Coffeeshop, Baltimore, Friday evening (1895)
Christian's third cup of coffee was almost empty, and he gave the waitress a hopeful look.
"Another," she said, walking over to the percolator. "These aren't free, you know."
"Oh." Christian went pink. "I don't -- that is, I didn't realize." In truth, he'd picked the coffeeshop because it seemed to be the most Bohemian place in the vicinity of the train station where he'd board the carriage to boarding school the next day. (Not that he'd seen any actual Bohemian life, but what did one expect? Fells Point was hardly Montmartre.) He'd never been in America before; he was nervous. "Is there another way I can pay you?"
She looked at him, aghast, until he said, "I meant a poem. Nothing more. I'm a writer. That's why I'm here, actually, to study. Writing."
This was, in fact, most of the truth. The rest of the truth had to do with his increasing inability to be in the same room with his father without it turning into a debate over where and how Christian was spending his evenings, and if it was likely to lead to him throwing his life away on cheap wine and immoral women. His father's business partner had suggested boarding school; sending Christian across the Atlantic gave him some freedom, without the temptation of day trips to Paris.
"Writing," the waitress echoed, distinctly unimpressed. "I can't pay for coffee beans with poetry, sir. If you'll pardon me." Then she glanced at him again. He was so young, and more than a little handsome, and a cup of coffee would hardly bankrupt the shop. She sat down, apron askew. "One more cup."
The young man flushed and looked at his sheaf of papers. "This one is for my father." He started by reading, but was singing to a simple melody by the end of the first line. His tone spoke of the frustrations and hopes in his family relationships.
How can I try to explain, 'cause when I do he turns away again
It's always been the same, same old story
From the moment I could talk, I was ordered to listen
Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away
I know, I have to go...
"Very nice," the waitress said when he was done. The poem had made her want to telegraph her own father, wherever the bum was, as soon as she got off work. The kid definitely had a way with words. "Still won't pay for coffee beans, but that was ... nice. That cup's on the house."
"Good luck at school," she added, kindly.
Christian grinned at her and plotted how to make this final cup of coffee last. "Thank you."
"Another," she said, walking over to the percolator. "These aren't free, you know."
"Oh." Christian went pink. "I don't -- that is, I didn't realize." In truth, he'd picked the coffeeshop because it seemed to be the most Bohemian place in the vicinity of the train station where he'd board the carriage to boarding school the next day. (Not that he'd seen any actual Bohemian life, but what did one expect? Fells Point was hardly Montmartre.) He'd never been in America before; he was nervous. "Is there another way I can pay you?"
She looked at him, aghast, until he said, "I meant a poem. Nothing more. I'm a writer. That's why I'm here, actually, to study. Writing."
This was, in fact, most of the truth. The rest of the truth had to do with his increasing inability to be in the same room with his father without it turning into a debate over where and how Christian was spending his evenings, and if it was likely to lead to him throwing his life away on cheap wine and immoral women. His father's business partner had suggested boarding school; sending Christian across the Atlantic gave him some freedom, without the temptation of day trips to Paris.
"Writing," the waitress echoed, distinctly unimpressed. "I can't pay for coffee beans with poetry, sir. If you'll pardon me." Then she glanced at him again. He was so young, and more than a little handsome, and a cup of coffee would hardly bankrupt the shop. She sat down, apron askew. "One more cup."
The young man flushed and looked at his sheaf of papers. "This one is for my father." He started by reading, but was singing to a simple melody by the end of the first line. His tone spoke of the frustrations and hopes in his family relationships.
How can I try to explain, 'cause when I do he turns away again
It's always been the same, same old story
From the moment I could talk, I was ordered to listen
Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away
I know, I have to go...
"Very nice," the waitress said when he was done. The poem had made her want to telegraph her own father, wherever the bum was, as soon as she got off work. The kid definitely had a way with words. "Still won't pay for coffee beans, but that was ... nice. That cup's on the house."
"Good luck at school," she added, kindly.
Christian grinned at her and plotted how to make this final cup of coffee last. "Thank you."