An Order of Coffee and Tears Read Online Free PDF Page A

walk across the diner so that I could spy a glance to the back room with the hopes of seeing what was happening. Passing by a few times, I found Ms. Potts and Mr. Thurmon exchanging words. And on one pass, Ms. Potts caught me mid-stride and shooed me away, her face scrunched with annoyance as the sound of the towel in her hand whipped at the air. Clark seemed impervious to it all. Not one time did I see him looking over his shoulder, or trying to lean in with his ear. Not a care – nothing. I suppose I was just curious enough for the two of us; that is what I told myself, anyway.
    During our shift, we ran the diner, but we didn’t own Angela’s Diner. Angela Thurmon was the original owner. And from what I’ve been told, she built and breathed the diner after her husband died. It was her baby. She said she built Angela’s because she wanted to work something good and steady. She said that if there is a business to spend your days working, then you might as well pick one everyone needs. I never gave it much thought when Ms. Potts explained it, but now I realize everyone does need to eat. How many times have you walked by a restaurant only to stop and then step in for a quick bite? I know I did little more than a year ago. I just never left.
    My boss is Angela’s son, Thomas Thurmon. I’ve heard Ms. Potts call him Junior. He grew up in the diner. Back then, mommas couldn’t drop their babies off at a day care, afford an all-day sitter, or hire a live-in Au Pairs. And in Angela Thurmon’s case, she was a single parent with two babies to tend to: the diner, and Junior. So, Junior spent his days playing in the diner. I imagine there could have been worse things.
    All things considered, I think Junior must’ve had it pretty good growing up with his days spent in Angela’s Diner. I can picture him in my head, running around and playing under the booths, his makeshift hideaways. Or maybe snaking through the stool posts at the counter, probably imagining them as steel pillars – a gateway to some mystical land. Maybe he had a toy car, or something, and, with it, he made traveling mysteries and adventures. He could’ve used the sounds of the diner with busy trucks passing on highway overpasses, their heavy traffic sounds filling the diner and staying true to rush hour. A quick glance around the diner, and I laughed at the child-proofing that would have been called to question today.
    Ms. Potts knew Angela Thurmon better than perhaps anyone. And there was never a shortage of stories. Angela had lost her husband at a young age to a horrible car accident involving a drunk taxi driver. Newspapers followed a big public outcry against the taxi company, which was one of the largest and richest in the city. Talk of scandal and cover-up ended with a handsome settlement paid to Angela and Junior. The settlement was enough that Angela never had to work again – she could have easily spent her days minding Junior and doing whatever else pleased her. Instead, she put all her money into the diner and into the land the diner was sitting on. She had straight up ownership of it all with only the monthly food bills, maintenance, employees, and utilities as the overhead – nothing else.
    Ms. Potts happened to be one of her first employees. Clark followed a year or so after. Angela filled her days working to make the diner successful. No job was too big or too small. She worked the grill alongside Clark, waited tables, or cleaned the bathrooms when the need wasn’t filled quickly enough for her taste. She worked all the jobs, even repaired the roof after spring winds opened it up like a tin can under hungry fingers.
    When arthritis put a limp in her step, it slowed her some, but not enough to stop her. This was her place. As she grew older, the arthritis moved from her hips and legs, to her feet and hands. Soon, the simple jobs, the basic ones, were too much. A stool at the cash register became her last station. Most days, she’d greet