further.** The old wooden steps felt steeper than before. Mick pushed through the door into the fading daylight outside Ruthie’s. Sunlight dappled the parking lot, shadows slanting through the exit. His mind drifted—adrift in the quiet realization of his role in the ongoing wreckage between him and Lara. A culprit, not just a casualty. Shielding his eyes, he scanned the lot. A figure stood near the curb, silhouetted against the fading light. “Hey, Mick. You got a sec?” The figure called out. Mick squinted, then hesitated. “Sure… I guess. What’s up?” “I know you don’t really know me,” Vance said. “But I overheard a little of what you’re going through. Walk with me to Coffee Time? I could use a cup—stuff they serve in those meetings gives me the shits. Maybe we can talk.” “Tonight’s not great—sorry, I can’t remember your name. I’m pretty distracted. Just kinda want to get home.” “Vance,” he replied with a lopsided grin. “One of these times you’ll remember it.” He started walking, slow and casual, not pushing too hard. “Look, I’ve been where you are. Mostly. I know that itch for space, quiet… a drink. This is my third time back. I’ve made the choice you’re thinking about.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Still want to most days, if I’m being honest. But Coffee Time’s just down the block, and I swear—I talk less the more caffeine I drink. Usually. Walk with me?” “I’m heading that way anyway,” Mick said. “But I’m not looking for a savior or a sponsor. This AA big book shit isn't my thing, kinda bunch a bullshit. Just being honest.” “Whoa, yeah, no—I get it. Third time back, remember.” Vance chuckled, thumbing his chest. “Don’t worry, I’m not sponsor material. Believe me.” “So why are you here, Mick? Pretty sure you’re stoned right now—and that Cool Water cologne you’re rocking? Not exactly stealth mode.” Vance grinned. “Took me a long time to figure my reason out. Well… ‘figure out’ might be generous.” “Because other people keep telling me I need help.” Mick smirked. “What those people don’t get…”—he paused, longer this time—“is I don’t want help. I don’t need it. To quote the great philosopher Bon Jovi: ‘It’s my life.’ So yeah, I’m here. Playing the part. Just like I always have.” “Man, you remind me of me, two stints back. Let me guess—some kinda religion growing up? Deep-seated bullshit trauma, too?” He laughed softly. “You and I are more alike than you think.” Mick side-eyed him, opened his mouth, then shut it. The snark was gone. “Yeah. Nailed it. You read like a book. And hey—sometimes it actually helps to hear you’re not special. Mormon, here. Magic underwear, Hill Cumorah, golden plates, ding-dong mission boy—" Vance mimes pushing a doorbell "the whole fucking catalog. Twenty straight years.” The door to Coffee Time was propped open. Outside, every sidewalk table was packed—smokers nursing mugs, half-finished cigarettes smoldering in ashtrays. Inside, the air was thick with espresso and burnt toast. Mick and Vance stepped into line. “So what are you running from?” Vance asked, not even pretending to whisper. “Most people who end up here have some kind of history.” Before Mick could answer, the barista called from behind the espresso machine. “What can I get started for you two?” “Two medium drips, no room,” Vance said, then glanced at Mick. “You need room?” “Naw.” “Two mediums, no room,” the barista repeated. “Kirsten’ll ring you up.” “Can you believe that powdered creamer shit at those meetings?” Vance chuckled. “Brewer laps it up like its coke.” He grabbed a couple of lids from the counter. “Brewer’s a good guy, though. Helped me out a ton. Patience of a saint, that one.” “Two coffees, one-sixty-five,” Kristen the cashier droned. Vance slid a two-dollar bill across the counter. Kristen raised an eyebrow. “Don’t see many of these.” “I bounce at the A-Crop,” Vance grinned. “Come by sometime—two-dollar bills are dancer currency. Best steak in town, too.” “Two mediums on the bar!” the barista called over her shoulder. Mick grabbed the coffees. Vance followed, handing him the lids. “You bounce at a strip club?” Mick asked, eyebrow raised. “What are you—maybe a buck twenty-five? How’s that work?” “Nah,” Vance smirked. “I just go there a lot. She was cute. Didn’t wanna come off like a total sleaze.” “Doesn’t look like any seats opened up outside,” Vance said. “You want to sit in here?” “The oily coffee smell’s already sticking to my clothes, and it’s loud as hell,” Mick replied. “I think I’ll just walk home. Thanks for the coffee, though.” “Where d'ya live?” “Near the 405. Just down from that scary-ass McDonald’s.” “Oh nice. I’m over in the Stadium—those Section 8 units. I’ll walk with you, we can split at the McD’s. That place is sketchy as hell.”