A deep blue coffee mug sits atop a color matching saucer. Steam dances quietly heavenward from the piping hot coffee dissipating into the air inches from the brim of the mug. Next to it is a spiral bound notebook with scrawlings on most pages. The top page has lists of Jiu Jitsu schools and boxing gyms in towns throughout the country categorized by region and then sub-categorized by cost. Lying atop the notebook is a black click pen with a 0.38 mm tip for fine lines and tiny script. There are two pencils off to the side, a gum eraser and a tiny clear plastic pencil sharpener. The old laptop is open to a search engine list of schools and gyms in Texas. There are tabs from New York, Florida, Illinois, Minnesota, Colorado, Nevada and California open to the same type of lists.
Recognizing he might find himself in a bind or in the rare event he might look beyond himself and his own safety, Diego has resigned himself to studying mixed martial arts. The thought of seeing someone hurting and being able to pop over and stop it, and pop away in moments intrigues him. If nothing else, it will make him more limber and he can dive and roll away from people he finds in his path after an ill-advised teleport.
Budgeting through the schools and gyms, the common price of $50 to $100 per month to take a class a week and unlimited practice throughout the week has become his goal. The job he had at the bakery has long since been filled and the meager savings he had will be reserved for rent and immediate bills. Jamish pays the majority of the utilities as he has a very well-paying job and has been willing to cover the costs of Diego's lack of professional pursuits in favor of taking the now three years after college to find himself and his purpose.
How can I monetize my ability? I guess I could be a delivery guy? I dunno. Like a bike messenger without a bike? It would have to be like pay per delivery. How would I get away with delivering so many all at once? I mean, I can't just work for one place, they would either think I'm dumping packages or get really suspicious. Fire fighter? Nah, I would have to be able to get in and I don't know if I currently can. Ugh. Maybe I could retrieve gold from sunken ships? I mean... I don't even know where I would find them. But what if I could?
Researching cheap wetsuits and full face goggles, he finds a personal ad for a full diving suit for a reasonable price in Oklahoma. A couple is selling off their recently deceased son's belongings. Seeing this as an opportunity to maybe walk away with more than just what was advertised, he sets up a meeting with the unassuming elderly couple and brings cookies to assuage their perceived grief.
Rapping on the wooden edge of the screen door to a windowless front door of a small country home at the face of an expanding grassy plot of land behind, eventually brings a tall, slow moving man with a stern face. The wrinkles on his darkly tanned face tell the story of a man that has worked hard, often in the sun, in this life. His hands are thick and calloused. His chest is broad and his bibs are fighting to completely cover his portly midsection. The legs of the bibs are mud stained at the ankle and his boots have seen years of mud and grease. After a moment, the man lets out a gruff sigh, and with a soft smile says, “You must be Dye-go.”
Yes, I'm Dee-aye-go, subtly correcting the man.
“Oh, Diego, apologies. Please, come in.”
Thanks, I brought you some cookies. I'm really sorry for your loss. I got them from this amazing little shop just a few minutes away from me. They were an assortment of treats from La Cure Gourmond in Paris, bought only 20 minutes prior.
“Hmm. Thank you. That's unnecessary, but thank you.”
The old man leads him in to the back bedroom where the diving equipment is laid out on a freshly made bed, whose bedding was bound tightly with the military corners and single pillow.
“Did I hear cookies?” is heard from the kitchen. “Bring them in here. We can look at those things later, let's have some cookies and something to drink with them.”
The tall woman wears thick rimmed glasses with thick lenses to match. She is slightly hunched over from years of leaning over, toiling at a drafter's desk. Arthritis has taken its toll on her hands and her fingers are slightly bent inward on both hands. The exercises she has employed to remain limber started in her early 40s when the initial signs of arthritis began rearing their head. Despite their imposing stature, they both exude a calmness. She begins retrieving things from the fridge. “Fred, my love, would you like some cold milk or perhaps some cocoa?”
“Cheryl, my heart, I will be drinking whatever this young man here drinks. You ought not be making more than necessary. Your hands, dear, they could use rest.”
“Oh don't you save me now from extending hospitality to our guest. It's never stopped you before. Young man, Dye-go -”
“Diego, honey. He pronounces it Diego.”
“I am so sorry, Diego. What would you like to drink? Cold milk, cocoa perhaps? And it's not instant, no sir it's not. I will be melting down some bitter chocolate and adding some sweet cream. How's that sounds? Good?”
That sounds amazing, Mrs Evans. Thank you, I would love some.
“Oh good, and Cheryl, please. Fred, honey, will you please bring me those cookies? I would like to place them on this platter here.”
Fred gingerly stands from his chair and shuffles over to his beloved. He kisses her on the back of the head. She stops for a moment tilting her head into his for a brief moment. “Place them there, sweetie. I will arrange them in a moment.”
Taken completely aback by the pervasive and sweet affection the older couple is constantly showering on one another, he takes it all in reconsidering his previous notion to perhaps swindle them for more than they ought to give at a price far below anything he might finagle from them. He watches, a smile firmly set on his face, as they move about the kitchen in a dance of shuffles and scoots and reaches and pauses to let cricks in their joints work themselves out. Cheryl draws from the cupboard above the dish rack a small package of baking chocolate and a can of sweet cream. Melting the chocolate and stirring slowly, she adds the cream at just the right time. Fred has made his way back to the tiny kitchen table and sets out saucers and mugs for each of them. He places the platter of neatly arranged treats brought in by Diego, rotating it until it perfectly displays the cookies in a way that everyone at the table, when they've all sat down, can admire the color of the bake, the perfection of the butter cream packed therein, for those that have it, and sugar and sprinkle dusting those remaining. Stirring the cream and chocolate mixture, Cheryl notices the French words on the small paper bag that held the baked treats.
“This is from a French bakery, no? Parlez vous Francais? Je ne parle pas beaucoup, mais j'ai passe un an dans le sud de la France.”
I'm so sorry, I have no idea what you're saying. I mean, yes, they are from a French bakery, but my single semester of French in high school has me at a loss right now.
“I see. I saw the French name and I thought I heard you say they were from near you. I don't know why I thought you would fly from France here for some diving things.”
That's fair. I was in France recently and bought quite a few treats and have kept them frozen until last night. I was told they would keep, and I warmed them up in my toaster oven, just as they suggested. I had one before heading over, and it was delicious. I'm hoping the rest are just as good.
“What did you mean 'a few minutes' away?”
Quick on his feet, Well, I froze them as soon as I got them and brought them home wrapped in dry ice and then moved them straight to the freezer. I warmed them up and I figured since it didn't take me much time to get here I wasn't being deceitful in saying they were from just a few minutes away.
Smiling wide and letting out a bit of a guffaw, “Ha ha ha. It's fine, young man. I'm sure the cookies are fine. Don't you my love?”
“I'm sure they will be, hon.”
Breathing slowly, hoping not to give away that he was lying. Changing the subject, Is this a family recipe? I don't think we ever used melting chocolate or sweet cream. We just used powder. I mean, it wasn't instant cocoa, but it was powder. This smells so much better than anything I remember having as a child.
Fred chiming in, “This isn't a family recipe, but it's the only way Cheryl has ever made it. Even in the summer time, hot as it may get here, as I'm sure you know, she will stand at that stove and melt chocolate and stir in that cream and top it with a dash of love and selflessness.”
Cheryl looks back and they share a glance and a smile. Turning back with the pan, “Careful boys, it's hot.” She expertly pours a serving in each of their mugs, returns the sauce pan to the stove top and retrieves a small container from the freezer portion of the refrigerator unit that has “Ice box” spelled in individual magnetic letters in its top right corner. With an ornate tablespoon, she scoops a hearty serving of whipped cream using her finger to release it from the spoon, laying it on top of the piping hot cocoa.
This looks amazing, thank you.
Sitting for a moment in silence, they sip their cocoa and enjoy one another's presence in pregnant silence. Fighting the urge to stifle the quiet and fill it with questions, Diego sips from his cocoa little bits at a time over and over.
Fred, appreciative of the opportunity to share a moment with his wife and this young visitor, he breaks the silence, “Diego, thank you. Thank you for the cookies and the moment. Our son, bless his soul, loved to just sit with us. When he was home on leave, we would talk and catch up, but there were many moments of sitting back and just resting in the presence of those around you. He said he always felt safe here and liked to have silence every now and then since wherever he was deployed always seemed to be so noisy.”
He was in the military? Was he in the Navy? Is that where the equipment is from?
“Yes he was. We don't know too much about his time in, he liked to keep a lid on it. He liked the separation of home and being out in the field.”
I see.
“Here, we have wallowed enough and have had a long enough moment of silence. Grab your cocoa, let's head over to his room and you can take a look at the items we posted.”
Thank you, Mrs. Evans for the cocoa.
“Cheryl, honey. Cheryl, and thank you for the delicious cookies.”
Right, Cheryl then, thank you.
With a smile and a nod, Diego follows Fred back to his son's now unused bedroom so that he may survey the equipment. Diego grabs the wetsuit and places it up against his chest, checks the label with the size and looks for “degradation and deterioration” as stated in the online forums concerning used diving gear. Placing the black, full face mask over his head, he is able to tighten it firmly and snugly. Content with the working order, and having changed his mind on trying for more than advertised, he reaches into his pocket and pulls a one hundred dollar bill. He hands it over to Fred, who accepts with a nod.
This is perfect, thank you.
“You're welcome. I'll be glad to know it's going to get some use. He would be happy to know we didn't just throw it away, and we didn't pack it away to keep in a box. He loved being in the water. There's a reservoir a few miles down the road that is fed by a river nearby. He would spend hours and hours as a kid searching the river for anything people may have dropped and would even take a tank with him when he started scuba diving as a senior and treasure hunt the reservoir bottom. What do you think you will use it for?”
I, like him, will use it to do some treasure hunting. I have a trip to the Caribbean scheduled in a couple weeks and I thought for sure, this would be incredibly helpful to maybe dive down and find some goodies.
“Well well, perhaps you and he could have been friends. I'm so glad you found our listing. I'll be sure to take it down and mark it as sold.”
Fred walked Diego out, shuffling along at a relaxed pace. Stopping just outside the door, Diego again turns back and thanks the man, and his wife by extension, for their loveliness and hospitality. He zips his jacket up to the top, shivers once and heads out down the driveway to the road. Walking until he is out of view, he scans his surroundings for passers-by or onlookers. Satisfied he was alone, he closes his eyes and says, Home.