Pedro's Coffee Shop

Pedro flipped the vintage “Open” sign hanging off his coffee shop door and began straightening the tables. The pretty couch cushions were getting old and faded. Eventually he would have to replace them. His wife had picked them out from an estate sale not too long ago. The lamp shades too had faded and turned grey from the dust. He tried to wipe them with the wet cloth in his hand but to no avail. The heat and humidity attacked everything in this area at an aggressive pace. His nice furniture wasn’t going to last much longer.

It had been five years. Five years which felt like a century. The pandemic hit Pedro’s business hard, harder than the last hurricane. Five years ago cruise ships docked at the harbor daily spewing hoards of pale tourists hungry for adventure and exotic flavors. Pedro’s shop had prospered, being strategically situated in the historic part of the capital within walking distance of the harbor. With the profits he had bought a new roasting machine and hired three new employees. These days he was forced to work alone, unable to pay his staff any longer. On busy days he called his young nephew to come and help him with the orders in exchange for cash and tips. Today the WiFi was down and the gringos were complaining. He would have to call his provider early in the morning to sort it out.

Pedro fluffed the last pillow and slumped down on one of the couches. With his eyes closed he breathed in the aroma of freshly roasted coffee which had permeated the place over the years, the most impeccable, balanced and rich formula. For a moment he forgot the pain in his feet, the renovations that he couldn’t afford and the outstanding bills. For a moment he was a boy again running around his grandfather’s coffee plantation and chasing the roaming dogs which always came to collect scraps. Five years which felt like a century. Things just didn’t run smoothly anymore. He felt like an oxen pulling a plow through hard, dry earth. Maybe letting the business fold was the sensible thing to do, but he was afraid to even consider it. His grandfather would turn in his grave. He would have to keep going. Things would return back to normal, he hoped, as long as the cruise ships kept coming.

Pedro closed out the shop and went home. As he sat down in a patio chair on his front porch, he cracked open a beer and put his feet up on the little table. The pain in his lower back reminded him rudely that he wasn’t young any more. He leaned back. It felt good. The frogs and cicadas sang loudly that night and a cool breeze from the ocean had chased all the mosquitoes away.

“Pedro, are you there?” his wife, Maria, opened the front door and peered out from inside the house.

“Yes, dear, what’s wrong?”

Maria looked down and dropped her shoulders. “The power is out again.”

Pedro put his beer on the table and walked around to the back of the house. He opened the cover of their old diesel generator and inspected it. It was rusty.

“Come on, my friend,” he said and turned the ignition key. The engine roared for a few seconds then choked and died. Pedro checked the fuel. It was full. Again he tried to start it unsuccessfully.

His wife had followed him around the corner of the house and was watching from a distance. Pedro’s aching body was squeaking almost as badly as the broken generator.

“It’s OK, Pedro,” Maria motioned for him to come back. “I will use the flashlight. Dinner is almost ready, anyways.”

Pedro looked back at her apologetically. He had promised to fix the generator almost six month ago.

“It’s OK. Don’t worry. When you have free time you will fix it, I know it. It won’t be hard. You always fix everything.” She rested her hand in the middle of his back and led him back to his beer on the patio table.

Even in the evening he couldn’t stop thinking about the business. This is bad, he told himself. He needed to relax. His eyes caught sight of their old rooster. They called him Pancho. Pancho roamed around the yard freely and circled close to the patio at dinner time, looking for crumbs to peck on. He moved his feet carefully and stuck his chest out proudly, completely unaware of his sickly and pathetic appearance. The feathers had fallen out around his neck, leaving it naked and exposed, while his still feathered head sat on top. He looked like the avian version of a freshly groomed poodle. Pedro did not have the heart to kill him, so he was going to let him roam the yard until he died on his own.

“Here, Pedro, I made the bread that you like so much.” Maria placed the dinner plate on the table and sat next to him.

The rooster watched both of them intently for a few moments. Suddenly, he planted both his feet on the ground, stood up as tall as he could and puffed his chest out. His shriveled crown rose up and from the depths of his stomach he let out a long and powerful crow. The sound echoed across the neighborhood. Pedro and his wife looked at each other. Pancho had emptied out his lungs with his last strength and his legs were now shaking with weakness. Pedro glanced at his watch.

“It’s seven in the evening,” he said.

“He’s gone crazy,” Maria noted.

But then out of nowhere, their neighbor’s much younger and healthier rooster responded with his own mighty crow. Then another more distant one followed. Soon the whole neighborhood echoed with the crowing of roosters as if it was early in the morning, all because of Pancho’s beckoning call.

Maria raised her eyebrows. “Who knew, he still had some life left in him!” she exclaimed.

Pedro smiled and tossed some crumbs in Pancho’s direction. The tattered rooster ate them and continued his rounds of the yard with dignity and perhaps a certain level of insanity. Pedro sipped his beer and looked at the horizon. Storm clouds were gathering overhead. The weather channel predicted three inches of rain over the next three days. Perhaps this wasn’t such a bad thing. The gringos liked visiting his coffee shop on rainy days. Tomorrow morning, he was going to call his WiFi provider, then he was going to ask his nephew to come in. This weekend he was going to work on the generator. Maria’s words echoed in his mind like Pancho’s mighty crowing – ‘He still had some life left in him’. Suddenly the lights came back on inside the house and the sound of fans and appliances trickled through the windows once again.