Death in a Cab, heard in a hospital

I brew coffee, serve coffee, make and serve espressos and subsequent espresso-bean-drinks at a local hospital to pay the bills. While working, a good amount of caffeine is ingested as well: free and legal drugs are kin to me. I’m an addict, plain and simple.

For the most part, I enjoy the regular customers that come through the line each day. There are, of course, those two hand-full of folks who refuse to look at you in the eye when going through the routine “how are you?” “I’ll have…” “Thanks, have a nice day”—one would be inclined to presume they look at the vending machines with more concern than they’ll look at an actual person.

Then there are those extra-ordinary customers; no, people who you can’t help be assume it’s an ingrained custom to live extra-ordinarily. Admittedly, these are my favorite, they truly make my day when our paths cross. An elderly was coming through every day for about a week, at 15 minutes past opening, without fail. She would order a 12oz coffee: no cream, sugar, or Splenda please and thank you. Her beverage mimicked her: small, thin, and natural with little to no additives. Thankfully, she treated me better than a vending machine as she would force a weak smile that barely curled towards her eyes; it looked like it hurt to smile, or maybe she just had too much hurt to hide, so much hurt that it even leaked through her blue eyes and weathered skin.

She never left a tip—not even a nickel.

I inquired: “You have been coming for a little over a week now. Is there any indications that you might be leaving soon?”

“Maybe. The doctors aren’t confident enough this morning but hopefully we’ll get some good news this afternoon.”

“Well, ma’am, I just want you to know that seeing you come in here everyday to be there for your spouse is really inspiring for a youngster like me. It is so incredible to see folks who have been there for each other so many years and are stronger than many youths today.”

“Thanks, dear. I’ve been around 62 years, figured I might as well see it through till he gets on with it and just dies.”

She smirks; her eyes soften and for the first time her smile seems to have an aroma of refreshment. Perhaps she had been coming for conversation the entire time and not just coffee. For a split second, maybe an entire second, guilt creeps up. I ignore it, feeling guilty never does much good anyhow.

“Are you serious?” (I think to myself: Ok, of course this is a rhetorical question, but come on, is that all I have to offer her?—ask about her story). “How did you meet?”

“Blind date. I met him in late January and by the second week in February, we were married. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. It’s been good, and I’m hoping our deaths are just as lovely as our lives have been.”

I’m flabbergasted. I try to come up with something but all that comes out of my stupefied mouth is, “wow.”

“You have a nice day dear, maybe I’ll back in a while to get one of those cinnamon rolls.”

Of course she never did come back. I haven’t seen her since. I don’t blame her; the cinnamon rolls we serve would most likely make her stomach expand at least six inches if she happened to take a sip of water while eating one. They look heavenly, and anything that looks that good is most likely hellishly experienced. I am curious if her husband is physically better or not; I am curious what his wife would prefer. I am curious what it would be like to be alive long enough to be married to someone for 62 years, let alone actually be married that long.

What I am not curious about is this: there is a Death Cab song entitled “What Sarah Said.” Towards the end of the bridge in that song, he sings, “love is watching someone die—so who’s going watch you die?” This is a rhetorical question used usefully, unlike my usage. I never understood that line, what he was really hinting at besides some biting remark to a girl he didn’t feel reciprocated love from; not until I met a lady who had loved being married for over half a century and was loving life to the point where she embraced every-thing it brings us: even the death of one we fall for after just two weeks of knowing them.