Baked Beans

It was a typical Seattle Snowfall.

Flakes plopped into the ground like dirty dish rags in a truck stop diner. Out of towners worriedly checked the forecast while locals donned an extra layer of flannel. But more importantly, at least to Jake, this meant the buses would be running late.

Jake’s shift at Baked Beans, a Weed slash Coffee shop, was supposed to end at eight pm. By then the roads would be a disaster. Jake was not looking forward to waiting at the bus stop, not in these shoes. He looked over at Zam, the manager on shift. They rode a bicycle to work every day. “There is no bad weather, only bad gear” was a sticker on Zams locker. Yeah, Zam was that kind of cyclist.

Well, Zam was currently standing at the front door looking out at the slush forming on the street, and saying unkind words to several deities. Jake gave a silent chuckle. Guess Zam didn’t bring their slushy gear today.

Half an hour later, the last of the local regulars braced herself and bundled out into the storm. The street outside was empty and silent, the usual flow of pedestrians were presumably at home, drinking hot chocolate and avoiding the weather.

Baked Beans was located in a small shopping center on top of a hill. Not just any hill, but one of the steepest in Seattle, the kind of hill that made the news during every snowstorm. Nobody was coming up this hill no matter how much they wanted to. The only option was down, and if you were lucky or careful you got to choose your method of descent.

Zam made a calculated look at the door and the register, and then said, “Maybe we should close up for the day” as if Jake had not been silently wishing for that since the snow started. A few minutes later the closing ritual was done, Jake and Zam left the shop together, heading downhill to the closest viable bus stop. Zam was walking their bike, road tires and rim brakes were no match against the sloppy half melted snow piled in ruts all over the street.

Jake's feet were completely soaked by the bottom of the hill, every step brought slush covered jeans swinging into contact with his shins. But at least it was a shared misery, the crowd at the bus stop was huddled together on the sidewalk, well away from the street where passing cars splashed gritty salty muck like a sunday at the monster truck show.

A bus arrived. It wasn’t exactly the one Jake wanted, but it was close enough. A couple of extra blocks at the other end of the route was better than waiting for a bus that might never arrive. Inside the bus was packed, the smell of wet shoes and diesel fueled heating promised an unpleasant ride. Jakes cold fingers grabbed onto the overhead bar. Even if he lost his grip there was no place to fall, the bus was well beyond standing room only. But as sometimes occurs during a shared event, there was no complaining, no pushing, no shoving. Everyone on that bus wished for the same thing, to get out of the cold and into their homes. Nobody offered any objection against the others who were attempting the same thing.

The bus eventually reached a point reasonably close to Jake's apartment, it slurred to a stop somewhat nowhere near a bus station, not even bothering to approach the curb. Nobody complained, however far the bus had got them was infinitely better than walking in this weather. Jake and a few others stepped out into the slop, his toes which had just regained feeling were reminded of the cold and wet shoes they wore. A tiny old woman, attempting to drag her shopping tram through the slush, stepped onto a patch of slickness and tumbled to the ground.

Jake quickly splashed over to help her up. She seemed unharmed, although her accent and the thick scarf made it difficult for Jake to tell exactly what she said. Her shopping tram, however, did not survive. One of the wheels was off, the frame was twisted, and a rip along the side had released the tram's contents into the mushy street. As Jake and the old woman looked at the wreckage, he heard a string of words he could only assume would make any nearby sailors blush. Fortunately Jake was a city dweller. He pulled one of his ever present shopping totes from his backpack and wordlessly offered it to the old woman. She nodded thankfully and gripped the tote with shaking hands while Jake bent to pick up the spilled treasures. Pears wrapped in netting, bonito flakes, and a bag with a smiling cartoon fish on it. Clearly this woman had been shopping at one of the local asian markets.

The final item was a burrito shaped paper packet, sadly drooping in a puddle of mushy street slush. When Jake picked it up, the paper dissolved in his hand, not having survived contact with Seattle street slush. Left over in his fist was a white and silver statue. By force of habit, Jake tried to wipe away the remains of the ruined paper packaging, but all he managed to do was discover that the statue’s decorative spear was quite sharp. He handed the statue to the old woman, and then looked at the tiny cut on his freezing ungloved wet hand. That was probably going to hurt when he regained feeling. The old woman gave him a little bow, her eyes seemed to sparkle a bit, and then she trundled off, ‘Go Green or Go Home’ tote bag held firmly in her tiny hands.

The sun had set during this bus ride, dropping the temperature below freezing. The slush was now turning to ice, making the walk to Jake’s apartment treacherous. This hill wasn’t one of the steeper ones, cars were still trying to drive up it, some more successfully than others. About half a block from home, Jake came across a beat up sedan sideways in the street, blocking all the lanes. Someone was trying to push it, while a young teenager sat in the driver's seat, attempting to guide it towards the curb. Jake and another stranger reached the car about the same time, and together the three of them got it off the road, and sort of parked along the side. The original pusher turned out to be an older teen.

“Thanks guys” said the pusher “I wish I had better tires, but you know how it is.”

“No problem,” responded the stranger. “Good luck” he added, waving a gloved hand before walking away.

“I wish I had some gloves,” said Jake jokingly.

In a flash, Jake's brain snapped so hard he stumbled. He DID have gloves. He remembered that right here, right now, right in his pack, he had gloves. They were supposed to be a gift for his outdoors loving roommate, but there was a brand new pair of water resistant thermal gloves in his bag. He could just wear them and get another pair later.

“I have been smoking way too much weed” thought Jake as he dug around in his pack to pull the gloves out. He was just about to snap the plastic tabs apart when he considered that he was only half a block from home, no point in putting the gloves on now. He shoved them back into his backpack, and finished his journey.

Once safely inside, Jake stripped off his wet clothes, and then scoured the cupboards for a bandage. He had heard people sometimes boast about being ‘fast healers’, Jake was convinced he had the opposite affliction. He seemed to require bandages and ointment for every cut, no matter how insignificant. He found the bandage box and pulled it out, suddenly realizing he had NOT reflexively winced in pain. Examining his finger, Jake found no sign of the cut from the statue. Jake checked his other fingers, it had been a strange night, maybe he mistook which finger? But all digits were healthy and unblemished, although still cold and a bit wrinkly. Perhaps he had not been cut at all?

Jake was perplexed about his finger, but with no possible way to solve this little mystery, he moved on with life. He got some hot tea, settled into the comfy chair and turned on the TV. He searched for local news, which he rarely watched, but a snowstorm was a rare and special occasion. Ahh there, continuous coverage of the slushpocalypse going on outside. After he warmed up, Jake went to the table. With the Benny Hill antics of cars sliding down hills for a backdrop, Jake wrapped the gift for his roommate.

“I wish you a Happy Birthday” he wrote on the gift tag, and left it in plain view for his roommate to find.

A few hours later, mug of irish coffee in his hand, Jake was looking out the window over the deserted street. Now that the traffic had settled, the white flakes finally covered up the gray slurry from the earlier mess. The city was pretty in the snow, but the morning commute was going to be horrific. Jake smiled into his mug. Tomorrow was his day off.

#

Jake woke to the annoying sound of his phone. It was Zam. Of course it was Zam, none of Jake’s friends would be calling in the morning hours.

“Jake, can you come in?”

“Zam, you know I need this day off. And the weather is crap.”

“I tried calling everybody else, no one answered. Traci is alone. You know she can’t handle it.”

Jake sighed, he did know that. Traci was a barista, and couldn’t handle the weed side of the business.

“All right Zam, I’ll be there as soon as I can. But you owe me another day off.”

“Sure thing Jake. You’re a lifesaver man”

Jake checked to make sure the phone was hung up before flinging it onto his covers. “Lifesaver my ass, I wish Zam would get a life” he muttered, and then dragged himself out of bed and made ready for the disaster waiting outside.

Blindingly blue sky greeted Jake out on the street. The clouds had passed during the night leaving their frozen detritus behind. Sharp edged canyons of crystalline slush made walking a chore, but Jake had remembered proper clothing this time. Boots, hat, gloves, and a double layer of flannel. The bus stop was filled with ill-tempered commuters, all the common good from the previous evening had disappeared with the snowplows and snooze alarms. The buses were chained up, making slow but steady progress though their routes.

By the time Jake arrived at Baked Beans it had been two hours since Zam called. He walked in to find Staci hyperactively cleaning the counters. “Hi-Jake-I’m-so-glad-you’re-here-nobody-has-come-yet-but-Zam-said-you-would-be-coming-in-so-thats-cool-but-I-was-starting-to-get-worried-it’s-been-hours-since-I-got-here-and-I-don’ t-know-what-to-do-without-customers-I-am-glad-you-made-it-is-there-a-lot-of-snow-at-your-house-too?”

“Jeez girl, I’m getting a buzz just watching you, how much coffee have you had today?” Jake asked, as he went over to flip the sign indicating they were open.

“I’ve had some, I mean like more than usual I guess. I was just a little nervous about being here alone” Staci responded, this time with a little more diction between words.

“Well, maybe we will get some customers now.” Jake said. Not bothering to tell her the shop sign had said closed for the whole morning. No sense in getting her agitated, Jake thought, giggling internally at his private joke, as he watched her vibrate around the shop.

As typical for a Seattle snowfall, it melted and cleared away by lunchtime. The remaining evidence was awkwardly parked cars and piles of sand along the street sides. Business at Baked Beans picked up to the usual pace, Jake and Staci fell into a retail rhythm of cash and customers lasting well into the afternoon.

Zam burst into the shop, slamming the door open so hard Staci dropped a mug in alarm.

“It's gone!” Zam shouted. “I’m cured!”

“What are you talking about?” asked Jake.

“Eh eh ahh” Staci tittered nervously from behind the counter, glancing between the broken mug and the unusually excited Zam.

“I am cancer free baby!” Zam said, hopping their butt into the barista counter. Zam glanced at the dropped mug, “Oops, sorry Staci” Zam slipped off the counter and bounced over to Jake.

“Jake, my man, I went in today to see the doc about starting chemo, and she said I am in total remission, complete and total.” Zam threw their arms up, fists clenched, “Cancer FREEEE!” they shouted again.

“You had cancer?” Jake asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh yeah, I got diagnosed a while back, but I didn’t tell anybody here, I didn’t want to pull any special treatment, ya know.” Zam finally stopped pumping their fists and leaned against the counter. “I was going to have to let you know after I started chemo. Obviously that would have been obvious.” Zam ran a hand over their head, hair shaved to stubble on one side and vibrantly colored on the other.

“Obviously” Jake answered.

“But that ain't happening. Doc says she’s never seen anything like it, sudden spontaneous cancer remission. Like it just disappeared from my body overnight.”

“That's wonderful Zam,” Staci spoke up, “I'm so happy for you.”

“Thank you Staci. Thank you very much. I feel like I got a whole new life.”

The sweet sound of ‘Posse on Broadway’ filled the shop. Jake's roommate was calling. That's unusual, Miko was usually a texter. Jake answered.

“Jake a Jake that gift was great!”

“You’re welcome Miko, how's your birthday?”

“Super fantastic Jake a Jake. Sweets got me a scratch off with my cake, and I won fifty grand. Happy birthday to me to me!”

“Wow Miko, that's amazing.

“So listen Mate, me and Sweets are taking a trip, will you water my plants for a bit?”

“Sure Miko, no problem. Where are you going”

“Heading to Aspen, gonna ski by moonlight. Break those new gloves in right. Be back next week Jake a Jake.”

“All right Miko, see you later.”

Zam’s exuberance bled over to Jake and Staci, which in turn spread like a virus to the customers. Baked Beans felt like a party all afternoon. Customers shared their tales of snowstorm woe, while Staci served up cups of Joe. Jake provided weed for whatever their need, while Zam discussed hair dye and bicycles with whomever would listen.

When Jake finally arrived home after his unexpected day at work, there was a note from Miko on the table.

“Thank you for the Birthday wish. Here is a little something back at ya” Underneath the note was a ‘Share the Wealth’ card scavenged from a Monopoly set somewhere. Underneath that was enough money to cover Jake's portion of the rent for two months. Underneath that was another note. “Please don’t forget to water my plants”.

#

A New York subway car slams to a halt. Of the dozens of passengers who lurch forward, only one falls over, a tiny vaguely asian old woman. The contents of her shopping tram spill and roll across the filthy floor. A massively built woman, dressed in what is presumably “post apocalyptic clown punk” fashion looks down at the old lady and the spilled goods. She bends her tree trunk knees, and lowers her barrel arms to grasp the tiny lady and set her upright. The spilled fruits look miniature in her hands as the helpful passenger gathers them up and returns them to the tram. A paper wrapped parcel, resting near the women's spiked red leather boot is the last article to be returned. The woman inspects her finger after dropping the parcel into the shopping tram, a miniscule scratch is evident.

“Thank you” says the tiny lady, who offers a little bow.

“Don’t mention it” grumbles the giant.

The subway doors open, the little lady totters off, the glint in her eye lost in the New York shuffle.