Coffee and Sugar

by C. Sean McGee

CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Sorry sir, I promise it won’t happen again,” said Joao, his honesty secreting like a fevered sweat.

  “Don’t apologise and don’t call me sir. What were you raised on a shooting range?” said Fatts with his enormous hands pressed against his state wide hips.

  “I’m just being polite,” said Joao.

  “It’s not polite to make people feel uncomfortable. I don’t want you to lick me with your discipline. Relax a bit. We don’t call anyone sir here, except maybe them” he said, pointing out to the small group of police officers walking down the road with their automatic penises loaded in their hands and their berets, tight against their foreheads, cutting off the blood to their rationale and reason while their eyes busied themselves, carving trouble out of the ordinary.

  “Yes sir, sorry,” said Joao watching the uniformed men walk past and feeling a sensation that felt like the anti of secure, creep and tingle its way against his spine.

  “So you have Darwinian hands. That’s ok. Just gotta keep you away from anything fragile. Sweep up the broken glass and take the mop to the floors when you’re done. We’ll start your learning from the ground up. Don’t worry. They’re just plates and cups. Smile a bit more, that’s why I hired you. Sure as hell wasn’t for your good lucks or equilibrium” said Fatts laughing.

  Joao did as Fatts said and relaxed to a certain degree though disappointment had always been the diagnosis of his potential, echoed incessantly by his siblings, his gargantuan displeasing mother and his drunken self-concerning father.

  If all you had ever heard was that up was down and left and right for the entire of your life, it would be very hard to take the kind grace of a smiling stranger who; to make your failings seem less fated and tenured, sang like a silenced conscious voice of reason, the contrary to a lifetime of dictated truth.

  It sounded sweet and assailing, but it would take a lot more than a few kind and opposing ideas to lift the dogmatic knee from the bruised and crippling back of his stunted and irretrievable self-belief.

  So Joao smiled momentarily as if a blind man had heard the hooves of a donkey and called it a horse; it sounded pleasant upon the second it was spoken but it wasn’t true and the second the donkey saw its own reflection; in the instance of his dunce, it would again kick its idle temperament and assume a lesser role.

  And momentarily he did smile, adoring the title of useful, belonging and apt, even though he knew; like an apology or a well-wishing, it was just a learned polite behavior on behalf of the kind fat man and there was no greater truth in what he had said than what he had heard repeatedly throughout his life so though it felt grand dressing in a king’s clothes, they were not his and it would be more conciliating to return the title than to have it taken away, knowing that the higher he perched upon the throne, the further he would fall into acquainted disapproval.

  Joao picked up the pieces of glass and ceramic and he thought of his father and how it seemed that his dreams were just as fragile and how this city was just as reckless and inadvertent to a man’s hopes and expectations as he was to a round dinner plate and he saw in his hands, the shattered soul of his father crawling out from beneath the blue petals of the fragmented flowers that stretched across a thousand shards of broken plate.

  “Where’s Fatts,” said a voice booming over his head as he crouched over the broken shards sweeping them into his hands and with the tip of his index finger, pressing lightly against the infinitesimal shards, lifting them from the cold tiles like sugar from a bun.

  Joao looked upwards and saw one of the uniformed men standing above him with one hand on a pistol strapped to his hip and the other making a fist and pressed against the side of his body.

  Behind the man were two other men facing out to the street, holding their weapons fast as their eyes targeted every man, woman, child and stray dog that wandered listlessly past the entrance to the café.

  “He’s in there,” said Joao pointing with a tilt of his head to the staff door.

  The uniformed man walked over Joao and into the staff room with his right hand clenched firmly on the handle of his gun and the right finger gently flicking at the leather strap which locked the gun into place. Joao watched his index finger stroking at the tip of the leather strap delicately as he walked away. The other two uniformed men stayed by the front of the store, their eyes still carving trouble out of perceived normality.

  “Coffee please,” said a woman’s voice from behind the counter.

  Joao didn’t respond. His focus was on his task which was to clear the broken plate and to mop the grease and beer laden floor.

  “Hey you. You work here? Can I have a coffee or not? I haven’t got all day. I have to meet someone important. Are you stupid? Come one” yelled The Nervous Lady at the counter.

  Joao wasn’t sure what to do. Fatts was back in the staff room with the uniformed man and he wasn’t even sure if that was good or not because the man looked very serious and was masturbating his gun strap. And Fatts was clear that he wasn’t to talk to or serve any customers at all but still, she looked upset and coffee Joao knew.

  “Good afternoon mam, can I help you?’ he said taking a post behind the counter, his senses creeping over his shoulder to watch for Fatts bursting through the doors and sketching him in reprimand.

  “Coffee and strong,” The Nervous Lady said. “I’ve had a hard day. I’m meeting someone.”

  “OK,” said Joao.

  “Can you bring it to me? I want to sit over there in the corner near the television. I’m meeting someone” she said.

  “Ok mam,” said Joao politely.

  When the woman sat down, Joao took a moment to disguise himself from reality, detach from his conscious tidings and travel into The Nervous Lady’s conscious mind, to attest to her worries and her burdens and then dive into the emotional dam of her subconscious fears and loves.

  Joao ignored the giant vat beside him full of steaming coffee, a cruel ordinaire mix of blunt dark liquid and intoxicating sweet sugar where; with every sip, the lining in one’s stomach tore, along with the enamel in their teeth.

  Instead, he took a filter from a nearby drawer that he had seen and placed it over a small cup. While he stared at the fidgety woman who was busily defining the right position of her chair at her table, his fingers pressed perceptively into the fine coffee powder by his side, pinching grain by grain at the effect of her struggle.

  He watched her nervously place the seat in front of her at varying angles around the table. She sat with her knees pinned and her hands folded over one another and pretended to dip her head in faint humoring approval of something that had been said in the delusion she was playing out in her mind, passing her hands over her shy smile as if to modestly brush off her imaginary lover’s bridging compliment, fanning the warm air that touched her moistened red lips.

  Then; as if someone had pulled on her uncertainty thread, her thoughts seemingly convulsed as her neck lightly twitched and her fingers wriggled and writhed in some scheming dance as she lifted herself to slide the chair opposite a half a degree to the right and then she sat back down and smiled in modest approval to the imaginations in her head.

  While taking grain by grain with his fingers and placing them into the beige filter sitting precariously above a blue floral ceramic cup, Joao watched The Nervous Lady and focused on her face and especially how it tightened when she appeared most comfortable.

  He imagined what her struggle must be like, every morning of her life; waking to find everything from the day had moved one zillionth of a degree out of place and having to spend the rest of the day before finding what it was that was actually out of place and wanting to, no, obsessively needing to, put it back where it belonged; but never knowing that in truth, every morning she woke up one zillionth of a degree further from her own perspective and that the change she couldn’t make, was inside herself.

  He thought about The Nervous Lady putting on her makeup and imagined that while she sat in front
of her antique mirror; paralyzed in the painting of perfection and symmetry on her pouting lips, behind her, a clock’s hands raced around so that only a greyish blur was visible against the numbers as if a tiny stroke of her hand had seen days, months or even years pass it by.

  He imagined then, as The Nervous Lady pouted and kissed the air, she lifting herself from her satin lined stool and upon passing her reflection in a window on the street, seeing that she had missed the tiniest and most invisible speck of colour near the corner of her lip. He imagined her heart beating frantically, a sea of rage washing upon her conscious shore, sirens sounding in her ears and everyone in the whole world, obviously drawn to this stupid mistake.

  As his fingers picked at the grains and placed them almost one by one into the filter, his imagining turned to The Nervous Lady in a room, seated at a table no different than she did right now, just an inch or two in front of him, except there were no passers-by, there were no other tables and there was no busy bustle as the many scents of vibrancy shuffled about in hurried flight. She was sitting at a table much like she was now and at the table; which was grand enough for another eleven guests, there were places and plates and glasses with wine set and arranged in front of every chair.

  Around her; on the ceiling and hanging from the walls, were lines of coloured string tied with helium balloons that threatened to lift up and out of the room should her gallant expectation lift the roof off her house. Along the wall that lined the dining table was a large sheet of paper that read ‘Congratulations’ and The Nervous Lady sat alone, focused on arranging the napkin beneath her plate, moving it left and right and turning it round and round as silence filled every glass and emptiness attended to every place set out.

  And the silence was eventually broken as she lifted her eyes to the mirror that sat on the wall opposite and looking at her own saddened smile, she clapped her hands and sang happy birthday, cheering her own celebration.

  And she when she was done, she neatly packed up every plate and every glass and put away the presents she had bought for herself; an expensive pen, an organizer, a Miles Davis CD and lace lingerie.

  And when everything was neat and ordered again; putting every back one zillionth of a degree, she dressed in her Victorian nighty; the white one that wrapped around her neck like a strangler’s kiss and drew absence on her sex as it pulled like a curtain over the length of her body.

  And she went to bed.

  Alone.

  When he pulled himself from what he imagined was her struggle, the filter before him was already being watered like a delicate flower by his hand, it, pouring hot water gently over the fine handpicked grains, swishing the water over the sides so as to pull the thick clumps of coffee into the centre and ensuring that every tear from her soul, passed through her struggle.

  Joao threw himself into The Nervous Lady’s glare again as his fingers pressed into the nearby container of sugar and he touched and moved each grain, his fingers working like tentacles to find the sweetness that resembled the smile that etched on her face every time she caught a pair of men’s shoes edging from the crack in the window to the entrance to the café where her heart beat with wanton expectation; she, perched upon her desire like a thief upon a fleeting moment.

  Joao caught this moment before it turned into something else and he captured the grains of sugar that most felt like this and he put each grain into the cup and allowed them to slowly sink and dissolve into the coffee, caring not to stir the delicate dance of nature.

  “Here you are mam. I apologise for taking so long, but something like this should not be rushed. I hope you enjoy” said Joao, humbly stepping away behind the counter.

  “Thank you,” she said politely, taking the cup and placing it between her hands on the table while she continued to receive imaginary compliments from the imaginary man seated in front of her.

  “Joao. Did you just serve a client? I thought I asked you to mop these floors?” said Fatts, coming back from his secret meeting, looking flustered and vetted by his encounter with the uniformed man.

  “Yes, I’m sorry sir it’s just she…”

  “What did I tell you about formality? Listen until you get a feel for this place I don’t want you to worry about having to deal with the customers ok? I’m not mad Joao. Not at all. I wish half of my workers had your gusto, it’s just, for the moment you’re like a newborn in his own skin, you haven’t quite found your legs yet. Let’s just give it some time. Did you make a coffee by hand? You know the vat here is full of coffee; you could have it out in half a second. We don’t do it by hand. It’s too slow and…”

  “Sir,” said The Nervous Lady, “I just wanted to say that this is the most wonderful coffee I have ever had in my life. It feels like I am hugging myself from the inside. You’re boy there is an artist” she said.

  “Do you mind?” asked Fatts with his hand outstretched asking to try some of the coffee.

  “God that’s awful” he yelled, spitting out the coffee onto the table.

  “Sorry about that, just it was very bitter and it has an after taste. It’s umm, I don’t know, just… I’m really sorry; I’ll pour you another one on the house”

  “No, it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Like seeing my own reflection when the summer rain washes over my living room window. Thank you. I haven’t felt like this in some time. Would you tell the boy thank you for me?” asked The Nervous Lady.

  “Sure, no problems,” said Fatts, smiling estranged and affected as The Nervous Lady stepped tentatively over the high curb at the entrance and then made her way down the bustling street and then she was gone, for another day.

  Fatts stood behind the counter looking at the filter and scratching his head. The coffee tasted terrible but who was he to argue with what someone else believed to be true. He walked over to where Joao was affixing the broken handle of a broom to the bent nails that stuck out from the mop head to hold it in place.

  “It’s tricky,” he said, “You have to kind of wedge it in there. You know that woman comes in here every day at the same time and sits at the same table being the same amount of weird. This is the first time I have ever gotten anything out of her other than a couple of bucks tied to a string of complaints. Good one. Mop up here and then we’ll round up the day. We can talk about that advance” said Fatts cheerfully.

  “Thank you Mr. Fatts,” said Joao, pushing the broom into the nails so that they wedged around the stick and held it enough to the mop head so he could do his work.

  Joao was happy. He had never received a compliment before for his work and especially not for his coffee. He wanted to rush out onto the street and tell someone or anyone what had happened. He really wished he had someone to tell but he didn’t and the thought of this alone was enough to desiccate the good vibes that were gingerly raining down upon him.

  His father was locked behind a curtain and his brethren were far away attending to the turning of soil, the milking of cows and the tiring of oxen. Even if they were here, they would have probably been looking in a different direction.

  As he pushed away on the handle, his eyes married the checkered tiles that lined out before him; eyeing off every scratch and fleck of dirt that his hands would lead to and wash away, throwing his left leg down into the ground and pushing with his two hands into the handle moving like a hurricane through a wooden village, picking every scrap up in his wake and pulling into its centre.

  As he swung the mop left and right, he watched the feet of the customers tapping about, singing out some song or pent expectation they imprisoned in their heads.

  Then his eyes caught wind to fire.

  Watching the floor beyond his reach, he saw a hand reach down into a bag that wasn’t its, stay a moment inside and then vanish quickly. Joao followed the hand upwards and saw in an instant too late, the image of a dark haired girl running out of the café, her hair swishing about in the mix of warm breeze and desperate flight.

  Joao dropped the mop and ran out the door after
the girl, apologizing as he pushed past old women and men on crutches and he pushed and shoved until at the end of the street he folded over himself, his hands pressed at his sides and his lungs, working beyond their capacity to slow his heart and shallow his breath.

  “You’re slow,” said a familiar voice behind him.

  Joao couldn’t speak.

  He tilted his head to the right and saw the dark haired thief standing beside him with her arms folded over her chest. She was smiling with her left leg pulled up so that the sole of her foot pressed on the wall while her right was straight against the ground and her body was arched kind of funny so that she was leaning only her shoulder blades against the crème wall.

  “You have to try harder if you wanna get me,” she said.

  “Charity?” asked Joao struggling for breath.

  “Yep. What you thought you’d never see me again? You gave up on me that quickly? I thought we were friends” she said.

  “We are, I mean I didn’t, I mean I was, I mean… Did you steal something from that person in the café? I saw your hand and you ran from me. Are you a thief?” Joao asked.

  “It’s nice to see you too,” she said, leaning downwards to kiss Joao on the cheek.

  The second her lips touched his cheek he felt his lungs deflate; absolved of air. And his soul exploded again, into a billion particles that swarmed around his chest, threatening to burst out and ignite the air that surrounded him. He went red immediately, looking like a stretched out tomato as he fought for air to usher out the embarrassment that flustered about his face and beat; like an eagle’s wings, in his heart.

  What a wonderful feeling.

  “Do you have to go back to work right now?” asked Charity.

  “It’s my first day. It’ll be bad if I don’t. I have to mop the floors. Mr. Fatts likes them real clean. Why?” Joao asked.

  “I thought maybe we could go for a walk. There’s a nice park a few blocks over. I know this spot that’s real secluded. Nobody goes there. It’s really nice to be alone. Thought maybe you’d want to go there with me and hang out, but if you have to work, then…” she said coyly, rolling her finger in her air as she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, calling Joao to sensual indecision.

  “Yeah, I have to work,” he said. “Too bad.”

  “O…k,” she said, kind of shocked. ”I guess I’ll see you round.”

  “I did a good job today” shouted Joao as Charity walked away.

  “I know. I saw. I still like you, you know. Even when you brush me off” she said, speaking over her left shoulder, her voice trailing away with her shadow behind the corner of a building and then lost; like a tear taken in a flood, amidst the flux of hurried people all pushing against one another in their fight to be one step ahead of everyone else.