Free Something True by Karelia Stetz-Waters Page A

incredibly poised. It was a little unnerving in fact; Tate had never seen anyone have such good posture for such a prolonged period of time. Meanwhile, Dayton complained like a boy on a dull field trip, and Craig pointed out a dozen flaws in every café they visited.
    Finally, around six p.m., as they sat in Rimsky-Korsakoffee House, Craig said, “I appreciate your effort.” He did not sound like he appreciated it at all. “But we have studied the Portland food and beverage market. That’s what we do. We wouldn’t move forward on a project like this without understanding the city. We know there are 493 independent coffee shops and kiosks, and 615 chain-operated and franchise coffee purveyors. Coffee amounts to 12 percent of the food profits. We also know that there are only 91 dedicated sandwich shops and those bring in an average of $49,000 a year profit, but we know the chains are the leaders by far, pulling the average up by almost 200 percent.”
    â€œYeah. We know all this already,” Dayton chimed in, looking up from his phone.
    Tate glanced at Laura. She said nothing, but her eyes concurred. Tate had wasted their time.
    â€œOkay,” Tate said. “One more stop, and then I’ll let you go for tonight.”
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    Tate was pleased when she paused in front of the Pied Cow, and Craig and Dayton looked confused. Laura looked up at the vine-covered Victorian house.
    â€œIn here?” Laura asked.
    Tate nodded.
    Inside they were greeted by an entryway lined with Elvis busts, baby-doll heads, and glowing religious art from all faiths but particularly those that featured gods with extra extremities. Tate led them through the house and into the garden out back. The ground was covered in damp Persian rugs. Cold fire pits dotted the area, waiting for the fall days when customers would cluster around their warmth. That night, the only smoke came from an ornate hookah smoked, simultaneously, by three old men, each connected to the hookah by a pipe stem on a flexible tube. Craig coughed.
    â€œHere, sit.” Tate smiled at the waitress who was clearing a table. “Could we have four bowls of kava?”
    The waitress returned her smile, and, a moment later, came back with a tray balanced on her shoulder. She placed four mismatched bowls before them.
    â€œThis looks like dishwater,” Dayton complained. “There’s a twig in mine.”
    â€œThat’s the kava,” the waitress said. “We start by pulping the roots, then we steep them in water until they form the milk. It’s a Polynesian tradition. You’re supposed to drink it with friends. It relaxes you.”
    Again, the waitress smiled at Tate. She was cute, Tate thought, in a fresh, wholesome way that suggested she biked everywhere and ate vegan. Tate recalled all Vita’s outrageous encouragement. You’ve got that butch magnetism. Do you know who I would kill for your jawline?
    Tate flashed a smile at the girl. It felt awkward, but the girl put her hand on Tate’s shoulder.
    â€œSome people even say it’s an aphrodisiac,” the waitress added.
    Tate wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw Laura’s excellent posture stiffen.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” Tate asked the waitress.
    â€œLeaf.”
    Of course it was.
    â€œDo you have any books here, Leaf? A couple of books you could loan us to read while we enjoy our kava?”
    â€œThere’s a box of books customers left behind.”
    â€œThat would be perfect.”
    Dayton lifted the kava to his lips, then spat it on the dirt.
    â€œIt’s warm, and it tastes like sawdust,” he protested. “Is this like some reality TV show? Like where’s the fucking camera?”
    Craig pushed his away.
    Laura took her bowl in both hands and took a deep gulp. Her face said skim milk and sawdust , but she said, “It’s a cultural experience. Drink it.”
    Leaf reappeared with a cardboard box