A college kid named Toby, sitting in a corner booth with his laptop, slowly pulled his phone out of his pocket. His thumb hovered over the record button. Jim looked at the three feet of empty floor tiles between them. He didn't argue. He just took a slow, deliberate, half step backward.
"My apologies, ma'am. Long ride. " That should have been the end of it. Jim had de-escalated. He offered the olive branch. But Susan wasn't looking for peace.
She was looking for a victory. She saw his retreat not as courtesy, but as submission. "A long ride, " Susan scoffed, looking him up and down with theatrical disgust. "Is that what you call it? Dragging that filth into a decent establishment? " Jim's jaw tightened.
The muscle feathered just beneath his beard. "I'm just getting a coffee, lady, same as you. " "I seriously doubt we are the same, " Susan snapped. Her voice had climbed an octave, reaching that piercing, self-righteous pitch that commands a room. She gestured sharply at his throat. "What is that even supposed to be?
Are you proud of looking like a bathroom wall? " Jim's hand twitched. On the right side of his neck, the skin was still slightly raised and raw. It was a fresh piece, a meticulously shaded skull wrapped in a tattered ribbon that read Dutch. Below it were the dates. It was a memorial.
It was the only piece of his friend he got to carry back home. "It's personal. " Jim said. His voice dropped. It wasn't polite anymore. It was dead flat.
A warning. "It's repulsive. " Susan corrected him. Leaning in slightly emboldened by her own perceived moral high ground. "Did you draw that in lockup? Or did a toddler get a hold of a Sharpie?
You people walk around covered in these ridiculous ugly scribbles thinking it makes you look tough. It doesn't. It makes you look like trash. " The silence in the roastery was absolute. The espresso machine hissed, a sharp violent burst of steam. Jim stared down at the woman.
He had lived a life where disrespect was met with immediate catastrophic violence. His world was governed by a strict brutal code of honor. In his world a man who insulted a memorial patch wouldn't leave the room with his teeth intact. But Jim was 54 years old. He was tired.
And he was looking at a middle-aged suburban woman who had absolutely no concept of the fire she was playing with. She was a child holding a match over a powder keg oblivious to the boom. He didn't yell. He didn't raise a hand. Jim reached into his pocket, pulled out a crushed $10 bill, and tossed it onto the counter next to the register.
He looked at the pale terrified barista. "Keep it. I've lost my taste for coffee. " He turned his back on Susan. He pushed the heavy glass door open and walked out. Through the front window the patrons watched as he swung a massive leg over a blacked-out Harley-Davidson Road Glide.