A Nightmare Followed by Coffee

*Part 1 of a serial story of a Christian with a problem.

It would be an exaggeration to say that Grant felt like a kid sitting there in front of the coffee shop, trying to feel less weird about all of this. But it wouldn’t be far off the mark. Had he actually been himself as a kid, he wouldn’t be here to begin with. You couldn’t have gotten child Grant to talk about anything serious or scary or potentially damaging to himself or his family even if you’d offered him front row seats to a Steelers game. He hated any conversation where an adult was trying to get something out of him. And he hated it when adults put on their “I know what’s going on here” face and tried to seem sympathetic. They never did know what was going on. Not in his experience anyway.

Adult Grant was actually here, and in that respect he had a leg up on kid Grant. Adult Grant had sent the email to this guy, filled out the online form the guy had sent back, worked out a time for a first meeting, and then chosen to come even though he was up until 4:00 AM because of how anxious he was about the thing. He’d gone to work dog tired, drank seven cups of coffee throughout the day, fallen asleep for nine minutes on his lunch break, and then come here with his heart beating fast and his palms a little sweaty. He’d set it up so that he could leave work a little early and so probably only be home two hours late. Two hours was a believable trip to the gym, which is what he’d told Dana. The gym. Right.

To say it had started nine days ago with the dream, the nightmare, really, would be true but misleading. Grant had been listless enough, daydreaming and pining for unrealistic things like a six-figure payoff on one of his more outlandish investments that he’d then parlay into early retirement or starting his own business, for over a year. But the nightmare had given him enough of a sense of the reality of this thing (whatever it was) to deal with it. He had Melody and Harmony to think about. They needed their daddy.

So now he got out of the car and looked in through the large glass window. He’d never been to this coffee place before, at least not that he remembered. And he thought he would remember. This wasn’t a neighborhood he was in very often. And while “Better Notes” was a local chain he frequented, this one was designed differently than most. There was no outdoor seating, but there was a decorative overhang above the front entrance. Maybe it used to be something else, Grant thought. Then, stop stalling. He’s probably waiting.

He did stop stalling, though for a few seconds he regretted it. But then for the next ten seconds after he opened the front door to the coffee shop his mind was thick with a different feeling.

There was Steve. He knew it was Steve from the picture on the web site, and from the pictures on his Facebook page and his wife’s Instagram page (Grant wasn’t about to share his innermost self with someone he hadn’t researched). He had the same jet black hair with a few grays mingled in, especially toward the front, parted on the right, and the same suspiciously thick salt-and-pepper mustache. Grant had never trusted mustaches, or rather the men behind them, but since that was the only negative for this guy he’d allowed himself to proceed. He had the same black eyeglasses and slightly tan complexion, and even his smile seemed about right. So it wasn’t anything physical that surprised Grant. Or at least it wasn’t anything that could be communicated visually in a picture on social media and the internet. What surprised him was something in the slowness of Steve’s steps, the unflinching nature of his eye contact, and the fact that the smile gave an air of being thoroughly unrehearsed. To put it concisely, Grant was surprised to be meeting someone he knew almost instantly he would very much like to have been his father. But he didn’t have time to let that surprise stretch its legs much.

“Grant?”

Grant shook Steve’s extended hand. “Good to meet you, Steve,” and he meant it, even though he was still shaken by his quick change of emotions. They ordered coffee together, which Steve paid for, and then they sat at the table he’d saved for them near one of the windows. They’d made several minutes of small talk while the drinks were made, and so Grant felt more at ease by the time he took a seat at the round table near the shop’s side window, looking out into Earnshaw Avenue and, beyond that, the on-ramp to the interstate that would take you southbound into downtown Pittsburgh. It was plenty bright out still, and he felt good being next to the window and the sunlight.

“I guess you want to hear about the dream.”

He had braced himself for it all day. He’d put it on the online form in the box for “Have you had any recent episodes of sleeplessness, panic attacks, or unwanted distressing thoughts?” He’d typed it feeling stupider with each keystroke, hit “Submit” on that page (page 3 of 4) before he could undo it, and had then been scared of a stranger reading it ever since. And when he’d seen Steve’s picture online but hadn’t yet known what kind of man he was, he’d spent the next few days worrying what this man might think or suggest. He was less afraid of Steve being wrong now, now that he knew instinctually there was wisdom and weight with him that corresponded to his credentials, but Grant was still afraid of what he might be told to do. Or who he might be told he really was.

“No,” Steve said. “Let’s start with your prayer life. Can you tell me about the last time you prayed?”

Grant tried looked down at the table, and realized he was more confused than ever.

Part 2 coming soon.