Accounting for Time

         It was seven o’clock… on the dot. I never had to look at the clock behind the counter. I always knew. The old man told me.

        The old man was Hank Miller. Hank was one of the longtime local characters in town. He was someone everyone saw, but no one ever actually knew. Hank was a CPA who operated out of a small storefront office on the main drag, across the street from the café where I worked in college and now own. He was a man of his time. He was a man out of time.

        Old Hank hadn’t changed anything since the moon landing. He wore the same crew cut, the same black trousers and black wingtips, the same short sleeved white button-down shirt and the same skinny black tie. Every day for fifty years. I doubt he ever changed the prescription of the vintage horn-rimmed glasses he wore. The overall effect was that of an extra from Apollo 13 or The Right Stuff.

        Like clockwork, I purred under my breath when I saw Hank ambling up to the door of his office.

        I finished the order I was on, a decaf double latte with soy milk (unofficially called the “Why Bother?”), and tapped one of the younger baristas to take over. I made a couple of cups of actual coffee, grabbed some pastries and headed out across the street. I had lived and worked in this town for almost 20 years and I had been as bad as everyone else. I saw Hank go in and out of that office five days a week, every week and never once made the effort to even say hi. Today, I would make “first contact”.

        Hurrying across the street, I quietly cursed myself for leaving my coat. The early onset of winter brought a biting wind that nearly knocked me off my feet. When I reached the small step up to Hank’s office door an exceptionally strong gust seemed determined to defeat me, but I stood my ground, got a firm grip on the handle and pulled.

        The soft tinkle of the bells in the inside of the door echoed off the walls. I stood silent a moment, taking in the décor which, like Hank, was straight out of the sixties. It was as if time had completely stopped for Hank when Neil Armstrong took that giant leap for Mankind. As I allowed my eyes to take a walk around the room, I was genuinely surprised not to see an old Nixon campaign poster.

        “Can I help you, Miss?”

        Hank’s voice pulled me out of my head and back to the task at hand. It sounded gravely, rusty even. It felt like he hadn’t actually spoken to anyone in a very long time.

        “Hi, Mr. Miller” I called from the door. “I’m April. I own the café across the street. I brought some coffee and goodies for you.”

        Hank leaned back in chair and looked me over, almost in disbelief. He took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief, blinking all the while. Unless my eyes were playing tricks on me, I could have sworn his beady dark eyes were getting misty. Replacing his glasses on his small, beaky nose, he motioned for me to take a seat.

        I smiled and crossed the room to his desk.

        “I wasn’t sure how you take your coffee,” I apologized as I set one of the to-go cups in front of him. “I hope black is okay.”

        “Perfect,” he assured me with a smile.

        We each grabbed a croissant and settled back into our respective seats. We sat for a while in companionable silence as I searched my brain for some topic of conversation. Coming out and asking “You it’s 2022, right?” seemed wildly inappropriate, but it was the only thing I could think of, so I kept it to myself.

        “You went to the art school, didn’t you?” Hank asked, breaking the silence.

        I sat up straight as if suddenly called on by a teacher who caught me daydreaming.

        “What? Oh, yeah,” I recalled, blushing slightly. “Yeah, I was there for a little while. It was a little disheartening, to be honest. I didn’t need to learn how to express myself. I needed to learn how to make a career as an artist.”

        “So, now you own a coffee shop?” Hank asked with a soft chuckle.

        “Life gives you what you need even if it isn’t necessarily what you want,” I replied solemnly. “It was my aunt’s place. She left to me when she died. I was going to sell it, but didn’t have the heart. I kind of grew up there. Now, I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

        Hank took another bite of his croissant and arched an eyebrow that seemed to communicate “Your work?” I shook my head.

        “I’m no good with puff pastry,” I explained. “That’s Antoinette, my Irish kitchen-witch. I’m cakes, cookies and pies.”

        Hank nodded. “Ah…”

        He took a long, slow sip of his coffee and watched me pensively.

        “You know, I think I remember seeing you when you were little. Didn’t you play Santa’s Elf for the café’s Christmas family brunch?”

        My eyes shot wide open. I was amazed that anyone remembered that. I nodded wordlessly, embarrassed. I wasn’t supposed to be the elf, but the girl who was supposed to do it quit a week before and I was the only person who could fit in the costume. I was only about ten-years-old at the time, but I was tall and had started developing early. Be it suffice to say, I did not look like a ten-year-old girl.  It was not my proudest moment.

        Hank laughed heartily. “I though that was you! I was Santa!”

        “You were not!” I blurted out. How did I not know that?

        “I most certainly was. I’ll prove it. Ask me what I gave you for being my helper,” he challenged.

        “Okay, wise-guy. What did you give me?” I asked as instructed. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure I remembered.

        “A porcelain unicorn with green hair. I remember because your aunt told me your favorite color and that you were going through a unicorn phase. A box of chocolates that I recall telling you to share with your kid brother, though I doubt you did.”

        He paused to give me a playful, but knowing glare. I turned bright red. I inhaled the entire box as soon as I got home. How did he know?

        “And finally,” he continued, “a crisp, brand new twenty-dollar bill.”

        Covering my face with my hands, I groaned. I knew the odds that our paths had crossed before were pretty good, but this was humiliating. I quietly thanked the Goddess that Hank wasn’t a dirty old man.

        “You’re not going to believe this,” I told him, “but I still have the unicorn and the twenty.”

        “Are you serious?”

        “Yes, sir. The unicorn is sitting on a shelf in my living room and the money has been kept in an old peppermint tin, safely tucked away. Honestly, I just could never think of anything to spend it on.”

        Hank let loose a gut busting belly laugh. In that moment I had to concede that he most certainly fit the part of Santa. It seemed strange, though. In all the years of watching him come and go from this cramped little office, he never gave off an aura of joviality. He always seemed quite sad.

    I sat for another half hour with Hank, reminiscing about how the town used to look and some of the characters that used to wander in and out of our lives. Hank seemed to remember more of my childhood than I did.

 

        I left Hank with a hug and the rest of the pastries and headed back to work. An inexplicable warm feeling enveloped me as I crossed the street that kept the cold at bay. My curious employees had a million questions about the old man across the street. At the mention of the Christmas brunch Angela, one of the young baristas, jumped up and grabbed a framed newspaper clopping off the wall.

        “I can’t believe that’s you,” she exclaimed as she passed the photo around to the rest of the team.

        Sure enough, there we were. Ten-year-old me, Hank and Aunt Laurie. The local paper had covered the brunch.

        Kyle, my nineteen-year-old sidekick, let out a long, slow whistle. “Damn, Boss. Nice legs.”

        “Look at the date on the article, smartass,” I growled.

        “December 15,” he read aloud, “1990? How old are you?”

        “Well, I was ten in that picture. You can do the math from there,” I scolded, taking the framed article from him and taking it back to its place on the wall.

        “She really is a witch” someone whispered.

        “Yes,” I said, “but that has nothing to with it.”

 

        I paid Hank another visit the next day and every day after that for the next two weeks. I found out flavored coffees were a guilty pleasure of his, so I started bringing him a chocolate raspberry coffee I reserved for myself and the crew. With Thanksgiving and the winter holidays coming up, our conversations turned to family.

        Old Hank and I had more in common than I could have ever imagined. Like me, he had never married or had kids. He had a bunch of nieces and nephews looking in on him from time to time, but he was on his own.

        “I’m going to California for Thanksgiving this year,” he announced one Friday. “My youngest nephew invited me out. He just became a grandpa a few months ago.”

        “When are you heading out?” I asked.

        “Monday” he answered simply. “You’ve given me a lot to think about lately. I think I deserve a vacation.”

        “So, you’re going to play tourist for a few days before. Sounds good,” I affirmed.

        “Who’s playing?” he laughed. “I’ve never been to California. I want to have some fun.”

        We laughed and talked more about our respective holiday plans.

        “Are you going start doing the Christmas brunch again?” Hank asked, finishing up a cherry-cheese Danish.

        “Well, La Corona still makes me nervous,” I said. “I guess if we’re extra careful, I could do it. Why? You itching to get back in the red suit?”

        “Maybe,” Hank said with a wry smile.

        We finished our breakfast and hugged. Before going back to work, I told Hank to have a safe trip. I even gave him my phone number and told him to call me if he ever needed anything. I soon found myself wondering if he even had a cell phone.

 

        The weekend was uneventful. Unlike me, Hank didn’t work weekends. I talked to my team about the possibility of doing the Christmas brunch this year.

        “Only if you wear that elf costume,” Kyle teased.

        “How about you play the elf?” I suggested with a scowl.

        “I think it might be nice,” Angela offered. “We all need a little normal these days.”

        “Language…” I purred.

        “You know what I mean. Between the virus and two election cycles rife with crazy, we need a break. It would be good for the community.”

        “Maybe we could do face painting?” A voice came from the back.

        Tasha, the new girl, popped her head out of the door. Her bright green eyes sparkled the possibility of showing off her skills as a make-up artist. Her smile was infectious.

        “I’ll talk it over with Hank,” I began. “We’ll figure out a good time and then we can all plan. Sound good?”

        The whole team nodded and went back to their opening duties.

 

        Monday morning came and I was surprised to see Hank opening up shop. I thought he’d at least be on his way to the airport if not already wheels-up. Concerned, I asked Antoinette to keep an eye on things while I ran across the street.

        I got to the door and noticed the lights were still off. I gave the door a light pull and it didn’t budge. I pulled again and still no give. It was still locked. This was strange. I know I saw Hank.

        “Maybe you’re just so to seeing him that your brain filled in the blank,” Antoinette suggested.

        “Could be,” I agreed, nodding.

        I kept my eyes open for Hank all day. Tuesday morning was repeat of Monday. Hank walked into the office, but the lights stayed off and the door was locked. I tried calling his office phone, but my calls went to an answering service. I hoped he would at least call for his messages and he’d let me know what was going on.

        Wednesday afternoon, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but assuming it was Hank I chose not to let it go to voicemail.

        “Hey, Hank! What’s going on? You’ve got me a little nervous.”

        “I’m sorry,” said a young woman’s voice. “This isn’t Hank. May I ask how you know my uncle?”

        “Uncle? Oh, you must be one of the nieces. Sorry, I’m April. I run the café across from your uncle’s office. We’re friends. Is he okay?”

        I heard the sharp intake of breath. A messenger bracing to give bad news. My heart automatically began pounding.

        “I’m so sorry, April. Um… Hank passed away.”

        “Passed away? When? I just saw him yesterday going into his office.”

        “I don’t think so. Hank died Sunday night.”

        My legs went out from under me. How? How could this be possible? I know what I saw.

        “April?” the young woman called after too long a silence.

        “Are you sure he died Sunday night?” I asked.

        “I showed up at his house Monday morning. I was supposed to drive him to the airport. He didn’t answer the door so I let myself in. He was already cold when I found him.”

        “I am so sorry,” I sighed, trying not to cry. “I’m sorry you had to find him. May I ask you a question?”

        “Sure,” she said.

    “What made you call me?”

        “I was going through the contacts on Hank’s phone and I came across a weird name. My curiosity got the better of me.”

        “April isn’t that strange a name,” I observed.

        “No, but Santa’s Helper is.”

        “Santa’s Helper,” I repeated. “Oh, Hank…”

        “Look, um, the wake is tonight, if you can make it. We’re holding the funeral on Friday. I’ll text you with the details, okay?”

        “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

        I disconnected the call and stared off into space in my office. If Hank was dead, who had I seen unlocking his office door?