Wednesdays With Will

Will hated the rain. It always dripped down the collar of his shirt, off buildings, made him feel filmed with filth. He hated people who spoke of the cleansing affects of rain. Damn provincials had probably never seen a city, let alone stood on a street corner in a rain storm while a bus drove by. Will hated buses, though never having owned a car he depended upon them.

Its Wednesday, Will realized as he work up. “Again” he said, rolling his legs off the bed. His right foot landed smack into the remnants of last night’s thai dinner. Thought I put that away, he thought. Will often thought that he had done things that he hadn’t done. He had this great story about Stephanie Tanner that he liked to spread around the bar late at night, completely untrue.

Will hobbled to the bathroom, cleaned his foot, and looked in the mirror. He was starting to think that the eyebrow piercing was a mistake. Not that it looked bad, he thought sucking in his stomach, chest up moving his head to give himself a few different views in the mirror. Not bad, not what he once was certainly, but not bad... crap was that a new mole? No, no, just some chocolate. But the bar in his eyebrow, he had thought it would give him an edgy youthful look. Recently, he had begun to wonder if trying to look youthful was just making him look old. He played with the piercing for a minute, contemplated removing it, but settled on just showering instead.

Will sang in the shower and thought about Jessica Biel.

Wednesday. That meant half price scones at Betty’s, story hour at the library, the hot girl at the Starbucks on Sacramento, and Jean’s. Wednesdays weren’t Will’s least favorite day of the week, but sometimes they dragged, especially if the book wasn’t any good at story hour. He liked the adventure stories or the ones about animals. He could go for a good Curious George. Sometimes the Dr. Seuss was good, depended upon the reader. He hated Fancy Nancy, but he wouldn’t leave, it was still better than nothing, barely.

Towel around his waist, Will leaned over to pick up the thai container. He sniffed it, contemplated eating the leftovers, but thought better of it and threw the container in the trash.

“See, I’m not disgusting,” Will said to no one.

His ex, Jas, was always telling him how “disgusting” he was. If he didn’t do laundry for a few weeks, didn’t flush the toilet, chewed his toe nails. Disgusting. She wasn’t so perfect herself. She did smell good though. Sometimes, when he thought about it, he missed the feeling of sliding down in between her freshly laundered sheets and rolling over to stick his nose into her curls and his arm into the crook of her waist. He tried not to think about it. Those sheets, pale green with little pink roses, they always smelled clean.

But she left her hair in the shower, never took out the garbage, and left her shoes everywhere. Now that is disgusting.

Crap. Its ten. Will yanked on the jeans left at the foot of the bed, the tee shirt on the back of the chair and a clean pair of socks. That’s right clean, Will thought. He had to hurry to get to Betty’s before all the good cranberry scones were gone. Didn’t used to be a problem, but word was getting around about Betty’s and Wednesdays. Will hated when word got around. Yuppies showing up, drinking his coffee, eating his scones. They never ate the lemon poppy seed, always the cranberry ones. Apparently, cranberries were all the rage with yuppies right now. Antioxidants. The girls at Betty’s wouldn’t save him a scone either. He’d asked.

It was raining when he stepped out of the building. “Always fucking raining,” he muttered. “Every fucking day.” He got to the bus stop just as the bus arrived. Will liked that, made him feel like the universe was with him. Maybe just for a moment, but someone up there liked him.

The bus pulled up two blocks from Betty’s. It was still raining. Will pulled his coat collar up higher. Passing traffic splashed up a wave of dirty water, just missing Will, soaked this lady in a dress. “Man today is going to be a good day,” Will said, smiling at the now dirty woman. Not bad, he thought as he noticed how the dress clung to her lower half, a little old though.

Will sauntered the last two blocks to Betty’s confident that there would be a tray of cranberry scones for him to chose from today. Maybe he would eat two. Hell, he deserved it, wearing clean socks and all. He was feeling good. He’d only had three pints last night, that made all the difference. Will could feel the superiority of three pint over six pint days. Didn’t always stop him from having the last three pints. Sometimes a guy loses track.

Betty’s was hopping today; lots of moms in sweater sets with babies. He didn’t so much mind the babies as the baby carriages. They took up all the room between tables, made you feel like everyone was on top of everyone else. And sometimes they smelled weird.

Man he loved the smell of Betty’s on Wednesday. Fresh dark roast coffee mingled with yeast, butter, fruit and sugar, combined with knowing this ambrosia was half priced. It was like heaven.

Betty’s wasn’t too frilly, which he liked. It wasn’t a dive, but it didn’t make you feel like you should be wearing gloves and lifting your pinky either. Big front windows, slightly worn chair seats, fresh coat of paint on the walls. Pale yellow. They’d painted it on a Tuesday night, kept the place closed that Wednesday, completely threw off Will’s rhythm for the rest of the week.

“Hello, Will” the girl behind the counter said, smiling.

“Hi” Will muttered, not making eye contact, searching the glass case for the scones. “You got any cranberry scones left?”

“Yup. Just pulled the last batch out of the oven ten minutes ago.” It was gonna be a good day.

“Great. I’ll take two and a large coffee. Black.”

“Anything else? We’re having a special on s'more lattes today.”

“What the hell’s a s'more latte?” Will asked, face pulled back, slightly appalled.

“Its a latte with carmel, chocolate, and marshmallow sauce in it.”

“Sounds disgusting.”

“Yeah, its really sweet. Probably not your thing. Oh look there’s a table open in the corner if you want to grab it.” The girl, who Will thought was named either Kelly or Whitney, pointed at the small table near the window. The table with the chess board painted on the surface. “You better take it before anymore of the mom club comes in.”

Will paid and maneuvered over to the table, sliding between diaper bags, carriages, and bent mom head’s picking up dropped toys, food, napkins, etc. “Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me...” Will said as he tip toed his way through the crowd. Will believed in being polite to people with babies.

Settling into the small table, Will remembered to secure the piece of cardboard that kept the feet of the table level. He lifted the white porcelain mug to his nose and sniffed. “Sweet Jesus.” He sometimes tried to image what it must have been like to live in Europe or China or somewhere before coffee. You wouldn’t know what you were missing, but he still felt like it would be a hardship. Betty’s made good coffee. It was all fair trade, single origin, dark roast, ie fancy coffee. He liked that. The coffee tasted better and it made him feel like he was making a good choice, helping people just by choosing Betty’s over some other coffee joint. He had read an article once about some organization going down to Latin America trying to convince locals to grow coffee on clear cut rain forest land instead of herding animals. Something to do with shade and roots. Soil erosion. He sat with the warm coffee in his mouth and thought about some woman in Brazil picking coffee and worrying about soil erosion. What do coffee plants look like? He couldn’t remember, or maybe he’d never known. He pictured tomato plants. He knew what those looked like, he had tried growing tomatoes one spring in the kitchen window. Jas had been going on about plants and food production and pollution. He couldn’t quite remember now, but the plants had produced a couple of little green tomatoes before he’d forgotten to water them.

The women at the table next to him were talking about their periods. Why did they have to do this? Something about counting, and discharge, and sex. He tried not to hear them, but their voices stood out. Look out the window, he told himself, just look out the window and find something to focus on. There was a dog sitting across the street, tied to a bike rack. Poor thing, sitting in the rain looked totally miserable. Taking his first bite of scone, Will thought about how happy he was not to be that dog, waiting in the filthy rain for someone who didn’t even love you enough to tie you up somewhere under an awning.

Will arrived at the library twenty minutes before story hour. He liked to get there early, look around, check out who was going to be reading, get a good seat. He didn’t hog the floor space where the kids would sit. He wasn’t a weirdo or anything. He liked to sit in the stacks, the row with the biographies or the reference books; this way he would be close enough to hear the stories, but didn’t have to worry about the other people. The first time Will had gone to story hour by accident. He had gone to the library to look for a cookbook. He’d wanted to make something Russian for a girl he was trying to impress. She was not impressed and soon stopped returning his phone calls. But, while he was poking around, one of the young librarians had said “okay everyone it is time for story hour. Gather around the circle” and had begun to read Curious George Goes to the Circus. Man that was the best. Will had stood there, leaning against a wall, just listening. He forgot how good it felt to be read to; just sitting there with your eyes closed and taking in the story. Will couldn’t remember the last time he was read to. He supposed it was when he was a kid, maybe his mom. So Will went back the next Wednesday and listened to a story about Madeline. Not having any sisters, Will had never heard of the book and so was surprised to find out that Madeline was famous among the female set. The hot girl at Starbucks had gotten all excited when he mentioned Madeline and Pepito one day. He’d tried using Pepito the next week, but it had not had the same affect the second time.

Today’s book was something he’d never heard of about a dinosaur. This old guy who volunteered sometimes was reading it, he was okay, but he didn’t do voices for the characters. Will could tell some of the kids were bored. Will was bored. He still listened, but he kept looking at the titles around him: Jane Goodall, Churchill, Charlatan Heston. He was in the biography section today.

When story hour was over Will looked around in the mystery section for a few minutes, trying to decide if he was going to check out a book or not. Will almost never checked anything out. He has a library card, but he gets overwhelmed by the quantity of books available and distracted by the conditions of the books. Looking at a worn, dog-eared, and plastic covered copy of John Grisham’s The Pelican Brief, made Will think about all the people who had read the book. It made him think about where they had read the book and what they had thought about it. Stains on book pages fascinated him. Why was Rutland Place stained with what looked like tea on page 74 and with something yellow and clotted on page 183? Did the reader find these pages particularly surprising? Did he or she, most likely she, linger over page 74 stricken with anticipation? Or was it just a coincidence, hit on the elbow by a passing cat or something... the reader, again, being most likely a cat owning female. He found it hard to focus on the story at hand.

Finally, choosing a copy of A Killing Smile (stained on the bottom right corner of the first twenty pages) Will checked out and left. He usually walked the forty minutes from the library to the Starbucks on Sacramento, both to kill time and to get a bit of exercise, but it was still raining. Standing under the overhang of the library, he debated the pros and cons of walking versus taking a bus. It wasn’t raining that hard and he had gained a bit of weight over the last month. He still looked pretty good, he thought, but he didn’t want to get too soft. He still hoped to have sex again someday. But even with a little rain there was the chance for dripage from buildings, signs, awnings and the real danger of being blinded by other people’s umbrellas. He had a bus pass (the cost of which he grumbled about at the counter while purchasing each month) so the money wasn’t an issue.

Will thought of the barista, the hint of a hot pink bra strap he saw under her collar two weeks ago, and decided to walk. He wondered what she thought about his eyebrow piercing?

The Starbucks was crowded today. People in suits showing up for their after lunch coffee break. Didn’t any of them have break rooms and coffee machines? Will distinctly remembered making coffee in some crappy break room at an office he’d worked at once. There was a book case shoved in one corner. Take a book leave a book. Will remembered sitting on the floor trying to find something in the shelves worth reading... lots of pastel covers with titles like My Summer of Fabulousness and A Cinnamon Bun in the Oven. The office manager walked in and invited Will to join the book club. He told her his girlfriend wouldn’t let him stay out after dark. Seriously, did she think he wanted to sit around with a bunch of graying, chubby, office ladies discussing pastel covered books?

The woman in front of him in line had a run in her tights and was digging through one of those purses you could fit a small car into. She ordered a nonfat, no sugar, white chocolate mocha and paid in coins. This guy Erik was behind the counter.

“What can I get started for you?”

“What are you doing here?” Will questioned. Erik didn’t work Wednesdays.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t work Wednesdays,” Will responded. Erik was tall. He was blonde. He had broad shoulders and a small IQ.

“Um, I’m filling in. Can I get something started for you?”

“For whom?”

“What?”

“For whom are you filling in?”

“Oh, um, Tif.”

“Tif?”

“Yeah.” Will really hoped the hot chick’s name was not Tif.

“You want something?”

“Grande Americano.”

“Grande Americano!” Erik yelled in the direction of the supply closet.

“Grande Americano!” yelled back the hot chick as she walked through the doorway.

“Hey!” cried Will, smiling, as she set down the small box that she was carrying.

“Hey.”

Will stood at the counter as she made his order.

“Grande Americano.”

“Yeah. Me. That’s me. Thanks.”

“No problem. Have a nice day.”

“You too. It’s your friday, right?”

“What?” She responded, distractedly, steaming milk for the big purse lady’s mocha.

“Today. Its your Friday. You don’t work Thursdays.”

The hot chick looked at him a little suspiciously. “Yeah, not normally, but sometimes. It depends on my class schedule.”

“Oh, you’re in school?”

“Sometimes.”

“What are you studying?”

“Grande nonfat, skinny, white chocolate mocha for Debbie!”

“So, um, what are you studying in school?” Will repeated.

“Art.”

“Really!” Will’s voice cracked, “What are you going to do with that?”

“Work at Starbucks.” She said, turning away to unpack the box she’d set down.

Will could tell the conversation was over, but he felt a bit better. They were closer. He knew she liked art. Maybe next time he’d bring in the postcard a friend had sent from Rome, ask her about the sculpture or something. Ask if she liked it. This was good.

Wiping down the small table by the window, Will sat down and pulled out his library selection. Things were going pretty well, until page 23. There was a hair stuck in the binding on page 23.

A little before five, Will sauntered into Jean’s. It was still raining. “Fucking rain,” Will muttered as he sauntered. Jean’s is a dive bar ten city blocks from his apartment. It sports ripped wall paper, chipped and broken wooden tables, torn bench seat covers, and a young bartender serving very old patrons.

“Hello fellows,” Will greeted the other regulars.

“Hey Will,” the young bartender said, passing Will the already poured beer. “How’re you doing today?”

“Its raining.”

“Its always raining.”

“How’s it goin’ in here today?”

“Not bad... same as always.”

Will should probably have been ashamed about being seated on a bar stool before five pm on a Wednesday. He should probably have been ashamed of the fact that he was parked on that same barstool by around five pm every Wednesday. He wasn’t ashamed. Will figured that he wasn’t the only guy in there and it really wasn’t anyone’s damn business where he spent his Wednesday evenings anyway. Plus, no one but the regular afternoon guys ever came in before 7:30, so he figured no one knew. Jas always knew and it always pissed her off. Will wondered if Jas still thought about his Wednesday routine.

Will was three pints and one long, boring, conversation with Marcus into his evening when the sorority girls showed up. They were all wearing short skirts, tight tank tops, heels and those giant earrings girls insist on wearing. There were eight of them. Will didn’t know what this would mean yet. You could approach a pair of girls drinking in a bar. You could think about taking home a single girl. Groups are another story. Groups mean stay away. They still like the attention, but the group will attack if you try to get too close. But a group of eight can be promising; its big enough there might be strays. Strays were Will’s favorite.

They settled into a large booth in the corner, as far from the bar as possible, and sent two of their party up for pitchers and glasses.

“Hey,” Will said to the brunette.

She nodded in his general direction without making eye contact.

“So, is it still raining out there?”

“yeah.”

“I hate the rain. Everything wet and dripping. Someday I’m gonna move somewhere dry, hot you know? Like Arizona or New Mexico.”

“Hm.”

“Yeah, I think New Mexico maybe. I hear its pretty cool out here. Lots going on. Have you been to New Mexico?”

“Great I’ll take those,” said the brunette grabbing for the pitchers.

Bitch, Will thought. He looked back at the group of girls, longingly if he was honest with himself. They were laughing.

“Don’t worry about it man,” said the young bartender.

“I was just being friendly. Can’t a guy even be friendly these days?”

“No. Don’t worry about it, though, you probably aren’t missing anything. Oh shit, the games about to start.” The young bartender was a soccer fan. So the bar’s tvs were always broadcasting whatever games were available on the satellite.

“Who’s playing?”

“Manchester and Chelsea.”

“Are they any good?”

“Not a big fan of Manchester myself. Too full of its self. You know like the Yankees, but the players are good.”

“Shouldn’t you hate them or something. Like want them to die on the field?”

“What?”

“Yeah, you know like on tv, the fans are always setting fire to shit and charging the field.”

“Right. Yeah, I’m not really that kind of fan.”

Not a fan, Will thought to himself. He was a little disappointed. He liked the idea of this kid setting fire to his own car, or a cop car or something, at the end of a bad game. Will decided to watch, better than going home early. The kid did scream a lot, which Will thought made the game a little more exciting, but he didn’t really care who won.

Will was finishing off his fourth pint while the game was winding down. 3-1 Manchester. A couple of the girls stumbled over, in that high heeled drunk girl way.

“Yeah, where’s the bathroom?” the blonde asked. The young bartender pointed. Will imagined the girl hovering over the seatless toliet. Jean’s bathrooms were trash. Even the women’s room. Will checked once.

“Can we have two more?” the red head asked. “Hi,” she said loudly turning to Will.

“Hi” Will responded, not looking away from the tv, as if he cared.

“Come here often?” she asked giggling.

“Emhm,” Will somewhat indicated the affirmative. This girl didn’t need to know how often he came to Jean’s and he wasn’t entirely sure that she wasn’t making fun of him.

“I’m Whitney.” She stuck out her hand. Manicured nails, big ring on the right hand.

“Will.”

“Nice to meet you Will. We’re here for Haley's bachlorette” she said sliding on to the stool next to Will. The pitchers, which the young bartender had poured without taking his eyes from the tv, were sweating on the bar. “See she’s the one with the sash.” Blonde, pink sash, nice legs. “I think she’s crazy between you and me,” Whitney said touching Will’s arm. “I mean weddings are great, but married. MARRIED! At 22! Crazy.” She was really loud and her eyes got hugh in a crazy way that Will found unappealing. You could see the little veins in the corners.

“Not keen on marriage? huh?”

“Well, someday, sure. But I want to live first. You know, really live.”

Will nodded. He didn’t really know, but he’d said shit like this before, so he figured it was his turn to listen.

“I want to live in Paris. To see the Great Wall of China. I want to have SEX,” she yelled, “lots and lots of sex.” At this point every man at the bar was looking over at the two of them, even the young bartender.

“Hey, Whit, can you put that on hold and bring the pitchers over, we’re dry,” screamed the bride-to-be, turning her glass upside down.

Whitney giggled, “be right back.”

Will couldn’t decide if he was excited or not. Was she just going to talk loudly at him for thirty minutes before her pack pulled her away, was she going to offer him a blow job, or sex? If she did, did he really want it? Sex is great and all, thought Will, but she is pretty drunk, and I am kind of tired.

“Anyway, where was I?” Whitney continued, returning with a now full pint glass. “Oh yeah. I just don’t want to be one more of these suburban housewives. I want stories. Crazy stories.” She leaned in and wrapped her arm around his. Placed her ringed hand on the crook of his elbow.

Will decided he was definitely too drunk and tired for this. “Yeah. Stories are great, but um, what do you study?”

“Do you have stories Mr.... hey what is your last name?”

“What do you study? In school? You’re in school right?”

“What? Yeah, almost done. Com’on what is it?”

“That’s exciting. Almost done. So do you know what you want to do?” Will, knew that was sort of a douche grown up thing to ask at that moment. The poor girl was drunk, out with friends, hitting on an inappropriate guy, trying to earn a story. But, he figured it would kill the mood.

“Banking.”

“Banking?”

“Yeah. I study economics. I’m into international banking laws and trends.” Wow that was way more boring than Will expected. He thought she would say education, or psych, with a generic ‘I don’t know yet’. “But, who cares, right?” she continued. “Mr....? Com’on just tell me.”

“dumann”

“What?”

“dumann” Will muttered a little louder.

“Did you say ‘do man’?”

“Du Mann, okay. My name is Will Du Mann.”

She stared at him for a minute before doubling over with laughter. “No seriously. What is it?”

Will hated this moment. “It’s french okay. It’s french!” Will decided to leave. He settled up with the young bartender, nodded at the other before five regulars, and grabbed his coat.

“Wait, wait” Whitney called, lilting with laughter.

Will didn’t wait. He stepped out the door and pulled his collar up. Still fucking raining he thought as he headed home.