The London Telegraph

We get a lot of cops at work. Not uniformed—the cops downtown work at headquarters, a shirt-and-tie affair. But you can tell they’re packing even in their suits. They are great people. Working day shifts lets me avoid the snobby hipsters that crowd the café at night (and their attempts to order frappucinos in venti sizes) and meet the daytime regulars.

I thought it was a bit strange when the two cops who show up around nine o’ clock came in at eight. They walked behind the counter, directly to my manager. I thought it was a joke; she thought it was a joke.

‘This is serious,’ Al said.

I didn’t think too much of it until I was heading into the kitchen and saw my supervisor crying. My manager was absent-mindedly wiping crumbs from the toaster and cutting boards. I knew someone had died. The manner in which they told them was very familiar to me.

One of the regulars, Don, died last night around sunset. His body was pulled from the River. I heard mention of an autopsy and heard preliminary speculation of what had happened. Gossip. An aneurysm, or a heart attack while he rode his bike on the waterfront, like he always did, taking photos. He’d apparently gone over the handlebars. This doesn’t make sense to me.

I had just seen him yesterday. I’d taken his order, poured his coffee. I took his dishes and watched him leave. It was the same as every day, only I didn’t take him his sandwich. He asked for his turkey sandwich a special way, every time he came in. Everyone called it ‘Don’s special sandwich’. I wasn’t privy to what was so special about it. I’d get to know, I thought.

We are not supposed to become emotionally attached to our customers. But it’s impossible not to when you see them every day, ten, fifteen years in a row. I didn’t know Don well. But my seniors did, our regulars did. He was part of the morning family. I am not but it is the fact he was there yesterday and now never will be that itches me. Death is always like this.

I think it will be in the paper tomorrow.