Things Have a Way of Working Out

Angelique grabbed the bar mop and wiped up the excess latte she’d spilled making up her last order. Hands on hips, she sighed loudly. It had been a stressful morning already, and it was only 8:30. The front door banged shut again, and she looked up in time to see five college girls blow in, all giggles, long blonde hair, and sunglasses. They’ll be wanting some fancy foo-foo drink no one ever heard of, and they’ll change their minds a dozen times between them, then someone will have forgotten their wallet. Wait and see. Angelique knew their type.

A cough sounded close in front of her, and Angelique jumped. She looked down. Johnny Draw.

“Hey, Johnny, sorry, I didn’t see you there. You want your usual?”

Johnny nodded and muttered something unintelligible as his big dirty hand pulled a sealed, crumpled envelope from his army-green canvas jacket. On the front was written, “$4.92 for Johnny’s large coffee with cream.”

Angelique knew there would be exactly $4.92 in the envelope. Johnny came into Perk-Up every day at exactly 8:30, and every day someone had taken the time to write on and fill a small white envelope with $4.92. She carefully grasped the envelope between her forefinger and her thumb, bubbling effervescently to Johnny to fill the time while he sat in his wheelchair in front of her.

“Did you see the sunrise today, Johnny? I’ve been awake since 4:00 a.m., so it’s already been a long morning, but the sunrise made it almost worth it. I’m not a huge fan of Daylight Savings Time, really, but I do love when the days get long like this. Cool in the morning, hot in the afternoon. That’s just one of the reasons I love Indiana.”

If she filled every second with chatter, he wouldn’t have time to talk, and she wouldn’t have to feel awkward asking him, “Excuse me? What was that? Can you please repeat that, Johnny?” 

The problem, though, was that the line behind Johnny was getting long, and the college blondes were giggling at ear-splitting decibels. Angelique could feel the anxiety rising as she attempted to wind things down with Johnny. She’d been running short-staffed for the last two months. It seemed no one wanted to work for their paycheck these days. Regardless, she had several interviews set up over the next three days.

She pushed a receipt across the counter to Johnny, avoiding direct eye contact, still chattering like a magpie, but to no avail.

Johnny spoke, his words tumbling out sloppy and indistinct, “I need napkins please,” and spittle drooled out the corner of his mouth as if from the sheer effort of pushing his words out of his lips.

Out of options now, and without excuse, Angelique looked Johnny in the eye and said, “Did you say you needed another napkin, Johnny?”

Johnny nodded vehemently and smiled the smile of a much younger man. Every time Angelique looked at him, she was surprised. His cornflower blue eyes twinkled and crinkled around the edges and reminded her of a red-haired neighbor boy she’d known in the fourth grade. Poor Albert, with his freckled arms and face and legs. All he’d ever asked for in life was for his classmates to call him Al…and for Angelique to wear the bracelet he’d made or found or bought or stolen for her. Every time she looked at Johnny Draw, she remembered Albert and her cheeks flushed. Why couldn’t she have done just that much for him? They’d moved away the next year before she got to tell Al she’d worn his bracelet once.

But, as Al always used to tell her, “Things have a way of working out.” In retrospect, as an adult looking back, she thought that seemed an awfully grown-up thing for a fourth grader to say. But she’d found it to be true time and again. Things have a way of working out. That, they did.

Angelique tried hard to ignore Johnny’s spittle, and, looking at him directly in his Albert-blue eyes now, smiled her very best, most convincing smile. For Al, she thought, placing three additional napkins directly into Johnny’s grimy hand. Her fingers touched his for a moment, and she willed her hand to stay put, not to pull away. She wanted to tell Johnny he had nice eyes, but she couldn’t.

Instead, she said, “You go ahead, Johnny. I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.”

She looked away but heard his guttural voice piecing together a sentence, “Thanks. You’s an angel.”

Involuntarily, her head jerked around toward Johnny again. He was still smiling.

The remainder of the rush cleared out quickly, and the college girls only changed drink orders three times, so the timing was good when Johnny’s coffee came up. Angelique stirred in creamer, and carried the coffee out to him, along with three extra-extra napkins. That big blue-eyed smile engulfed him again, as he said once more, “Thanks, Angel.”

No one had called her Angel since fourth grade. That last year at Monte Bravard Elementary, her friends had called her Angel. Al called her that too, but the thing was, he called her that because he was of the honest opinion that Angelique was, indeed, truly and actually an angel. Angelique chuckled dryly. If only he knew how far from the truth that was.

Angelique had no idea where Johnny lived or how he got to and from Perk-Up every day, and, until today, she’d never thought to wonder. But today she wondered. Each time she was ready to ask him, another customer came in or her attention was diverted.

But when Johnny had been there almost an hour, the most remarkable thing happened.

A very young woman carrying a toddler on one hip strode through the front door and approached the counter with the decisive air of one chained to a hurried schedule. Angelique could tell the young woman intended to look business-like, but the little fellow clinging tight to her wasn’t having any of it. The young woman’s top was coming untucked from her slacks, and wrinkles were imprinting themselves into her cotton suit faster than she could smooth them out. The buttons on her top ascended at a precarious angle until Angelique wondered if they were evenly buttoned. The young woman, Yvette, gave her name to the barista in a stilted, hurried, French accent. Angelique had thought this young woman might be her next interview, but the name didn’t sound familiar.

Her small black coffee order underway and paid for, Yvette plopped right down at Johnny’s table and began a visible summation of the patrons in the coffee shop, as if looking for someone. Apparently not finding them, she grabbed her phone out of her purse and texted.  She wasn’t sharing the table with Johnny as much as she was pirating it. She wasn’t minimizing Johnny as much as she was simply unaware he was there.

But the toddler was immediately smitten, smiling and reaching for Johnny. It only took seconds for Peter to land squarely and smoothly in Johnny’s lap. It was clear for everyone to see that a love affair was beginning.

Some seconds into this love affair, Yvette looked up to see her little boy reaching, and her eyes met Johnny’s, ever so briefly. Unable to meet his gaze, she looked away, but her eyes kept returning to Johnny’s face, the drool slipping from the corner of his lips, his grayish curly hair and sideburns, his hands, and his army-green canvas jacket and pants.

“Peter,” she whispered to the little tyke, “leave this man alone.” Peter’s blue eyes were merry, and he giggled and turned back to reach again for something shiny on Johnny’s lapel.

“Peter,” his mother spoke more firmly this time, but still the little boy paid no attention.

Johnny looked at Peter’s mother, and spoke quietly, “Sorry. I can leave now.” He reached down to Peter, still on his lap, and gave him a quick squeeze before attempting to boost him back up on the table. He whispered in Peter’s ear, “Youse got to git up now.”

But Peter clung to Johnny, and when Johnny pried himself away, Peter’s tears started in earnest. Johnny leaned close to Peter’s face and whispered, “Ole Johnny be back tomorry. See Peter then,” and to Peter’s great delight, and Yvette’s great chagrin, Johnny kissed the top of Peter’s curly red head. If Johnny drooled on Peter, neither of them noticed or cared.

“Bye-bye, Johnny, bye-bye,” Peter was waving furiously with one hand, the other tightly grasping something tiny. The door banged after Johnny when he left.

“Peter, what is it? What’s in your hand?” Yvette asked, prying open the little fist.

“No, Mommy. Mine,” Peter whimpered, to no avail, “mine, Mommy! No, mine!”

Yvette pulled the object from her son’s tiny hand and looked closely at it. It was a medal. A Gulf War Desert Storm medal, about an inch in diameter, in which an eagle, wings fully extended, was set against an American flag shield, and backed in a mother-of-pearl material.

“Oh, Peter! We must give this back to Johnny right away!”

“Johnny…” Peter repeated, “Johnny.”

“I’ll be right back,” Yvette told the barista, scooping up Peter, and running to the door Johnny had just exited. She stood and looked, but Johnny was nowhere to be found.

Yvette stepped back into the coffee shop, looking as if the weight of all the world were laid at her doorstep for her to carry. She reached out to give Angelique the pin but something inside Angelique restrained her from accepting the pin for safekeeping. She looked at Peter’s blue eyes and red hair and thought she might well have been looking at Albert reincarnated. How many people in this world could have eyes like those eyes? Eyes that crinkled and twinkled and smiled? Eyes that summed you up and encouraged you to feel successful and empowered and appreciated?

“He’ll be back here tomorrow at this time. He comes here every day. Why don’t you just meet him here tomorrow and give it to him yourself?” Angelique said. Then more softly, “What’s your name, dear?”

Yvette was rocking Peter, who was holding Johnny’s medal tightly to his chest.

“I’m Yvette.”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you looked like you were headed somewhere important. I hope we didn’t hold you up?” Angelique said.

“No. It was nothing.” That beautiful French accent.

“Now, I’ve been around long enough to know when something is nothing or when it is something. This something was something, I’m pretty sure.” Angelique normally wasn’t this pushy but something compelled her to speak, to keep Yvette engaged.

“Yes, the bank, they were having open interviews today, and my friend was supposed to meet me here to take Peter so I could go. But I’m afraid she is often forgetful, and she did not show up.”

“You never know, things have a way of working out,” Angelique said. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow and see Johnny?” But Yvette seemed hesitant to go.

Finally, she spoke again, “This man, Johnny. Do you know him?” she asked.

“Not so much, I guess. He’s been coming here for years, and I always have just known him as Johnny Draw. I didn’t even know for sure he was in the service until this,” Angelique said, motioning toward the medal Peter still held.

“He…Johnny’s eyes. They remind me of my husband’s,” Yvette said, “I’ll show you. My husband was an artist. That’s how he came to be in Paris, and how we met. This is my favorite picture of him, a self-portrait in pencil.” And Yvette pulled out a folded 9X13 page bearing the likeness of a young man.

“You’re right – his eyes,” Angelique remarked, studying the sketch, “They are amazing. I can see why Johnny’s eyes reminded you of him. And little Peter looks like them both.”

“Peter will never know his family. My husband and his father died in a crash last year. My husband’s grandfather served in the war and came home, but he never returned to his family.”

Angelique stood and put her arms around Yvette quickly and said, “I’ll be right back.” Thirty seconds later, she returned from the employee lounge with $45. She tucked it into Yvette’s hand, and said simply, “Get yourself some dinner. You owe me nothing. Come back and see us tomorrow."

Yvette nodded amid tears, packed up Peter and his precious medal, and paused to wave to Angelique from the door.

Angelique opened Perk-Up at 6 a.m. the next day, the same as every other day, but today she had a spring in her step and a light in her eyes. Something good was going to happen today, she was sure of it. Things usually did have a way of working out.

The big clock over the register showed 8:40 a.m., and Angelique felt a stab of worry. Was he going to show? Would this be the first time in years that he hadn’t shown up? And what about Yvette? Surely she would come back with Johnny’s medal.

9:00 a.m. came, bringing Yvette and Peter with it, Peter beaming ear to ear, and calling out, “Hey, Johnny! John-ny! Hey!”

Angelique looked again at the clock, then at Yvette and Peter. The clock read 9:35, and Peter had settled quietly into his mother’s lap. For her part, Yvette had a sad and settled air about her, as she drank the last of her black coffee.

The door opened just after she swallowed her last sip, and it was a good thing because she might have choked on it. Johnny Draw sat on his wheelchair, piloting it through the door frame and coming to a stop at Yvette’s table.

Was it really Johnny? This man with the cleanly washed and trimmed hair, and the clean hands? This man with a cleanly shaven face and a crisp black shirt? This man with medals upon medals displayed on his shirt?

“Johnny?” Yvette asked as Angelique watched in rapt attention.

“Yez ma’am, at your service,” and Johnny gave a snappy salute and wiped the corner of his mouth with a clean handkerchief peeking from the corner of his breast pocket.

“Johnny,” Yvette said again.

Meantime, Peter had snuggled onto Johnny’s lap.

“I got sumpin’ for the boy here,” Johnny said to Yvette. Turning his attention to Peter, he said, “youse go sit right there and hold real still for a while, and I got you a surprise. Cain’t you do that for me, young’un?”

Peter nodded and sat where Johnny indicated he should.

Johnny pulled a 9x13 sketch pad and a pencil from the pocket in the side of his wheelchair and began to sketch. “This gonna be you in a bit, boy. They didn’t call me Johnny Draw fer nothin’ now, did they?”

“Things sure do have a way of working out,” Angelique thought once more.