The Cup

“O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me” - Jesus Christ, Matthew 26:39

As the rain pours down over Ethan’s threadbare raincoat it seeps into his dirty shirt, chilling him. He shivers in spite of himself; after living on the streets, he had thought he was immune to all the discomforts that came with it. Wind, rain, cold during the winter. Heat, sweat, sun all through the summer. Mixes of both during spring and fall. The different seasons each brought their own slew of annoyances.

He walks with his head down to stop any conversation the passerby might wish to initiate. He doesn’t need to talk to them, he doesn’t want to talk with them. Stupid, ignorant people have no business even looking his direction. Not after all the things that he had gone through because of them.

“Irrational,” She had called it. “Completely irrational.” Ethan’s fixation with the apparent idiocy of the city’s populace angered his ex-wife to no end. She had such a high opinion of these imbeciles, always thinking there was goodness in their hearts as they tried to give Ethan some grubby coins, when it really was just a way to fluff up their opinion of their own self-importance. Ethan knew better. Ethan always knew better.

That was probably why she left him, taking his millions with her.

He keeps his head down even as he enters The Bean Tree, Chantelle’s coffee shop. Though he would have normally had a smile as he walked into the warm, friendly environment, today was different. Ethan had changed since the last time he was here, and he was certain it wasn’t for the better.

As the smell of brewing coffee assaults his nose, images flash through his head. A married couple wringing their hands as Ethan forces them to take a check. Smiles as they realize they’ll be able to pay the bills. Ethan driving off as kids come running into the shop, hope in their eyes.

Seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Ethan!” A familiar, boisterous voice calls out. Despite his doom and gloom, Ethan looks up with a puzzled expression. He scarcely has time to brace himself before a hulking mass of human slams into him, picking him up in a massive bear hug. “Haven’t seen you in years!”

“Has it really been that long?” Ethan laughs, the unfamiliar sound pouring out of his mouth. Isaiah squeezes him hard enough to crack his back before putting him down. The mountainous ox of a man lets out another guffaw and claps him on the shoulder.

“Man,” He chuckles. “I knew that you might have forgotten about your old friends when you moved up, but I didn’t think the money would make you forget the best drinks you’ve ever had!”

“Isaiah!” A highly irritated voice calls from behind the counter. Isaiah and Ethan both grimace. “Are you distracting my customers again?” Turning sheepishly, the two men face Chantelle.

“No ma’am.” Isaiah says, throwing a winning smile at his scowling wife. “Just greeting an old friend.” Ethan nods with a tight smile, shuffling his feet.

“Ethan Sterling!” Chantelle says, her scowl morphing quickly into the widest grin Ethan has ever seen. “You comin’ around to greet your old compadres?

“Just wanted the best latte I could find, Chanty.” Ethan says as the woman walks around the counter. She doesn’t stop, instead walking right up to him and grasping him in a tight embrace, though not as tight as Isaiah’s choke hold. He allows himself to return the gesture, real affection bubbling in his heart like a thick stew. The petite Latina woman holds on tight, almost as if Ethan would fly out the door if she let go.

“Some of us thought you wouldn’t come back.” Isaiah notes with a grin and a raised eyebrow, staring intently at his wife. “But some of us had faith in the bond of friendship.”

“And in the strength of Chantelle’s brew!” Ethan laughs as Chantelle lets go of him. His face grows“Though I wasn’t sure I was welcome anymore…”

Isaiah’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Now, you’ve said some stupid things…” He laughs, somehow even louder. “But that one takes the cake. Old friends are always welcome here!”

“Thanks.” Ethan says, sincerely grateful.  However, he’s slightly on edge, despite Isaiah’s comforting words. If he recalls correctly, the last time he was here, it was in a tuxedo- with a Mercedes parked right outside. Now, he’s dressed in a ratty coat and had walked fourteen blocks through the rain to visit.

Why in the world weren’t they saying anything?

“Sit down, hijo, sit!” Chantelle half-implores, half-commands. Ethan obeys quickly, sitting in a fluorescent pink chair that clashes so perfectly with the maroon walls and hardwood floors. “You and Isaiah talk while I go make your favorite.” She scurries to the back room and kitchen as Isaiah sits down across from Ethan.

“So,” Ethan says with a grin. “How are things in the world of high-end coffee and cookies?”

“Not bad.” Isaiah laughs. “Not good, really, but we’re getting by.”

“What happened?” Ethan says with a quizzical look. “Is something wrong?”

“Well…” Isaiah says, scratching the white beard that always looked strange against his brown skin. “You remember the hassle that Chantelle had a few years back with the Immigration officials?”

“Yeah.” Ethan nods. “I thought they got that sorted out.”

“We thought it had too.” Isaiah sighs. “But then, a couple of months ago, this one guy turns up and starts poking his nose into our private stuff. Turns out he was an investigator for Immigration.”

“No.” Ethan breathes. “But Chanty is legal, isn’t she? She got all the papers done and everything.”

“We had thought so.” Isaiah grimaces. “But you remember the one guy that had helped us fill out her papers? Turns out he was a scammer. Took the money and the ‘documents’ and skipped town.” Isaiah shakes his head. “Damn near bankrupted us. We almost had to sell the shop.”

“Almost?” Ethan replies. “I mean, obviously you’re still in business.”

“One of the regulars, Claflin, knew a guy who could sponsor us.” Isaiah says. He points to one of the orders on the menu, the “McLellan Macchiato”. “He made us a deal. He’d help pay our bills and get Chantelle’s situation straightened out if we put up ads for his company and named one of our drinks after him.”

“Oh man, I’m sorry.” Ethan intones sadly. “That must have been hard.”

“But we got through it together.” Chantelle says as she places a steaming latte in front of Ethan. “Like we always do.” Isaiah reaches over and grasps Chantelle’s hand fondly.

“So you’re all good now?” Ethan asks as he gingerly sips the hot liquid. “No other hiccups?”

“Oh we have a lot of those.” Chantelle laughs. “But we don’t have to get into that.”

“Wait, what’s going on?” Ethan asks, once again confused. “Don’t ignore it; tell me. I’d like to know if I can help.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he could think about them- how could he help them when he couldn’t even help himself?

“Well,” Chantelle mumbles. “Malachi needs new braces, Jonathan has to get his tonsils removed.”

“Our ceiling leaks.” Isaiah cuts in with a laugh. Wait, he’s laughing? How could he laugh? “We have a bucket upstairs right now to keep it all contained.”

“The rent on this place is probably going to go up.”

“Coffee prices are going up too.”

“Our car is making a noise that sounds like a dying cat ate a frog that had tuberculosis.”

“And we both aren’t getting any younger.” Isaiah finishes in his best grizzled old man voice.

“How do you deal with it?” Ethan asks, dumbfounded. “That’s almost more problems than I could count on two hands.” The pair look to each other, and Chantelle nods slightly.

“Well,” Isaiah says, pulling a battered iPhone out of his back pocket. “Let me read something to you.” He opens a Bible app on his phone, flipping to Matthew, chapter 26. “Verse thirty-nine. You want to read it?” He holds the phone out to Ethan, who takes it gingerly and clears his throat.

“O my father,” He reads slowly. “Let this cup pass from me. Nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done.” Ethan looks up. “This is supposed to mean something to me?”

“Jesus said that on the day he was crucified.” Isaiah says quietly. “That man suffered more than we'll ever know.  He was wrongfully accused and killed after being tortured by Roman soldiers. And what does he say?” The intensity of Isaiah’s voice scares Ethan. “He asks his father to stop it, but then he says ‘But whatever you choose, I’ll do.’”

“So?” Ethan says, trying to understand but failing. Religion always escaped him.

“Jesus willingly went to his death.” Isaiah says with tears in his eyes. “And he was rewarded with a resurrection.” Isaiah gestures with his arms to the room around them. “If he can do that, I think that I can put up with a few hiccups.”

Ethan sits silently at the table, wheels spinning in his head. The implications of Isaiah’s words haunt him.

“By the way,” Chantelle says quietly. She reaches across the table and lays her hand fondly on Ethan’s. “We don’t need to ask where your fancy duds and car went.” She squeezes his hand. “We only need you to know that you’re always welcome here.”

Ethan has had enough. Without a word, he stands from the table and walks out the door into the rain, Isaiah and Chantelle staring at the entryway with confusion and sadness on their faces.

Ethan walks down the sidewalk, the hood on his raincoat down and his hands shaking around the warm latte. Water trails down his head and shoulders, seeping into his body, but he doesn’t care. His mind is completely fixed upon the strangeness of Isaiah and Chantelle. Those two had more problems than he could ever think of, and they were already barely able to take care of themselves. What kind of God would let his children suffer like that? What kind of God would let his own son die? None of it made any sense to him.

It was even worse that Isaiah and Chantelle were so damn hopeful. They had every right to be sitting in the back of their store either crying or drinking themselves to death, or both. But they went around with the biggest smiles on their face, like there was only goodness in the world and not unfairness, vice, doom. Isaiah had even laughed while talking about his leaking ceiling!

Ethan would have none of it. He had had it all: a wife, a home, a family, and a livelihood. And quicker than you could say tiddlywinks, it had all been taken from him. Ethan could not accept that there was goodness in the world while evil men got better off while the good people, all the overlooked men and women, had what little they possessed taken away. He could not accept that even the mighty could fall. Was no one allowed happiness? That was the way it seemed to him.

As he ducks into a grimy alley, Ethan reaches into the inside pocket of his raincoat, the pocket he had never thought he would open. He pulls out the smooth, steel handgun that he had always kept for emergencies. He chuckles bitterly to himself as he realizes he will have no more emergencies after this night, not a one. Wherever he’s going, he hopes that its warm. Before he can change his mind, he puts the muzzle to his temple and pulls the trigger.

The cup of coffee, full to the brim, falls from his cold hands.

Reviews

[Justin Robben]

Your writing, specifically, is quite a pleasure. Word choices, the flow, the descriptions, all of it was really quite spot on and enjoyable.
I, personally, could have done without the "preachy" part nearer the climax, but I understand how integral that was to the tale you wanted to tell. And that's just a personal preference, not an attack on your choice to do so.

The ending quite surprised me. Until i read the actual words temple...and trigger...
I didn't think it would end that way. And that's quite welcome.

Bravo!

I thoroughly enjoyed this piece. The way you write is something I'd like to ensnare and bottle for inspiration.

[A. L. Allen]

HGDDIUGFDKFFXHHGDKHHV MNVCVNCFADSYJEFMGTHBFJFGRYNMDSH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What the hey, Cody!! Why'd you have to go and get me all emotionally connected to these characters, and then just blow one to smithereens??????? That's cruel. ~__________~

Seriously, though, this was incredibly well written. Flow was nearly flawless (although I'm having some issues with the tenses. May be just my past-tense brain making me think it's weird. But, regardless), and I loved the message behind this story. The meaning behind the full cup of coffee was especially powerful. :)

Very, very nicely done. Keep up the awesome work!!

[Umbreomancer]

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Whoah.