Coffee Shop Hero

Spring had finally made its debut; it was threatening to be over seventy degrees, so I had left work early to relax a little. I was on my way home, stopped at the gas station near my house, filling up my car.

I felt quite peaceful. My co-workers and I were just wrapping up a project and had everything in hand. As the pump ran, I stared off into traffic. My view was interrupted by a delivery van that parked at the far edge of the gas station, between my car and the road. Three guys poured out, all in their early twenties, and headed into the convenience store.

I glanced back at the pump, then back at the truck. What happened then passed with the slow clarity one realizes sometimes in life: when pulling off a brilliant move playing basketball with friends, for example, or while watching a locked car door swing shut after realizing that the keys are on the dashboard. Just as I looked up, the truck creaked and groaned almost inaudibly—and then started rolling. Imperceptibly the truck strained forward just before I noticed the wheels really were moving. By the time I stepped around my car, the truck was clearly coasting and picking up a little bit more speed.

Breaking in to a run, I cut across the parking lot and jumped into the open door of the van. Grabbing the steering wheel with one hand, I sat on the step just inside the door and pressed the brake pedal as hard as I could with my other hand. The truck didn’t slow, so I pumped the pedal and really pushed, twisting my upper body as I pulled against the steering wheel for leverage.

The truck began to slow. Just as it came to a stop, I was planning to stand up and find the parking brake on the inside, or try to force it into gear. My plan was foiled when the vehicle lurched and I was thrown out of the open door. My head bumped the edge of the dash and I landed in a heap on the pavement.

Standing up, I felt my forehead and there was just a little blood. I looked at the truck and found I was now next door to the gas station. The station shared its parking lot with a coffee shop and a small book store. One of the truck’s front wheels was over the parking stop and on the sidewalk, while the other was lodged between the stop and the sidewalk curb.

The front of the truck was pointed straight at the front door of the coffee house, and that door burst open. “Jesus fucking Christ, you almost killed me, you fucking asshole!” A blonde girl, one of the baristas, I guess, came out and charged me. Her ponytail flowed behind her, and she wadded her tiny fists and started swinging randomly at me.

My moment of clarity was gone. “Hey, I just—”, and from behind me the three men came running back to their truck. They stopped and started yelling at each other. One jumped into the cab.

“Holy shit, dude!”

“Fuck, man, why didn’t you set the brake?”

The barista stopped hitting me, and she turned to the three guys. She stepped towards one of the delivery men. “You sonsabitches!” Another giant step towards him, and she tried to kick him right in the nuts. He side-stepped out of her way, and just then a police cruiser came around the back of the truck.

Unfortunately, the barista didn’t immediately notice. “Damn you!” and she spun and slugged the guy in the arm as hard as she could. One officer jumped out and corralled the barista. The other officer yelled for everyone to settle down.

“What happened here?” asked the first officer. Everyone started at once.

“These idiots let their—”

“Hey, lady!” toned the first officer.

“Jeremy here is too stupid to set the fucking parking brake is what happened.”

“Shut up, David!”

The other officer approached me. “Did you see what happened? How did you get cut?”

“Well, yeah. I was pumping gas up there,” pointing at my car. I explained what I did, and told the officer that I couldn’t believe they were here so quickly.

He said they were just passing by, and we were lucky. He wanted me to get my cut looked at. I touched it and my fingers came back wet—it was bleeding more than I thought, but didn’t seem threatening. I actually figured I’d get a big bump, but thought that a cut would heal faster and be more fun to explain to anyone who asked.

The door of the coffee shop flew open again. An older man, maybe fifty, emerged: “Vanessa! What happened? Are you okay, honey?”

The barista left the officer’s side and ran to hug the man. I guessed he was her father; he was wearing a green apron like hers—maybe they ran the coffee shop together.

The officer I had been talking with approached the man and asked his name, while the first policeman began surveying the delivery men to see which was driving. Jeremy looked forlorn.

“Do you own the coffee shop, sir?” asked the first officer of the man. When the man nodded, the officer related a brief version of my story to him and he thanked.

“Jesus!” Vanessa said. Now that she was finally calm, she could hear the story and came to understand what happened.

The owner looked at his daughter disapprovingly, then extended his hand and thanked me. He introduced himself as Frank. I introduced myself.

And Vanessa thanked me, too. “I’m sorry that I hit you. I was right behind the door and I thought the truck was going to come through the window, and I spilled a huge tray.”

I smiled. “Well, you’re fine.”

She smiled at me. “Thanks to you! What a hero!”

I laughed. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Well, it certainly was some quick thinking, son. You come in for a cup of coffee on me, any time you want to,” offered Frank.

Abashed, I turned away. Jeremy was studying a pink piece of paper and his civil servant was talking to him.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Why don’t you go home and calm down?” Frank asked Vanessa.

“I’m fine, daddy. Besides, Rebecca isn’t picking me up for another two hours,” Vanessa told her father.

“Well, why don’t you leave early? Maybe your new friend can give you a ride.”

Vanessa turned to me and smiled again. “Well, what kind of car do you drive?”

I exchanged a few more pleasantries with Frank. At a lull in our chat, we overheard two of the delivery guys celebrating because Jeremy only got a written warning. That set Frank off into a bit of a frenzy. He wasn’t raging, but it was easy to see where Vanessa got her temper.

“Let’s get out of here,” Vanessa whispered to me as one of the officers tried to explain his partner’s reasoning to Frank.

We walked up the slope in the parking lot to my car. Someone had put the nozzle back into the pump. Vanessa climbed in, and I went to the clerk. He thanked me and said the tank was free. He, too, called me a hero.

As I walked back to my car, I got a better look at Vanessa. She was quite attractive; she wore a short sleeve white tee-shirt and a pair of jeans under her green apron. Her shoulders were square and her arms were thin. Her facial features were pleasing; open and lively without being perky. Her sandy blonde hair was still pulled back into that cute ponytail.

When I got into the car, she apologized again for smacking me. I laughed it off. She explained that her father had to replace all the front glass in the store twice in the five years the shop was open because people kept driving through it. She was there the second time it happened, and glass went everywhere—one of their customers had to go to the hospital. It had really bothered her. Worse yet, they had to close for two days to get everything cleaned up and the window repaired.

“I’m glad it didn’t happen again this time,” I said. I told her that I couldn’t imagine how frustrating it would be to make a dollar a cup profit selling coffee, only to have somebody bust through your storefront window and do thousands of dollars of damage. Even if insurance took care of the repairs, such an event would setback months of progress.

“Jeez, thanks to you! What a hero!”

I laughed. “Come on, quit it.”

“Well, it really was nice of you to help,” she said. “Why don’t you at least let me take you to dinner?”

I smiled at her again. “Sure. I’d really like that.”

“OK. Turn here. I live in those apartments. Will you pick me up at seven?”

“Tonight? Wow. Uh, sure. What about Rebecca?”

“What’s wrong? Don’t you want to come with me? It’ll be a fun way to kick off the weekend.”

“Of course, of course. I was just surprised we’d go out so soon. And, I guess pretty women don’t ask me out that often.”

We were at the entrance to her building. “Well, when I see a good thing, I want to grab it,” she said, and let herself out of the car. “And I’ll just call Rebecca and cancel.”

She walked to the entrance and I watched her, a little surprised at what she had said. Her butt was tiny and fit her jeans nicely. She undid the strings on her apron and lifted it off before she got to the front door, where she turned and waved to me. I quickly waved back and then took off. I felt like a dope for staring.

As I drove home, I thought about how she seemed a little forward. That wasn’t bad, I figured: she really was pretty.

At the house, I turned on the radio and went into the bathroom. My cut looked pretty impressive. There was a clot matted into my hair, where all the blood trickled away and matted. I dabbed at it with a warm washcloth, and that opened it up again.

Once I cleaned it out, I found that it really wasn’t much to worry about. I didn’t want to get stitches, but it seemed a little surprising the police didn’t call an ambulance for me, with how conservative everyone is about injuries these days. But I was fine.

I became a bit drowsy, though, and lay down on the couch.

When I woke up, I felt a little bit disoriented because I had slept much longer than I thought I would. Already a quarter to seven o’clock and I needed to clean up and go meet Vanessa! I ran into the shower, and realized I didn’t even have her number. Washing and then dressing as quickly as I could, I burst out of my front door at only two minutes of seven.

Further, I didn’t even know where to meet her. While racing to her apartment I started worrying about how I was dressed. I found her waiting in front of the building, right where I dropped her off. She smiled when I pulled up, and she didn’t look impatient at all. She was dressed casually, just like I was. She wore a dark blue polo shirt and a pair of light tan jeans. Without the apron on, I saw her chest. Her polo shirt was sweetly unbuttoned, and her chest looked full and round.

As she walked to the car, I realized that I was really quite excited about our date. It was fortunate that I had dozed off at home. Otherwise, I would have been crawling with anticipation.

Vanessa opened the door and got in. “Well! You clean up nice,” she told me.

I chuckled. “Thanks.”

As she buckled up, we talked about what to do. We settled on a simple little date, which was really nice. She called it “a date” herself, which built up even more anticipation for me—instead of simply taking me to dinner, she indicated that had some romantic interest. Or, at least, was content with me racing to that conclusion.

And so we ended up at The Pasta Depot, a little joint on the edge of town. Our meal stretched out over a couple of hours, which was clearly not common in the little casual restaurant. The waiter seemed nervous about not closing the check, and after a while quit returning to our table.

We enjoyed ourselves. Vanessa asked about me, and I told her about going to school and working and how I spent some of my time teaching for the state’s boating safety program and playing soccer in a league at the park. She talked about college, too, and how she started working for her father. She liked running, though hadn’t done a marathon yet and wanted to try for one next year. Her degree was in Chemical Engineering, and she just had an interview with the big company the next town over, but she hadn’t heard back from them yet.

“How about a nightcap?” Vanessa offered.

“Sure, I could have a drink or two more,” I said. We’d had a couple of glasses of wine each with the dinner.

“Well, surely you know a tavern or something. Where do you want to go?”

I smiled. I described a little watering hole not far from my office where I sometimes hung out. There’d be at least a couple of people I knew, so if we stayed for a while we’d have some conversation—or someone to play pool with, at least.

On the way over, I again marveled at Vanessa’s body. She was lithe and small, but still had noticeable curves. Her ass was attractive, and her curves looked just wonderful. Her hair was out of her ponytail and lazily curled to her shoulders, which were broad for her frame but still very thin and feminine.

When we walked into the tavern, I didn’t immediately notice anyone I recognized. The bar wasn’t very crowded for a Friday night, in fact. “Just a beer or two?” I asked her.

“Actually, I’d like a vodka and cranberry. But just a small one,” she said.

I ordered from the bartender then glanced at the television. The news was on, and even without the sound I could recognize the parking lot at the gas station. Apparently, the station got the tapes from their surveillance cameras and decided to make a story of my efforts this afternoon.

Vanessa wasn’t looking, so I playfully poked her and pointed at the television. “Holy shit!” she squealed, and hugged me. I shot a glance around the tavern, and a guy playing pool was pointing at me and talking to his friend.

The view was rather limited, but the tape showed me filling my car and noticing something off camera. The truck became partially visible. Just as I raced over to it and hopped in the door, the scene cut to Frank. He was being interviewed by the local reporter.

The pool player came over. “Hey dude, was that you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“It certainly was! He saved my life!” yelled Vanessa.

It went downhill pretty fast. A couple of the guys shook my hand and bought me drinks. People who saw the tape had questions, and then those who didn’t wanted to hear the whole story. I wanted to leave, but Vanessa made me stay. I couldn’t believe the news in this stupid little town had made such a big deal of the incident. It really wasn’t anything at all. I felt that I did what I would want anyone else to have at least tried to do in the same situation.

And I wasn’t a hero. “Hero” was a word for policemen and firemen, and guys in the military, and doctors. I was uncomfortable with it all, but it seemed to be working wonders with Vanessa.

“What you did was really very sweet,” she told me. “You have to learn to accept it.”

Vanessa and I stayed rather late and celebrated, drinking far more than we had intended. I got over my embarrassment and answered plenty of questions but I didn’t talk openly about what happened. As the evening wore on, Vanessa made more contact with me. She pressed against me a couple of times, hugging me, or leaned against me while we were playing pool.

By the time we left, I was a little tipsy. I wasn’t very drunk, though I was certainly tired. This wasn’t the ending of the evening I had expected, though drinking a little made me feel less bashful about the attention I was receiving.

But Vanessa was the first one to say something about it. Once we were in the car, she turned to me: “This evening didn’t really go as I had planned.” My heart sank. While I passively accepted the attention from the patrons in the bar, I didn’t really mind Vanessa’s interest.

“Didn’t you have fun?”

“Oh, my God! I had a wonderful time!” She squeezed my free arm to her chest. “But I didn’t think we’d stay out so late. And I didn’t know if I’d like you. And I didn’t think that we’d get along well, and I thought it would end kind of quickly. But after dinner, I kind of—” she stopped herself. “I thought we would have a quiet night at home. We stayed out a little too late.”

I smiled at her. “Well, I’ll get you home soon. Do you have to work tomorrow?”

She let go of my arm, but held my hand. “No, I don’t.” Then a pause. “Do you?”

“Certainly not. The project’s over.” I had told her about it at dinner. We were just entering the parking lot for her building, coasting to the sidewalk to the entrance where we had been twice before that day.

“Will you stay over? I mean,” she stopped and sighed. “I really like you. Will you stay with me tonight?”

“Gosh—I don’t have any gear, and I—uh—”, she hit me in the chest.

“You’re not supposed to talk me out of it, dummy,” she laughed, then stopped. “Please? I really like you.”

I smiled. “Okay.”

We parked, and made our way upstairs. Her place was modest, but very nicely decorated. After looking around a bit, I felt immensely awkward.

“Want a glass of water, or something?” she offered. I accepted. Vanessa pulled a couple of glasses from a cabinet and then walked to the hallway.

“Well, come on along! I didn’t mean for you to sleep in the kitchen, you know.”

We went into her bedroom. It was tastefully decorated; I had anticipated it being too girly, and making me feel even more out of place than I already did. Her whole apartment was only slightly feminine and not overwhelming. And quite tidy. There was a big stack of papers on the kitchen table, and some books—maybe she had been doing homework before our big adventure started.

Vanessa walked around the far side of her bed, so I stayed on the near side. She kicked off her shoes, and so did I. Feeling painfully self-conscious, I figured that I’d just do what she did and that way I’d always be in bounds.

She lifted her shirt, turned and caught me watching, and dropped it. She smiled. “You’ll see them soon enough.” In a way, I couldn’t believe how forward she was. But she had a demure quality in her tone and mannerisms that let her pull it off. She pulled off her jeans and then reached inside her own shirt to pull off her bra without removing her shirt. Girls are amazing.

To follow, I pulled off my jeans and shirt, leaving my boxers. Vanessa turned down the comforter and said, “Hop in.”

I did. She embraced me, and settled her head on my shoulder. “Will you just sleep with me?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, I think that would be best,” I said.

“Thank you. And thank you for what you did today.” She reached across me and clicked off the light, her breasts pressing against my chest. They were firm and full and wonderful. Then, she kissed me gently.

“Tell me a story.”

“What?” I asked.

“Tell me a story. Like, a nice one. A happy one.”

“Well, uh—“

“Come on. Anything.”

So I told her a story about how my soccer team almost won the local championship. In the final game, my best friend was hit by a player on the opposing team and broke his ankle. I thought the hit was dirty, and I charged the other player, belting him and knocking him to the turf. I was thrown out of the game, and my team had to play a man down. We substituted for my injured friend, but couldn’t put a substitute in for me because I had been ejected.

I took my friend to the hospital, I told Vanessa, and came back to the same tavern where we were tonight. All of the team was there. Our team had been slaughtered six to one, since we were short-handed for the rest of the game.

“That’s not very happy,” she said.

“Actually, it was. Andy was relieved to have someone at the hospital. He doesn’t like doctors. And everyone on the whole team agreed that the other player deliberately hurt him, and that the referee blew the call. It was very reassuring, and we still got a big trophy for second place.”

Vanessa squeezed my shoulders. “Oh,” she said. “That is a nice one.” That’s pretty much the last thing I remember.

* ****

I woke up and looked around. It took me a couple of seconds to realize where I was, but my memory was jolted when I saw Vanessa at the foot of the bed. She was holding a cup of coffee.

“Hi,” she said.

“Good morning,” I said. I got up on my elbows.