It’s Saturday morning. I usually make a point to spend weekends with my family and not do any work unless it’s completely unavoidable.
Frank Lucas said he’s ready to make revisions on the book.
So I gotta go.
Left the house and came to the office to go over the manuscript before I head to Frank’s house at noon. (God help us…)
I stopped by Omar’s to get my cafe con leche.
I’ve been in and out of Omar’s for months. Never a change in his behavior toward me. He always give me a questioning look that means what do you want. Even though I order the same thing every time I come there. I tell him coffee. He grunts. He makes the coffee. Sugar? I say yes. He puts it on the counter and walks away.
Today, I come in. I’ve never been in Omar’s on a Saturday. It was bustling. All families. None of the blue-collar workers I usually see at the counter. Parents and children crowd tiny tables and eat Omar’s world famous cubano bifstec.
Omar gives me a head nod. I had to look around to see if someone was standing behind me because I knew he couldn’t be headnodding at me.
But he was.
He turned away and made. my. coffee. Didn’t ask me if I wanted sugar. Just made it the way I like it. And plopped it on the counter. His eyes were on the soccer game.
I put my dollar on the counter and picked up my coffee.
Omar took my dollar. And he said, thank you.
I’m thinking next year this time, we might actually have a conversation…