Coffee and Sugar

by C. Sean McGee

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Hey, there handsome, you wanna get away?”

  Joao was exhausted.

  The days were so long and every minute seemed like it had a whole week stacked upon its back. In his brief moments of rest, he allowed himself to drift off into light dream, keeping his eyes open and alert, seeing the patrons passing through the doors but seeing them more as a heavy wind, brushing past his window for they all moved about in sight but without form and without face, the effect of their being and their passing seen in the filling of cups, the moving of chairs and like that strong breeze blowing about fallen leaves and loose brush, the creating of mess as papers, napkins and wrappers piled up on the floor and then moved from place to place, kicked about by busied feet.

  And so he continued to stare at the blurring lines of colour and shade.

  “Wakey, wakey” spoke a girl’s voice, a soothing girl’s voice, clicking her fingers in front of his eyes and summoning him into wake.

  It was Charity and she stood before him smiling, her hands pressed against the counter and; bouncing up and down on her heels while her head tilted slightly to one side. Her hair was tied back in a little ponytail and she looked cute with her fringe pulled away from her eyes, her face looking so young and amiable.

  The way she smiled it was near impossible not to smile back.

  “Charity. How are you? I missed you. I mean…” he said, stuttering over his words, realizing that for that moment he sounded silly and desperate as if he had been waiting day and night to see her again and had been collecting the seconds that passed as a heavy longing and yearning in his heart that threatened to topple him over whenever he thought of her; which of course he had and was completely true.

  But he didn’t want her to know that.

  “I mean, it’s nice to see you, again. You look… umm… great” he said, pausing to find the right adjective, seeing how the swelling in her eye had vanished and the bruises along the line of her face had gone from dark purple when he last saw her, to non-existent, so that the only colour was the light in her eye as she smiled.

  “Hey what time’s your break,” she asked.

  “Well it’s nearly over,” Joao said.

  “Hey Fatts,” she yelled to the back of the café, ‘let me have this cutey here for an hour. Don’t make me have to fight you” she said playfully.

  Fatts shook his head and huffed loudly.

  “I gotta business to run here you know, it’s not a goddamned social club. The afternoon rush’s happening soon. No funny business. Go, have fun. Half an hour, not a second later” he said sternly shaking his giant finger.

  “Oh come on Fatts. One hour” pleaded Charity, pulling on Joao’s arm and dragging him from around the counter.

  “Thirty minutes” yelled Fatts.

  Joao’s heart was beating loud. It sounded; to him, like a silverback, pounding its giant fists against its chest in rising protest and he felt a heavy sickness in his stomach as his veins flooded with flight inspired drugs, commanded by his overwhelmed mind, unsure how to deal with this approximation to desire, want and love.

  “Your hand is sweaty,” said Charity.

  Joao said nothing.

  He swallowed a lump in his throat and fidgeted in his shoes and wished for a second that he could dissolve into a bead of his sweat and escape from this embarrassing truth, but he said nothing.

  “Are you nervous?” asked Charity.

  Joao said nothing.

  As they walked along the street; she, holding his hand tightly, he felt every bead of sweat that dripped from his pores and onto her delicate, soft hand. They pushed through swarms of workers all dressed in cheap suits, rushing from cafés and restaurants along the busy avenue, their minds pestered and petulant, thinking only of their obligations and their desire to return unto them, seeing every step and every space in front as an opportunity that they must steal as if the passage of their commute were practice for the ethos of their lives, to abandon the pursuit of politeness and take every advantage that had yet to be divulged, pushing and shoving and kicking and screaming and biting and shouting and cursing and defeating every single person regardless of age or sex or colour or deficiency, thinking only of the opportunity; the space before them and with their eyes blinded to their own effect, diving into every single space, taking every theft as some measurable gain.

  Joao was too kindly in this jungle environment and would be brushed this way and that; thrown around like a dangling fringe. But at the extension of his hand was a beautiful girl with the force and will of a maniacal tyrant and she pointed her elbow forwards, creating a part in the human traffic, cutting straight through the centre and laughing out loud as men, women and children of all ages cursed and yelped at her parting of their flux with reverent biblical grace.

  “Are we going to your special place?” asked Joao, his voice gurgling at first as he swallowed a lump in his throat, sounding more like a concerned Muppet than an excited lover.

  Joao had been thinking about this for days and weeks, imagining; every time his mind drifted, the sight of Charity’s kind face lifting back the thick brush and scrub with her gentle hand and inviting him away from the grey concrete jungle and into the dark passage where the rest of her body waited, somewhere in the shadows behind the expanse of green, away from the world where he could lay with her, away from this city, away from his family, away from god whose servants of morality; drunk on cheap, foul cachaça, had, for so many years, bruised his skin and tampered with his soul.

  He wanted so much to be away from himself and just to be with her for her knew that that must be heaven.

  “Not today,” she said.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “I want you to meet someone,” she said.

  “Are they famous?” asked Joao intrigued.

  “Yep,” said Charity, skipping down the street with Joao dancing behind in tow, gripping onto her soft, delicate hand, the sweat that once poured now dried by the wave of animated electricity that surged through his every being.

  He had never met a famous person before. His father was the only famous person he knew. Many people had travelled from very far away every week to hear his father deliver his sermon and to give them guidance in the way of the lord. He had always thought of that as special, peeping through the cracks in the barn doors while his siblings, his mother and the travelers all sat in stupendous awe of his father who stood on his podium with his hands waving fanatically high like molecular antennae, tuned to the divine radio of Jesus Christ.

  Charity giggled as she darted from the path and ran up a massive flight of stairs with Joao stumbling after her, watching his feet so he didn’t tumble over himself.

  They burst through a set of doors.

  “Shhh’ ordered a thousand tongues as a thousand angry faces turned towards them with their index fingers clenched against their lips.

  Charity giggled again as the doors slammed shut behind them. The minister at the front of the church cleared his throat and continued his sermon and all the people turned their snubbed noses back around to attend his speech.

  The two entered through another set of doors.

  “Joao, I’d like you to meet The 13th Apostle,” said Charity.

  Joao was deafened with delight.

  He heard nothing of what she said after that. His mind echoed with the word apostle and he couldn’t believe that he was in the same room as the man who was regarded as the closest descendant of Christ, one of the holiest men on this planet outside of the incestuous Roman molesters who hid their depravity and disturbance under long cloaks.

  In front of him sat that very man and though his back was turned, Joao knew exactly whom he was admiring having seen this momentous frame pacing around his TV set for years, always holding in his hands, a microphone that looked more like a toothpick held daintily in his trunk like fingers while his massive arms swung wide like a fisherman’s net, pulling in saddened and disparaged parishioners, gathering them in
one sweep and pulling them tight against his Christian bosom, pressing their faces against his mucky and sweaty chest like a child with their favourite teddy bear.

  “So you must be Joao. Charity has told me all about you. Everybody is talking about you” said The 13th Apostle.

  Joao sank into his stomach. His head went dizzy. He smiled and fell stupid, unable to say a word.

  “He makes the most divine coffee you will ever taste. People come from all over town to drink it. Isn’t that right cutey?” said Charity.

  Joao said nothing.

  He wanted to say so many things though even in the safety of his mind, he couldn’t imagine what those things might have been. He had never been good at anything and could sell neither a slither of barbequed meat to a starving carnivore nor a kind word about his own talent to a stranger, to his father or even as it seemed, to himself. He saw his gift; as it were, as merely something he did where he stopped trying to think as he thought others wanted him to think and instead just, was; whatever that should mean.

  Joao’s nerves surmounted.

  He gulped some fetched air.

  His stomach whined.

  His cheeks clenched.

  His stomach sank.

  Charity squeezed his hand.

  He farted.

  He blushed.

  He started to cry.

  “My boy. Come here and dry those tears on my chest. There ain't nothin dirty or wrong or awkward or even uncomfortable about a bit of wind. You don’t think Jesus ever passed some gas?” said The 13th Apostle.

  “He’s real excited to meet you, Apostle. He’s been watching your show for years. That and what was it?” asked Charity.

  “The Carriage of my Heart,” said Joao.

  “That’s it. The Carriage of my Heart” said Charity.

  “I do love television,” said The 13th Apostle. “You know we’re about to buy our third network here for The World Church? It’s the work of Jesus Christ it is, ensuring our prayers are heard twenty-four hours a day, nationally on three open networks. There’s a lot of the devil’s work going on some of those channels. The sex, the drugs, the violence, the corruption. You know I do believe that violence begets violence. You want peace and love in this world; you need to see Jesus everywhere you look. He’s there you know; healing every wound, sweeping up the filth off the streets, being born from the womb of ever unnecessary caesarean, raining down at the end of every summer’s day. He’s in every home, in every heart. He’s on every billboard and he’s in every war; you though can’t always see him right away. Sometimes you really got look hard, but you can find him and when you do, you’ll lay down your arms next to your open heart and be glad for having an enemy as having someone that you can learn to love for Jesus loves everyone, even the Muslims and the gays” said The 13th Apostle.

  “Is Jesus on the hill?” asked Joao.

  The air fell still, the Apostle, silent, the bounce in his voice flattened.

  “There ain't nothin up there that Jesus can save,” he said.

  “I live there. My father and I. We have a church. My father, he is a bishop and he wants to be just like you. We’re, well, he, is trying to save the people; the prostitutes, the drug dealers, the drug addicts and especially some of the people who live there at the top with us” said Joao.

  An uncomfortable silence addressed the room, broken nervously by Charity.

  “I’ve seen his church, it’s nice,” she said.

  “Really, you’ve seen it?” asked Joao.

  “I’ve told you Charity that you shouldn’t be going up there no more. You know I have a place for you here in the church. You can work with me; you don’t need to go near that hill again” said The 13th Apostle.

  “You know I can’t do that,” she said.

  The 13th Apostle kept in his chair looking direct at his own reflection while Charity and Joao stood behind him while to his left and right, a team of girls brushed at his face with powder and makeup, getting him ready for the taping of his sermon any moment. He was angry, but he didn’t show it though Charity knew. She felt it. She was no stranger to the message in his cryptic stares.

  “So do I get to try one of these divine coffees or yours Joao?” asked The 13th Apostle.

  “Yes sir,” he said, managing to utter two simple syllables and restrain himself from excitedly tripping over a thousand words and sounding foolish and excusable.

  “At the back of the room there, just in the corner” said The 13th Apostle, swinging his giant crank like arm back around to the right, pointing to the far end of his dressing room where there sat a small kettle, a jar of rich textured coffee powder; the beans no doubt crushed by the kindness in his heart and beside the jar, a small cup and besides that, a jar of white sugar.

  As Joao moved to the back of the room, he caught in his narrow sight, Charity leaning in to whisper into The 13th Apostle’s ear and he thought that she must know him really well because as she spoke, The Apostle smiled in crooked kind of way as if he had just been slipped a winning hand in a corrupted game of cards but to Joao it just looked nothing outside of the norm.

  The 13th Apostle and Charity continued whispering to one another while at the back of the room; Joao prepared himself by washing his hands and preparing his utensils, the instruments of his creation.

  He was so careful in removing the dirt that collected under his nails and between his fingers, scrubbing them lightly but briskly so as not to scratch or strain the fine sensors on his skin that he used to feel and hear the heartbeat of every grain that passed his touch, canting their story into his mind so that he dreamed of a life he had not lived, feeling as they had felt, hurting as had been dealt and making a heavy brew of burden from the sting of his tears.

  He looked long at The 13th Apostle, being pampered like the king that he was; his cheeks being powdered, his hair being brushed, the hairs in his ears being gently clipped, his shirt being straightened, his penis being pampered, his speech being prepared, his sandwiches being cut, his name being called out, its cry being ignored and his thick bulbous fingers, encapsulating the girl he adored.

  Joao closed his eyes and slid his fingers into the jar of coffee that lay out before him like a sorcerer’s cauldron. He took a long breath and when he exhaled, he carried with it outside of his conscious stage and awoke in a lone seat; stained and torn that swayed on broken hinges like a rotting tooth.

  The room was dark and quiet.

  His subconscious made not a sound.

  There was a clicking sound as if someone had turned a switch and a wheel were turning, somewhere behind him, out of sight, maybe in another part of his mind. The sound was not obtrusive. It was just loud enough to be heard over his own heavy breath and so he gripped the sticky hand rests as the curtain to the theatre of his mind opened and there before him, stood, the devil although he could not see its face.

  “The righteous path has no fair price,” said The Devil.

  As he spoke, tufts of smoke plumed from his nostrils and the bottom of every word seemed to gurgle as if he were speaking into a vat of scolding acid as the accent of every word cast a snakelike hiss into the air. Still, Joao couldn’t see its face; he could only see a shadow, an outline of some gargantuan form that shifted every time it spoke.

  Joao looked around. His hands were no longer gripping a sticky, wet hand rest. They were wet and sticky with his escaping sweat from his surmounting fear as he stood, just out of sight, watching the two shapes conversing under a rickety sign while he stood not far away, believing he was invisible. Around him, everything was quiet. He could hear The Devil jingling some coins in its pockets as it stood waiting for a large shape; that he assumed was The 13th Apostle, to respond.

  Around the two, a torrent wind blew yet everything was completely still and silent where they stood. It was raining in the distance and the storm was rushing towards where they stood and though it was dark where they were, Joao could still make out the shapes of the eyes of hounds watching him, everywher
e he looked.

  “I will pay any price,” said the shadow he assumed was The 13th Apostle.

  Two gigantic hands presented to The Devil with open palms, nervous and shaky with The 13th Apostle, expecting his soul to be torn from his skin but wanting so much for a gentle reward to address his desire, laid in the palm of his hands.

  “What is it that you desire?” asked The Devil.

  “I want to be powerful. I want control. I want to influence the world. I don’t want to be rich, riches get spent, I don’t want fame for fame is eventually forgotten. I want infamy” said The 13th Apostle.

  “What price are you willing to pay?” asked The Devil.

  “My soul,” said The 13th Apostle.

  The devil laughed.

  “You really think your soul is worth infamy?” mocked The Devil.

  “I’m not sure. I thought…”

  “One soul, I‘ll make you a star. Sell me a million; I’ll make you an idol. Sell me a billion; I’ll make you a leader. Sell me a lineage and I’ll make you the son of god” said The Devil.

  “How? I’ll do anything? I’ll pay any price” said The 13th Apostle desperately.

  The Devil laughed again.

  “You will work for me, collecting souls, paying your debt. In return, your name will echo in history and while your borrowed soul burrows beneath your bonded skin, you shall have anything you desire, without consequence” said The Devil, devilishly.

  “Deal,” said The 13th Apostle extending his hand.

  The Devil pushed its shadowy limb through the man’s chest, close to where his heart lay and squeezed tightly, branding the man’s soul.

  The Apostle screamed.

  The Devil laughed.

  Joao squirmed.

  The hounds howled.

  The air stirred.

  The storm neared.

  Dust swept up into the air and circled the men.

  Joao watched, his hands stirring.

  The Apostle ended his scream and fell to the floor.

  Joao gasped.

  The Devil met his stare.

  It pointed.

  It smiled.

  Its eyes caught on fire.

  It vanished.

  Joao pardoned himself from his thoughts with vagrant fright, jumping into his conscious mind and falling backwards against the small bookshelf that perched behind him, knocking it to the floor and landing in an awkward heap, catching his fall on one hand, balancing on one leg while the other dangled like a broken crane, swinging lifelessly as if he had just severed every nerve in his body.

  “Are you ok?” asked Charity, oddly humored but still concerned.

  “Umm, yeah. I fell. Sugar?” he asked The 13th Apostle.

  “Life is sweet enough my boy” said The 13th Apostle, slapping the bum of his hair stylist who; though greatly offended, violated, cheapened and disgusted, flinched and yelped like an injured pup, tightened her cheeks, swiveled her body, garnished an ‘oh you’ kind of smile, swallowed her pride, giggled out loud, won his affection and returned to straightening the stubborn curls behind his ears as if nothing had happened.

  Joao picked himself up nervously and stared at the cup sitting on the table. The dark liquid swirled around in circles and smaller circles and even smaller circles still and in the middle it looked like there were two dark eyes looking right back at him and the swirling dark liquid; swirling in circles, swirled into a little dark smile and he took the cup in his hands, holding it in a gentle clasp and he steadied himself as he walked; watching his feet as they made every step, towards The 13th Apostle who was now wetting his lips on desire and temptation.

  He handed the cup as if it were some holy chalice and The 13th Apostle treated it as such, taking it gently from his hands, holding it to the brim of his mouth where his thick upper lip pressed lightly against the fine china like a drunkard’s belly as he leans over the bar to collect his drink.

  The Apostle sipped on the cup and immediately his eyes lit like a forest fire, widening; taking in as much light as possible as if some dark fright had snuck up upon them. His hand shook slightly, not a lot, not entirely visible, but Joao could see it and it was the same tremor he saw in the man’s hand when sat outstretched, inviting the devil into deal.

  “You think you can make more of that?” asked The 13th Apostle sounding more than a little shaken but licking his lips, hungrily like a junky.

  Joao was silent.

  His mind was sore.

  His heart was sore.

  “Sure he can,” said Charity, still standing by The Apostle but looking lovingly over at Joao who was looking at The Apostle in a veil of disbelief.

  “I’m not sure if I can,” said Joao; wanting to leave.

  “Sure you can,” said Charity again, this time leaving the clutches of The Apostle and wrapping her arms around Joao’s neck, bowing her head slightly so that she looked up at him doe-eyed, whipping her long, black lashes and cutting a retiring smile across her face so all Joao could do; in the complete dissolution of his will, was say; “Ok.”

  “You were right Eve, he is a special boy indeed,” said The 13th Apostle.

  “I have to go,” said Joao.

  “Don’t you want to watch the service? We are taping tonight. Do you want to be on TV?” asked The 13th Apostle.

  “I have to go” said Joao anxiously, looking at Charity like a young child would to their mother, wanting so much to run away and never come back again; wanting to tell the world what he had seen but knowing that, not only would nobody would ever believe him, nobody in their right mind would ever listen.