I try to keep my memories of Sam separated into categories of happy and painful. Most days, I try to remember the Sam I used to know, but sometimes, I can’t stop myself from dwelling on his last few months.

No one liked Sam, and it was for good reason. Sam was the man that didn’t look to see if he should hold the door when leaving the coffee shop we used to meet at. Sam was usually quite difficult to get along with—even for me.

But I think the main reason that no one liked Sam was that Sam was a murderer.

God, just thinking that makes me remember how I met Sam.

*****

This story begins a little under three years ago, when I was 14. It was the second week of my freshman year, and I was already entertaining ideas of dropping out of high school and joining the traveling circus. As I sadly trudged to the only place that sold half-decent coffee in my agonizingly small town, I remember thinking about how heavy my homework load was. After pulling a math worksheet and a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird out of my backpack, I let myself wallow in my “heavy homework load” for a few moments before starting on the math worksheet. I was halfway through the third problem when I heard some sort of disturbance behind me.

“Hey! Come on, man!” a younger man yells at a middle-aged man that had just entered the shop. “I was right behind you! Would it have killed you to hold the door for one second?”

The middle-aged man, a shorter guy with short salt-and-pepper hair and an air of arrogance, turned on the young man with a sneer. When the younger guy saw the middle-aged man’s face, he panicked and backed away hurriedly.

The middle-aged man’s shoulders seemed to slump for a second before he turned back toward the counter.

I remember joyfully reveling in that the scene in front of me was more interesting than geometry and keeping my eyes locked on the middle-aged man’s retreating back.

He stopped at the counter.

“Afternoon.” His voice was curt and devoid of any emotion.

The barista, a younger girl, probably a college student, managed a weak smile at him.

“Afternoon, Sam. The usual?”

The middle-aged man—Sam—nodded once, took a dollar and twelve cents out of his pocket, placed it on the counter, and ignored the tip jar before walking alongside the counter toward drink pickup. The barista sighed and scooped the money off the counter.

While Sam waited for his drink, I gave him a once-over. He was fairly short, no taller than 5'7", and looked a little like 1992 Peter Gabriel. The barista poured Sam a cup of coffee. He took it, nodded a thanks, and took a long drink from the steaming paper cup.

“I still don’t know how you drink that black,” the barista remarked.

“I still don’t remember asking your opinion,” Sam shot back to the defeated barista.

At that point, he noticed me staring.

“Did you want something?” he barked, raising his left eyebrow.

“Oh, um, no, sir, sorry,” I stammered, turning my flushed face away from Sam and back to my geometry worksheet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sam nod, seemingly content with the knowledge that he could intimidate complete strangers.

The entire

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