A Reason to Believe
first published in
Full of
Crow
With the early morning stench of bleach stinging their noses, Sam and Greta stepped over a puddle on the slate sidewalk in route to the next bar. Even though the French doors were open, the smell of stale beer and late night smoke lingered. At first it seemed empty. Then, the bartender stood up.
She eyed Greta, but spoke to Sam. “What’s up?”
“Got any empties?” Sam asked.
The faint lines near her eyes emphasized her fading beauty. “Yeah, I saved you the clear ones.”
Hauling the sacks of empty beer bottles back to Sam’s apartment, Greta asked, “Why do you still go through all this trouble? I mean before, your street performance was entertaining. Now that you own the walking tour company and the coffee shop, it just doesn’t make sense.”
“I have my reasons,” he said.
The kitchen was like a small factory. They dumped the bottles into the sink filled with a bleach solution. Greta watched Sam as he ran water from the tap into some previously sterilized bottles. He worked with the focus of a holy man.
“But it’s just a silly sham,” she said.
He slapped a label on the bottle. The black and white photo of him in period clothing confirmed her accusation.
Placing a small cork in the top, he said, “Finished product. The corks are the only real expense.”
Greta shook her head at the label.
“Read the small print; I ain’t a liar.”
His finger pointed to the minuscule disclaimer Contents: 100% Mississippi River water.
“The tourists eat this up,” she said.
“That’s not why I do it now.”
*
The afternoon at the shop quickly passed. Greta sold many coffees and postcards. She thought they had emptied the place when a meek voice surprised her.
“That’s a pretty hat.”
Greta looked up and touched her wide brim. “Thanks.”
To anyone else, he may have appeared to be an ordinary elderly black man but to Greta, he was remarkable. The sight of him stirred her. She was touched by the prideful manner in which he carried himself in his worn brown suit. He held his dusty homburg politely at his chest. She was mesmerized by his dark eyes that seemed to hold the secret of salvation within. Every deep line of his face provided character. She shivered when he spoke again.
“I’d like to buy these.” He slid two bottles of Professor Samuel Goldrich’s Potent Snake Oil across the counter.
“Hello again, sir,” Sam called from the back of the shop.
The man gave a slight bow. “Afternoon, Professa. You know I save every cent I can for this erle.”
Greta forgot to ring it up on the cash register. She couldn’t take her eyes off the man. Slowly, he counted out some bills and placed them neatly on the counter. He put on his hat and took the bottles.
Smiling at her, he said, “This is the only thing that helps my knees.”
“You take care,” Sam called out as the man was leaving the shop.
Sam went to the counter and picked up the cash. “That, my dear, is why I still do it.”
Greta’s face was pained. “Why do you make him pay? Why don’t you just give it to him?”
Stuffing the bills in his pocket, he said, “Because, then he wouldn’t believe.”
***
© 2009 Kristin Fouquet