The Coffee Pot at the Feed Store

Who takes what

I did not answer right away. I picked up the carafe and walked down the counter and poured Bill Fogel a refill, because his mug was empty and twenty-three years does not stop for anything.

Then I came back and stood across from Ryan.

“Bill takes it black,” I said. “He’ll tell you it’s too strong. Don’t ever make it weaker. He’ll leave.”

Ryan blinked at me.

“Leonard sits on the end because of his hip. The Ahrens boys take the second booth, never the first, and don’t ask why, because nobody remembers.” I nodded at the men along the counter, and one by one I went through them.

Cream, no sugar. Decaf after Thanksgiving because his doctor said. Rye toast, never white. Eggs over hard for the one who had a bad stomach in ’98 and never trusted a runny yolk again.

Ryan pulled his phone out and started typing. Then he put it away and took a feed store receipt pad off the counter and wrote on that instead, with Dale’s pencil.

Last, I put my hand on Harlan’s shoulder.

“Harlan Voss,” I said. “Two sugars. Stirred before he sits. Handle to the right. His hands shake, and he will not ask you, so don’t make him.”

Harlan looked at Ryan for a long minute.

“You the husband?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Your wife was in here crying the other day.”

“Yes, sir. I know.”

Harlan nodded slowly. “My June cried in a booth over there one time. 1961. Thought we were going to lose the farm.” He took a sip of his coffee. “We didn’t. But it was close. You just keep showing up.”

Ryan had to look down at his receipt pad for a while.

My terms

When the men had gone out to their combines, Ryan stayed on the feed sack, and I poured myself a cup for the first time in three weeks and sat down on the salt block across from him.

“Will you come back?” he said. “Mornings. Whatever you want.”

I had thought about this. I had lain awake on it more than one night.

“Five shifts,” I said. “Same as before. I open at five.”

“Done.”

“The 5 AM pot goes back to a dollar. Bottomless. Just the regular coffee in the regular pot, for the regulars. You can do your pour-over for whoever wants it after seven.”

He winced, and I could see him doing the numbers again. Then he stopped himself. “Done.”

“And you keep the brunch,” I said.

He looked up. “What?”

“Keep it. Sundays. After church, people from Clear Lake and Mason City would drive over for something like that. Put it on the Sunday menu and do it right.” I shrugged. “Your avocado toast is good, Ryan. I had one on my lunch break. It’s just not what a man wants at five in the morning before a fourteen-hour day.”

He laughed for the first time, a short surprised laugh, and rubbed his face with both hands.

“One more thing,” I said. “You tell Brooke she doesn’t have to come apologize. I know she’s sorry. But if she wants to, she knows where I’ll be at five.”