Midnight Oil

A few weeks went by and Fender didn’t see Laine. He began to worry even more, his thoughts running into worst-case scenarios while grinding beans, his head whipping around every time the back door opened. He thought about Laine driving back down the dark road that curled like a C around the deep, tree lined ravine at the end of the neighborhood, going a little too fast in pursuit of her boyfriend. He imagined her shoved into a tight, dusty corner of a closet, covering her mouth with a sweating hand, watching shadows move under the crack of a door.

When the night deepened, treading the edge of dawn, his worries about Laine merged with thoughts of Nadia, and the way a gleeful glint crossed behind her maple eyes whenever she swore. He remembered shushing his sister, who stood at the top of the stairs one foggy October morning, bundled in a Superman bathrobe and gaping down at him.

“Where the hell are you going?” Nadia said, her voice coming out more panicked than angry. Fender stood by the front door, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Outside, a pickup truck slowed to a stop in front of their small country home, its engine puffing frantically in the Southern autumn chill.

Just as Fender was about to tumble into a sepia-tinted nostalgia reel, he heard the back door creak open. Fender glanced over to the mirrors immediately, and felt a wash of relief to see Laine entering the shop, her yellowish hair concealing most of her face. Someone else joined her and they settled down at a table in the corner by the pinball machines. The person with Laine dropped a bulging backpack into one of the free seats and set a large, black book onto the table. Laine went over to an outlet in the corner and plugged in a phone charger.

Suddenly, Laine’s companion was at the bar. They were willowy, gaunt even, with confronting, obsidian doe eyes. Their wavy black hair was pulled back in a low ponytail that was nothing more than a few inches long, and they stood tall, their small chin angled skyward. There was a heavy presence to this person, an earthiness that went deeper than just the clay colored flannel shirt, chocolate colored trousers, and smooth, light brown skin. In an instant, Fender understood that it was Ali.

“Chamomile and rooibos,” Ali said, his voice a well-practiced baritone. “Please,” he added, an afterthought. The clock over his head reported the time as 4:34– later than Laine’s usual departure.

Fender simply nodded and turned to the jars. He had never met a famous person, but coming face to face with this teenager somehow felt adjacent. From the adoration that Laine spoke over him, it was hard not to feel starstruck. Despite his slim stature and sensitive gaze, there was a commanding presence to Ali that Fender could not deny. It was as if his aura was made of lead.

Laine was facing the outlet, scrolling on her phone and then typing furiously. Fender filled up the hot water canister with more water. “It’ll be a second, I’ll bring it to you,” he said.

Ali, who opened a worn leather wallet that was stuffed with small bills, produced a five and retreated to their table.

Fender caught a few more glances at the couple as he prepared the tea. Settled at the table, Ali opened the large black book and began sketching. Laine left her phone to charge on top of one of the pinball machines and sat across from him. She scooted forward in her seat and peered over the top of the sketchbook, and Ali gently tapped the end of her nose with his pen.

Fender approached the table with their tea, and Laine smiled up at him. “Hi, Fender.”

Ali’s head lifted up from the sketchbook, curious. 

“This is Ali, my boyfriend,” she said, smiling brightly.

“Fender,” the barista replied, setting the steaming cups down. Ali looked up at him quizzically, even a bit territorially. From above, Fender could see the contents of Ali’s sketchbook. Inside were dozens of sketches, many of which were of Laine. He recognized, quickly, that Ali was the bathroom artist.

“Ali brought me here on our first date,” Laine said, reaching across the table, her blue-veined hand searching for her boyfriend’s. “He’s been coming here for years.”

“What brings you two out tonight? Er, this morning?” Fender asked, taking a step back after Ali closed his sketchbook protectively. A myriad of stickers, some faded and barely hanging on, decorated the front: an illustrated black cat with neon yellow eyes, a screen printed portrait of Bob Marley. A flaking Palestinian flag sat in the center, the other stickers arranged precariously around it.

The couple tensed in unison at Fender’s question, as if a flashlight had been pointed at them. Ali took a long drink from his tea, his large eyelids lowered. Laine did a quick glance around the shop, then back to Fender. She let out a nervous laugh but wasn’t really smiling anymore. “We’re catching a train.”

“Oh,” Fender said. He eyed Ali’s backpack and noticed that Laine had a few bags of her own. “Vacation?”

Laine shook her head, forcing out a small smile. “Not quite.” She didn’t elaborate in her usual fashion. Fender took this as a sign and retreated to the bar.

As his shift wrapped up, Fender felt those worries rising again, his throat growing tight and mind unruly. Those packed bags beside Laine looked all too familiar, and he remembered the weight of the one he hoisted into the backseat of his lover’s rickety truck, moments before he was whisked out of North Carolina and into a tumbledown duplex in East Cleveland, where he lived with Michael for three very complicated years.

Fender eventually broke it off, got a job here, and clumsily tried to mend his relationship with the more accepting family members he left behind, 500 miles away. He had left North Carolina for reasons other than just love– the promise of a more progressive community in a Northern city, better wages, a means to escape the expectations that Southern, Baptist farmers’ sons often were saddled with. Now, nearing thirty, he often asked himself if he had made a mistake, or just a fateful decision.

Fender observed the couple from his place behind the bar. He noticed that both of them had aquiline noses, similar traits that could be traced back to two very different parts of the world. How romantic, he mused, that hundreds of years of evolution, reproduction, and immigration were behind their unique, troubled love, and allowed them to, if nothing else, grasp one another’s hands in a shitty coffee joint at four o’clock in the morning, time syrupy and flowing slowly around them.

Fender’s coworker arrived before the couple had left, ready to take over for the morning. The morning barista, a plump hipster with an explosive ginger beard, nodded sleepily to him and went to the bathroom to wash up. Fender stepped away from the bar and turned his gaze to Laine, her head rested on the table, eyes closed. Fender finally saw her get some sleep. His heart slowly sinking, he smiled at the girl, hoping she would catch the vibrations of it.

Not wanting to wake her, Fender slid a small scrap of receipt paper onto the table, towards Ali. The boy’s hands, wide and smudged on the sides with pen ink, hesitated on the table.

“Just in case you need a friend,” Fender said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn cargos. “Or a place to stay if you ever come back. I know how it is.”

Ali made fleeting eye contact with the barista, his thin lips curling together cautiously. A shadow of dark upper lip whiskers told Fender that this person was refusing to hide himself any longer. Wordlessly, Ali swiped the paper off the table and slid it into the front pocket of his flannel.

“You stay safe,” Fender said. “Both of you.”

With that, Fender stepped quietly out of the back door and into the purpling dawn, closing the door gently behind him.