Jericho

Chapter 2 The Artist

I zipped through town, glad to leave that experience in the dust. I felt clammy, even in the heat and figured the feeling wouldn't go away until I found something of normalcy.

    Luckily, I knew just the place.

    Killing the engine, I leaned on one leg as I removed my helmet and gazed up at the classic font of Linda's Cafe. I couldn't help but grin. Coming back to Linda's was a bit like coming home after a long, draining day. A favorite haunt of Mom and I's when we still lived in El Ocaso Springs, we probably ate here more than we did at the apartment. Aunt Renee would join us sometimes too. And now it had become a habit: I couldn't visit without stopping in to see old Linda at least once.

    I dropped the kickstand and hung my helmet on the handle bars. I could already smell the invigorating aroma of the fresh beans and when I swung open the door, I was graced with a thick wave of that restorative bouquet. 

    Linda's had the good stuff. Not the weak, hot water most diners and such serve. She only used Kona beans from Hawaii and each cup of the robust brews they made felt like a bear hug from the plump, rosy cheeked lady herself.

    I caught her merry smile from over the bar.

    "Hiya, Linda! Long time no see."

    "Daniel! How ya' been, boy?"

    "Great," I said, and it was the truth until just now. "Yourself?"

    "Just fine. Just fine. What brings you to town this time?"

    "Graduation present." I pointed to the cellophane plastered on my arm.

    Her jaw hung agape. "You didn't."

    I grinned. "I did."

    Shaking her head as she topped off a man's coffee, she waved to a corner. "You go ahead to your spot. I'll be over in a minute and you can tell me all about it."

    Linda's was as classic as they come. Nearly every fixture, booth, and table were the originals from back when her parents owned the place. The old wood floor, faded and re-stained with spilt coffee and the peeling wallpaper, orange and yellow floral from the 50's were the exact same as the stuff in the black and white pictures on the walls. I much preferred the wholesome hospitality over the viby places all the kids were into these days, with their nitro brewery rages and latte art they just have to get a photo of. Don't judge, there's a two generation gap between me and the three people who raised me the past eight years of my life.

    I looked around the cafe at all the content, happy faces. After that experience on the road, at least this was right. Not a soul was disgruntled or dissatisfied with even a French fry. And how could they be? So long as Linda lived, no one would ever leave this cafe with a frown. Or so I thought.

    I started for my spot. The corner booth. I could sit with my back against the wall and see the whole cafe from there. Also, nobody ever pays attention to the corner booth, so I could just sink into the worn leather and meld into the peeling wallpaper.

    By now, I could've walked to that corner with my eyes closed and in just a moment, I would be wishing I had.

    Passing a booth on my right, I caught a glimpse of the table drowning in sketch paper, shading pencils, and a half eaten bacon cheeseburger, dripping with all the fixings. But none of that mattered even a fraction as much as the images sketched on the paper.  The drawings were rough, most likely just warm ups, but incredible all the same. All except one. This one made all the rest look like a collection of squiggly lines. Did I mention those squiggly lines were incredible? But I could only imagine the hours of detail and attention that must have been poured into this one.