Just Like a Book by Ryan Heinzerling

Thomas reclined in his favorite chair at his favorite coffee shop, waiting for his favorite espresso while reading the New York Times. I bet you know his type. The circular glasses, blond-haired, odd-looking stranger that would poke their head into someone else’s conversation just to rub it in your face that he knew a thing or two about environmentalism. That was Thomas, my classmate. The guy who bragged about his composting. And his 82,000 dollar BMW with fifty miles to the gallon. And his father’s regular donations to the magnificent Princeton or the fact that a fashion model just happened to swing by his house the previous evening. He made it obvious that he was of a higher class, and made sure to remind others that this was not a class they could sign up for. Thomas was that guy, and nobody really liked Thomas. I worked at the coffee joint during my free periods. Free turned out to be a loose term as I was sentenced to share them with Thomas. You spent time with Thomas because you lost something, usually a bet. During school gatherings, Thomas always made an announcement for the “Outdoorsmans Club,” which he used as a way to get the school to fund a ski trip to Beaver Creek every year. A friend of mine lost a bet once and had to awkwardly stand up with Thomas for the next three of his announcements, which, of course, made everyone laugh. Really any association with Thomas stripped you of any dignity you thought you thought you had. I joked with my friends that Thomas liked to forget he was a senior in high school, he was determined to have his midlife crisis before he turned eighteen.

40 Sometimes when I served Thomas his espresso, I imagined what would happen if someone plucked him out of his seat and put him somewhere in the real world. Somewhere his money and father can’t protect him. I’d pretend that his hot coffee is a grenade, the heat of the cup giving way to a concussive blast. I’d like to see what would happen if Thomas roamed around some industrial district, wearing the threepiece suit he wore every day, sticking his nose into someone’s face to ask if they were about to throw their cigarette on the ground. Thomas was the kind of guy you could imagine in just one place: sitting in his coffee shop in Greenwich, CT, while reading his precious New York Times, his left foot perched on his right knee, displaying his always polished leather shoes. “Oh my, these drone strikes in Saudi Arabia are just ghastly. And to think people can be all excited over their stocks or bonds surging as a result. It’s inhuman I say, inhuman!” Thomas loudly dramatized to an empty coffee shop. “Oh really, Thomas? Please, tell me more,” I’d respond hoping to entertain myself, only to consistently regret it, as his squeaky voice echoes through my head. “Haven’t you seen? Our barbaric military is at it again. Killing people in caves. You really ought to read the Times more and stop being a lowlife,” he spat, turning away from me. It was this type of interaction that promoted a serious desire to knock that damned coffee cup out of his hands all over that precious suit of his. People like Thomas don’t tend to escape their little bubbles so easily, if at all. You know these types. The people that have some connection to an Ivy League school, own a multi-million dollar home, or wear the same smug look on their face that says one thing: “I’m better than you.” I wasn’t one of those people. My parents grew up on the less flashy, more normal side of

41 town, and stayed for the peace and quiet. We didn’t have what Thomas frequently reminded us he did, although we wouldn’t have complained if we did. Thomas had everything while I worked in my coffee shop helping pay the bills. I remember when Thomas seemed human, back when we were really young, say five or six. Thomas was just an ordinary kid, we all were. Nobody knew what status or wealth or any of it meant, so we just lived. Just existed, plainly. Then soon enough, we started noticing that Thomas stopped worrying about living and started worrying about flaunting. But all that was a long time ago, and this is Thomas’s story now. One particular day, Thomas missed his daily coffee. I was stunned For 472 days (I later counted), Thomas had come to get his coffee and recline in his chair with the paper. I kind of hoped that even now he would waltz into his seat, having grown accustomed to the consistency of Thomas’s disgusting presence in the room. In fact, Thomas missed an entire week of coffee, and I didn’t catch him in school. This was highly unusual, given that Thomas attended school religiously. When I walked over to the college office for a regular meeting with my counselor, I noticed something odd on the list of matriculated students. I nearly dropped my books when I saw the college next to his name: United States Naval Academy. I immediately assume people like Thomas must be gaming something if they go into the Navy, right? I mean, why on earth would Thomas Lockett’s parents ever want their son to be shot at? They were folks you’d expect to be draft dodgers, like in Vietnam with the “pack up and hustle to Canada” attitude. The math just didn’t add up. As I saddled up my barista uniform and went to work that day, by chance, Thomas walked in, looking particularly grim. I walked towards him, not bothering to grab a pen since I knew his order so

42 well. But he waved me away, saying: “No, not now, please. I’ll just need a table for awhile if that’s alright.” Oh, what a snob. A table for awhile? That’s just downright robbery if you ask me, robbing us blind of cash. Regardless of Thomas’s loyalty to the business, I thought it rude of him to occupy our best table right by the window, with its beautiful view of the glistening Long Island Sound. I continued my busy shift, sparing few thoughts for little old Thomas in the corner. He kept grabbing my attention though, tapping his foot or finger endlessly. Some people just can’t help but make sure that everyone in the room knows damn well that they’re there. I had a double free, and decided to work an extra hour since I needed the money to pay off the car I bought myself, a Ford Mustang if I’m telling the truth. Thomas just sat on through, watching the sun begin its transition off the world’s stage. It was a truly beautiful day. The wind was cool, fish jumped in the silvery water, and boats glided by while Thomas watched the world unfold. “Is there a Grace here? Cappuccino for Grace?” I asked the coffee shop. Only the wind answered, blowing in through the windows. Thomas sat as still as stone, so I walked over and placed it down. “There you go Thomas, a nice warm coffee.” He jumped as I placed it down. “For...me? I didn’t order.” “Well, it’s your lucky day. Coffee on the house,” I replied. He looked confused but forced a smile. “Anything else?” I prodded. “No, thank you. Well, there is one thing...but no, I, well, maybe.”

43

I asked, “What do you want Thomas?” “I know we aren’t close,” he continued. “But I think, yes, yes I would, do you fancy a conversation?” “About?” “Just some...things?” “Sure, but there are customers in here too, you know,” I replied. “Splendid! I’m sure you’ve seen that I will be attending the Naval Academy,” he pushed on. “What of it?” “I do not wish to go.” “So you’re dragging me into this, your coffee barista, a lowlife like myself? I’m getting back to work,” I replied. “No please. I’m begging you. He’s making me,” Thomas pleaded. “Who on earth would make you attend the Naval Academy?” “Father. Well, he, yes, he makes me call him Father.” “Your dad is making you go?” I asked. I noticed his hand twitching under the table, reaching for his bag. Drops of sweat hit the ground around it as I was about to ask another question. “Yes, well, I should be going now. See you later, friend.” With that, he got up and shoved past me. Later? I didn’t really want to discuss any of this later. When I stepped into my car to drive home, I couldn’t stop wondering why I had to be the one to learn this sort of worthless problem. Thomas walked alone, head hung low, while I drove past him. Was he really a fraud? Did I actually peg Thomas for the crook I made him out to be? I felt so vindicated, but almost felt bad for him. Almost. Another week passed before I ran into Thomas again.

44 My car broke down, so I was walking to the coffee shop when I spotted him sitting on a park bench. I tried to walk past, but he bounced up, rushing to see me. “Hello, Thomas,” I droned. “Hello, friend!” “Going to the coffee shop?” “Yes, I am. I was hoping you’d tell me your opinion on my whole, you know, situation,” he said. “What? Your college situation?” “Yes, my father isn’t happy that I asked him not to go. He’s best friends with the Superintendent.” “Why would your dad be mad? Does he not feel that fatherly connection to you?” “Well, neither my father nor my mother are related to me. You have it easy, having a stable job, working to go to a college you want to go to. I could have been like you, instead, I’ve been made into me. I...I wish I could have it as easy as you have it. But instead Father and Mother made me who they wanted me to be.” “They made you?” I said. “They love me, I can’t complain. They’ve given me everything I need. A house, food, money, education. But they want me to be the spitting image of them, a perfect heir. Sometimes, it feels like I’m almost...a fraud. I know this is all hard to believe,” he explained. “I should probably stop talking before I say something my parents wouldn’t want me to say, or you stop wanting to know more, haha.” “Thomas just tell your parents you have a right to choose your own school.” “He would hit me across the face. I am trapped,” he finished. “Well, I’m sorry, Thomas, but I don’t see how I can help

45 you.”

“I know. I just wanted to be heard for once, that’s all,” he sighed. With that, Thomas pranced away, leaving me standing speechless in the street. I heard him exclaim that there was a candy wrapper on the ground and that he must be the one to salvage it from the streets and place it in a lovely trash can. You, the reader, that is, must be wondering why I wrote this story. What do I have to gain from something like this? Honestly, sometimes it’s just fun to make fun of someone like Thomas who deserves to be laughed at, exposed, ridiculed, and shown to the world. Someone so despicable that even in their most honest hour, you can’t help but laugh. I laughed at Thomas too, even after he got praised at Graduation for having the bravery to go into the Navy. I laughed when his name was printed in the town paper as the “Hero of Greenwich,” and got regular updates on his time at college. I even laughed when Thomas wrote an Op-Ed for the Greenwich Times about the responsibility of a sailor on the Seven Seas. I, on the other hand, was busy being away at college, working odd jobs to pay for tuition. Thomas was the pictureperfect Navy man while I kept working at the same coffee shop, thinking about what to do with my life after I graduated from college. My girlfriend Heather and I had plans to move in together, as Thomas was preparing for his active duty in the Mediterranean Sea. Every time Thomas wrote an oped, we would read it and laugh, thinking about what a fake Thomas was. On my wedding day, I read another op-ed in the Greenwich Times on the car ride to the reception about his valiant time at sea fighting pirates off the coast of Somalia, shaking my head in disbelief. Thomas was a lie and I knew it. The whole world treated him like a hero, but I knew what he

46 really was. Thomas was no hero. I pitied him for his glory. I laughed at him because he knew he was a lie. But I stopped laughing when I was at the coffee shop and I turned on the news. I wasn’t laughing when his ship was attacked by the Iranians and he was killed while defending the bridge. I sat there in my coffee shop reading about his death, occasionally looking up over the paper to glance at where he would sit, eight years after he had told me everything, and cried for Thomas in the waning sun of a September afternoon.