French Roasted DaysA Story by Jared FellowsOne day, I sat down at Starbucks and started to observe people for an interesting character. I almost gave up when a frizzy, red-headed woman entered and inspired the character Evelyn.
Previous Version This is a previous version of French Roasted Days. From
the corner of the shop, she observed the man. He was a tall, charismatic man
with a gentle smile. His skin perfectly matched the French roast he was brewing
for her. She grimaced at the sight of the French roast almost at its
completion. She counted down the seconds until the French roast was done.
Today, he was a little quicker than usual. She paced over to the counter. “Your
French roast, Eve,” he said with his usual childish smile. “Oh,
please call me Evelyn, won’t you?” she asked. Her solemn face bloomed into a
radiant grin. He chuckled. “Will
do, Evelyn,” he remarked
sarcastically. She gave her last smile for the day, turned on her heels, and
strolled out of the coffeehouse. Usually she sat inside observing him once more
from her corner, but today, she decided to go home. It
was 1978 and Becky Starr was alive and well. She just so happened to be living
with Evelyn and her son. Becky often laid about the house when she was not
working. Actually, she barely worked. Evelyn’s son said she worked at some
pawnshop. She didn’t really remember, nor did she particularly care. Becky was
just lying around the house too much " unless she was out on the town with her
precious son. Sometimes they didn’t return until late the next day. Evelyn was
always hovering by the phone waiting for the police to call to tell her at her
son was dead. Her son would claim that she is “carefree.” “Carefree?
She’s CARELESS!” Evelyn would always say. Becky
Starr didn’t believe in using the bathroom, she would use the backyard instead,
preferring the “welcoming grass” over “water filled chemicals.” Even worse was
the fact that her breasts were always bare. She never once covered up on her
own. It usually took much cajoling from Evelyn’s son and much yelling from
Evelyn herself to cover her up. Becky was a hippie, a goddamn hippie, who
thought that responsibility and appropriate adult behavior could be put aside
and let life just float on by. However, what bested all of that was the fact
that she brewed roasted coffee for her son. Evelyn could tell he was faking his
interest in coffee. He always had this silent, distasteful twitch in his mouth
when he didn’t like something. He claimed that he did like coffee, but she knew
better. “I’m your damned mother!” she would say. “Good
morning, Eve,” the coffeehouse man greeted her. “Stop
it, please,” she said. “Eve
is a name of youth. Why don’t you prefer that?” he asked. “My
son calls me ‘Eve,’ she returned gravely. For a moment, the coffeehouse man was
taken back, but then he gave his childish smile. “French
roast today, Evelyn?” “Roast
reminds me too much of Becky Starr,” she grunted. “And
she is?” “A
nostalgic mother’s worst nightmare,” she quipped. Evelyn stared out the window
and said to the coffeehouse man, “Are
there any plans on changing the logo of the bare woman?” “Let’s
hope so for your sake,” he answered. Well,
the years rolled by and Saturday arrived. It was graduation day for The
University of Washington. As it so happened, Becky Starr attended the school
with her son. Becky presented herself well and wore the proper attire. However,
Evelyn knew that underneath the flowing, elegant robes were packs and packs of
coffee beans that she was going to use to steal the few remnants of her son’s
innocence and juvenile ways. Well
the years rolled on just a little more and Monday came about. Evelyn, every now
and then, taught at the local elementary schools. It was for pleasure,
something to do with her many solitary hours. It was mainly an excuse to escape
the memories of her son’s “piss-poor” mistakes. Well, Evelyn was about to go on
her lunch break when someone knocked on her classroom door. She gently opened
the door and found a little girl. She couldn’t have been older than seven. She
held a sly grin on her pale countenance. “Hello, there,” Evelyn said, beaming. “Hi!” she answered. “Come in! How was your weekend?” “Very good!” she said. “Oh? What did you do?” “I almost drowned,” she answered. Evelyn’s smile
quickly faded away while the little girl’s persisted. “What?” Evelyn asked. “The water was deep and crazy. I loved it!” At that
she threw up her hands towards the sky. Evelyn’s eyes followed her hands and
went back to the girl’s face. “Weren’t you scared?” Evelyn asked looking panic stricken. “No. Mommy and Daddy are scary when they fight.
They were scared for me so now I can’t play in the water,” she said. “Well, I’m sure Mommy and Daddy are doing what’s
best for you,” Evelyn said, trembling. “But now I can’t be happy. I can’t do what I want
ever again, but it was fun. Can you please let go of my hands?” At this, Evelyn
realized that her hands were clenched around the student’s wrists very tightly
and let go. Evelyn bolted out the door, ran through the colorful hallways, and
out the front door. From there, she found a telephone booth, paid the machine,
and began to sob over the phone with her son on the receiving end. All she
could tell him was “Now I understand.” The coffeehouse man brought her French roast over
to Evelyn’s usual corner. “Here’s your French Roast, Evelyn,” he said with
his same stupid grin. “Thank you. I have a question for you,” she said. “Anything, ma’am,” he replied. “What made you enter the coffee business?” He
slightly looked away and slowly shook his head. He turned back and said, “Because I was a 16 year old. When I was young, I
wanted more than anything to drink coffee. After my first day on the job, I was
an adult and oh, boy, did I want my childhood back. These coffee beans are like
shackles, they will never let you go, but at the same time, you don’t want to
go. I feel like I revive the world with coffee, as if the whole world would not
be able to run without me. Do you know what I’m saying?” She nodded and started sipping her French roast. “Eve, did you notice the logo?” he asked. She smiled to herself and answered, “Yes I did.” The woman’s bare chest was now hidden beneath the
ocean waves. © 2009 Jared FellowsAuthor's Note
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StatsAuthorJared FellowsLos Angeles, CAAboutmy name is Pockets, and I am your storyteller. Why a storyteller instead of a writer? When Satan has dragged me to his home because of my passion for the truth, I will be a writer. When logic i.. more..Writing
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