“A Softening” by Libby Walkup
Christmas morning, 2009, Dad and I are summoned through the piles and piles of holiday snow to retrieve my sister across town. After she calls and, all hung over and snarly and impatient, snips at Mom, ‘Put Lib on the phone, ‘ because I am the only one at Grandma’s who will understand fast enough how to get to where she is, Dad and I hop in the truck to navigate the streets, most of which aren’t plowed yet. Dad secretly loves it. He shows off his new truck driving through large snow mounds. I like it because she needs me to navigate.
I like it so much that when she snaps at me for asking ‘what?’ I’m not bothered. Not even a little. We are finally overcoming being sisters and becoming friends. But that’s not the point, the point is, Christmas morning, around ten or so, Dad and I drive by the coffee shop, and guess who’s sitting outside in his van? Fucking, Whipped Cream Guy:
It’s minus eight outside and the first truly cold day. The old man comes in—like he does every fucking day—Whipped Cream Guy, I call him. I should probably charge him extra for all the whip he wants me to put on there, but I don’t, because he’d complain. I don’t want to deal with him.
He plays drums in a local bar band – he tells me this shit without my asking. I feign interest as best I can. He says he got his master’s in music at NDSU. But ages ago by the looks of it because he’s seventy. Maybe. He looks fucking seventy. His face is spotted and rough, he’s got an old man hobble, that might come from milking the cows every morning and he’s in serious denial about his smoking habit. But, I mean, his eyes are still clear blue and his face drops ten years when he smiles. The funny thing is, being in a band and looking as old as he does he claims never to have been a drinker.
Jesus, I can’t imagine what he’d look like if he had been.
Whipped Cream Guy keeps tryin’ to convince me to come to one of his shows at the American Legion. I avoid them. Can’t give him the wrong idea. I’m 27 but I look 23 (so I’m told), I don’t know what this guy’s after.
He comes in everyday—and everyday he cracks a joke when I’m steamin’ his milk and I can’t hear him but I don’t think his jokes are funny, anyway, so I don’t bother anymore to ask ‘What?’. In fact, he’s annoying: I don’t like his whole-milk-mocha-with-lots-of-whipped-cream; I don’t like the way he makes conversation with other customers about nothing, usually about how his drink is the best. And –
I think he’s creepy.
Today he says something to the lady waiting for me to finish her drink and he says something else when I’m finished, it isn’t funny—so I don’t laugh. I mean he’s hardly talking to me anyway, but he says to the lady, ‘I can never get a laugh out of her. I come in here everyday and all I get’s a little smirk.’
The lady laughs and his old man smile and clear blue eyes brighten. I try to hold back; I had no idea that’s why he says all those stupid things to me. A smile creeps out, reluctant and shy.
‘There it is,’ he says. Coaxing.
And I can’t help it. I giggle.
I guess that’s just how things are for me.
Now he sits smoking a cigarette in his decrepit purple van. On the one hand: God, he annoys the hell out of me. There are the regulars you appreciate, there are those you hardly notice, and then there are those that you can’t fucking stand; he’s about in this slot. ‘Twenty ounce whole milk mocha with whipped cream.’ Loads of it, like a mountain swirl. He walks away slurping at it, whipped cream smearing his nose and lip.
On the other hand, what the hell is he doing outside the shop on Christmas day? I told him we weren’t going to be open – at least twice, and there’s a sign on the door. But here he is, sitting in his car smoking a cigarette.
I don’t – know what to do.
