Wayne is Strange

       
Wayne is strange, they would all say.
    From his corner of the store, sipping his coffee, Wayne could see everyone come and go, for his father always told him,”Always keep your back to the wall or perhaps you’ll end up with a knife in it.” He’d kept those words throughout his life, but at some point had failed them.
    Every morning, Wayne followed the same routine, for Wayne was a creature of habit, a man plagued by doubts and idiosyncracies. He woke up at six a.m. sharp every morning  and would spend several moments admiring his the trinkets that hung from the ceilings and adorned the old wooden shelves - polished silver robots from the sixties, ventriloquist dolls made for the finest oak, relics of another time. He would then shower and shav, even when there was hardly a stubble. He’d take his comb and run the fine black teeth through his wet hair. He’d spend fifteen minutes each morning perfecting the part in his hair, letting exactly two thirds of it sweep and fall over the side. It would then dry the way he liked it. He’d pull his favorite red wool sweater and polo shirt from the dryer and spend twelve minutes ironing them, the creases immaculate and steamed to perfection. In his dresser drawer, third from the top, he had six pairs of folded brown khaki’s, he’d add one to the ensemble and put away the one from the day before. He only alternated between two particular pairs, even though he had six.
    His mother, Vicki, who was eighty-six now and riddled with ticks and Alzheimer's, would cook him breakfast. She’d poach two eggs and spread butter on a piece of wheat toast, her slender fingers always shaking. He’d wash it down with a glass of orange juice with pulp. Before he left his mother would say,”Have a nice day at school honey.” She’d run a sun-dried hand over his freshly shaven cheek. “And don’t let that Ricky boy beat up on you. You stand up for yourself now, you hear?” Wayne was nearly sixty now but it was inconsequential to Vicki. She still believed he was a boy of twelve, on his way to grade school back in Virginia, unbroken with life’s bumpy road of rocks and potholes still laid out before him like a desert highway waiting to be spied in the rearview mirror.
    He’d drive his mother’s car, a 1992 Corolla, white with bits of rust eating the metal above the windshield. The leather interior was tan and worn and the car still had a tape deck player. He’d listen to a little Creedence Clearwater Revival, the only tape he still owned, as he roamed the meagar three blocks to the coffee shop.
    Once inside he’d order a small coffee(they called it a tall here which made no sense to Wayne) and make the only small talk that he knew how. He knew all the employees by name as they did his. Today it was the girl, Marla. She was pretty, young, with brown hair that fell in tangles over her shoulders below her black hat. “Hello, Marla,” he said. “How are you doing today?” He was sure to smile when he asked, for his mother always told him that a smile was the mask you presented to others, no matter if you didn’t feel like smiling. It was what you did. It was polite to smile.
    “I’m okay, Wayne,” she said. Her smile was fake. He could tell. All the smiles were as far as he was concerned, the mask. They thought Wayne was strange he knew, but he wouldn’t let them know he knew. She’d hand him his coffee and he would find his place in the corner, wrap his red wool sweater over the back of the cheap, faux wood chair and sit. This is where the day began for Wayne.
    He would watch as all the people would come and go, rushing to whatever it was they did, whereever it was they went, always in a hurry, always sucking down their caffeine as they passed through the swinging glass doors. He found comfort in this, watching the world move so quickly around him, while he was still and vigil, like an unmovable stone in the middle of rushing river; a fly on the proverbial wall of life.
    Parents moved through the store pushing strollers, women clad in spandex and workout shorts, desperately trying to rescue their bodies from the constricting fingers of motherhood. He found that they often seemed sad, and Wayne found he had a sort of sympathy for them. They seemed so much like his Cynthia, and not, also. But most of all, he found comfort in the passing of children. They were careless, running without looking, smiling without knowing why, laughing without reason to. They had no masks. They had only joy for life that endeared him beyond reason. He smiled when he saw them, his real smile. They reminded him so much of his Lydia, and not, also.
    He knew what the others thought of him and he resented their notions, the words they spoke quietly behind the counter, or on the other side of the room. They said Wayne was strange, that he liked little boys, that was why he smiled so much when he saw them. Their words were painful, but Wayne feigned ignorance to their sharp tongues and spiteful eyes. He wore his mask with pride, sipping his coffee from his corner with his back to the wall, for fear that one day he’d find that knife wedged between his shoulder blades. At least the red of his sweater would hide the blood.