Some would say the coffee shop was quaint. Some would say it had charm. But to Stan it was just old. He and the shop were just old. He remembered how he had become shop keeper, though he couldn’t remember exactly when. One New Year’s Eve, wandering the streets, nowhere to go, Stan appeared at the shop. His eyes met those of an old man who smiled in recognition, clutched his chest and fell to the floor. Not having anywhere else to be, Stan simply took over.

An unusual place with no posted hours of business, Stan kept a room at the back and left the front door unlocked. Over the years his patrons grew accustomed to the shop always being open, fresh coffee always ready.

They were a strange mix, his customers. There were the residents of the apartments above storefronts like Stan’s. A stable group of working class folks ­ honest, clean, hard-working sorts who came to Stan’s for gossip, news, sharing of troubles or just to be with friends.

There were also a few business types from nearby office buildings, secretaries and such who enjoyed a good cup of coffee before work, a calm place for a bite of lunch, or a quiet spot to unwind at the end of a hectic day.

Another group of regulars who were seen but seldom recognized or heard by any but Stan were the indigent, those whose residences were unknown or changing and who, if truth be known, were indebted to Stan for more than a warm place to rest during their hectic days of surviving.

All of these were Stan’s congregation. He was priest, choir director and confessor. He quietly met their needs, a silent family member who offered daily respite and solace, especially during the stressful holiday season. His shop was an island of calm.

When New Year’s Eve arrived, no special celebration was planned, nothing out of the ordinary. Stan’s patrons wished him a happy new year as they left the shop, but in return he offered only a simple farewell.

Though tired, business as usual was his thought in the late evening as he picked up the broom and slowly cleaned the well worn boards. A young man entered in the waning hours of the passing year. Stan put his broom aside and moved behind the counter to wait on the stranger.

Their eyes met and Stan was filled with the warmth of familiarity. He knew what was about to happen. With that recognition, the pressure of an expanding heart filled his chest. Suddenly so much needed to be said, to be passed on. But not a word left his smiling lips as he slowly sank to the floor. The young man moved behind the counter and lovingly picked Stan up and carried him to the cot in the back room. He removed the apron, tied it to his own frame and went back to the shop, the broom and a new beginning.

David Hack retired from teaching public high school after 33 and a half years. He worked with students with learning disabilities and directed the theatre program. Since retirement he has worked part time at a sporting goods store, done taxes for H&R Block, scored tests for NCS Pearson, volunteered at a local hospital, elementary school, substituted in a high school video communications class and become a freelance writer. David enjoys motorcycle riding, camping, hiking and kayaking. He has built one kayak and has plans to build another.

Copyright 2002 by David Hack

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