“A café? Tammi dear, where are…?” Tammi hung up in mid-sentence. She gingerly clutched her shabby old brown corduroy bag, as if cradling an antique porcelain vase, and stepped out of the car as the cold wind swayed her from side to side. She hurried to the café to get out of the pouring rain.
The place seemed neglected, just like her life, and the few clients sitting there looked totally self-absorbed. A thin, swan-like woman sat with her back to her, her hair gathered under a dark purple sports cap. She was wearing a white Dri-Fit top and white leggings, holding a thick book in one hand and a warm cup of cappuccino in the other. At another table sat an old woman, blankly staring at mail she had received from Social Security. She was dressed in brown pants, a green knit top and a white jacket with shoulder pads. Her bizarre grey hair resembled a Persian cat that had been through a car wash. Her face seemed flattened and was covered with deep wrinkles and age spots, and she sported a thick layer of garish burgundy lipstick. There were also two young women in their late twenties sitting at another table. One was sipping a very hot cup of frothy coffee, while the other was nursing a cup of fruit-flavored tea. The former was a full-bodied woman wearing black jeans and a simple blue T-shirt. Her curly black hair was gathered at the back into a long ponytail tied with a frayed purple band. Her girlfriend was shapely, thinner and taller. She had white, glowing skin, her black hair was long and straight. She wore blue jeans and a purple knit top, the V-neck directing one’s focus to her well-endowed bosom. The short list of clients ended with a man who appeared preoccupied with the lined, yellow notepad on the table in front of him.
Tammi walked over to the woman with her back to her. Only a woman could understand the extreme distress I’m now experiencing, she thought to herself. She addressed her with the usual politeness, but the woman continued to hold her thick book and her coffee cup, as if she were a marble statue, and ignored her completely. Having no choice, Tammi went over to the man behind the bar who was about to fix a clogged sink, nearly overflowing with greenish water that emitted a sourstench. When the scruffy barman noticed the attractive woman approaching, he regarded her with curiosity.
“Good morning,” she said, “my car broke down. It’s right outside. It’s the engine… I think it’s the engine… I mean, if there’s smoke coming out of the engine, there’s a problem with the engine, right? Damned… why today of all days, why when it’s raining, and why here of all places, why… aren’t you going to say anything?”
Her words sounded to him like nonsensical details and he didn’t really listen, just nodded his head at the appropriate pauses. “Good morning,” he said in a deep, insincere voice. The sour odor of sweat and cheap cologne emanated from him as he smirked and leaned towards her across the bar. “The engine, you say…” he continued, knowing full well that he wasn’t even capable of changing a tire, never mind opening up the hood to look around. He would be of no help and just end up returning to the bar, defeated and despondent. “Look, I’d be glad to help you out,” he went on, “but I can’t leave here. You know… the cash register, the clients and all…” That was the best excuse his stupid, empty, lazy brain was able to produce, thought Tammi.
She glanced at the people in the café once again. Meanwhile, the rain had let up and was no longer pelting against the windows. Apparently, it too had lost all interest in this gloomy café. She approached the man holding the yellow notepad.
“Excuse me, do you mind?” she asked hesitantly.
“Yes?” he looked at her, raising his eyebrows with anticipation.
She carefully placed her corduroy bag on his table and explained in a cracked voice: “Today, of all days, my car broke down on me, it’s stuck outside. I think something’s wrong with the motor.”
“You’re sure it’s the motor?” he asked.
“Yeah… there’s smoke coming out…”
He placed the tips of his fingers together, forming anarrowhead, then suddenly remembered. “Here!” he said, pulling a crumpled flyer out of his bag. Ro’el traveled extensively, appearing in various courts across the country and, therefore, always carried with him the ad of this reliable towing company, just in case.
Tammi phoned the number at the bottom of the advert. “Hi… my car is stuck…” silence, “I think it’s the motor…” she explained for the umpteenth time. After a moment, “In Raanana, the big park…” Silence, and then shouting, “What!? Five hours!? I know it’s raining… I’m sure you’re busy… I understand, butfivehours?!” She ran her left hand down her cheek in despair, and then to the back of her head, trying to grip it before it fell off and dropped to the floor. “Yes… I’m still here. Please, come as quickly as you can,” she begged.
“You won’t believe how long it will take them to get here,” she said to the man.
“Five hours?” he asked. A hesitant, understanding smile crept to his lips.
She responded with a forced smile of her own, sat down opposite him and looked at her shabby bag. A shiver ran through her, from the cold and the raging emotions that flooded her. She placed the flyer on the table. “Tammi,” she introduced herself.
“Ro’el.”
“Ro’el?” she wonder out loud.
“You know, like… to see God.” She was about to say something, but he continued before she could speak, “But not today.”
“What, ‘not today?’” she inquired.
“I don’t see God today.” She nodded in agreement, as if she were waiting for someone besides herself to confirm what she was feeling in her heart—that there is no God, at least not today. Today He’s on vacation, He took leave, perhaps on such a rainy day He chose to snuggle under an eiderdown blanket of clouds.
“You seem nervous,” he said.
“‘Nervous’… that’s kind of an understatement to describe my situation.” She placed her head between her hands and stared at the table. “I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And allow me to guess that you too have known better days than this.”
“What makes you think that?” he was surprised by her words, which were utterly true.
She picked up the empty glass and waved it as if it were a trophy, as if she were a police officer showing the suspect incriminating evidence linking him to the crime. “Alcohol? At this hour?”
“And, based on that, you’ve determined that I’m a bit low?” he asked naively.
“Not just that,” she picked up the yellow notepad. “Look,” she continued expanding her self-established theory, “you’re wielding the pen as if you’re carving letters into the paper. As if you’re fighting with the words and all you want is to get to the end and be done with it. You’re not enjoying the journey. You’re thinking of the ‘end point’—not ‘the way.’” He smiled and she flipped through the pages. “What is this anyway?” she asked as she handed the pad back to him.
He looked at the pages which carried the imprint of time. “It’s a story I’ve been writing for several years already.”
“A story?!”
“A novel, or actually, maybe a fairy tale, and I can’t seem to find the proper ending for it.”
