i've decided that i'm going to write a book. to get you all excited, here's a not that particularly interesting chapter (it will probably become chapter three).
and yes, it has taken me this long to write.
CHAPTER
THREE
“Sorry
I'm Late.”
if
Keighley could see through his own fringe – which, most of the
time, he couldn't – he would have known that no one there to
apologise to. The head Barista was outside, under the awnings,
drinking a lukewarm coffee from a take away cup, smoking a damp
cigarette, not giving a damn about the empty café inside.
It was another
slow day at Café Dante. Not as slowly as yesterday, where they
didn't make any money - Keighley had zoned out whilst a customer was
talking and didn't make his order until 8 hours later - but it was
still slow non-the-less.
Despite the
inclement weather and the (apparent) constant need for people to have
coffee on the go, they never really had much business here. There
are always queues in Nero's, Coasta's, and Starbucks', as well as all
those other independant coffee shops dotted about, but Café danté
seems to work in the opposite way.
It wasn't to do
with location – the Café was placed awkwardly between two quite
successful shops - one a bookshop and the other a newsagents – in
close proximity to the town centre on the perfectly named Steep Hill.
It wasn't to do with the look; the place is tidy, spacious, and
stylish, all decked out in a ninteen-thirty's art deco design. It
wasn't to do with the coffee, which doesn't recieve many complaints,
and is ordered from a successful bean provider. It just happens not
to be very popular.
The
world is full of extroverts; people who live, breathe and drink in a
world of parties, confidence, and whirlwinds of high octane, lively,
and charismatic personalities. Keighley was definitely not invited to
the extrovert's parties, and even if he was, he'd make small excuses
and try his best to get out of going to them. Not that he lacked
confidence, or friends – he just didn't need them around all the
time. He was perfectly happy with a few friends, and the odd meet-up,
and was very much into singing, which he was exceptionally good at.
If he did attend a party, or a club or a pub, then no one would be
able to stop him from rushing up to the open mic or the karaoke
stage. was more than eager to present his vocal skills at any party
or social activity. But he didn't need to do so to be happy.
Keighley
didn't exactly look right, no matter what he was doing, or wearing,
or saying – today, for instance, he was dressed in a pale green
cotton shirt (which he'd picked up from Oxfam), a thin, stretched
woolly jumper that looked more at home in the nineteen-fifties (that
probably was from the nineteen fifties; his grandmother had given it
him as a birthday present), and a dark pair of exceptionally skinny
jeans, that made his legs look over-long, giraffe-thin, and hardly
capable of holding up an average twenty-five year old, which ended in
a pair of dark blue desert boots. His Dad used to call him Dali,
after the painter, who was known for his long-legged creatures in his
art.
His
Hair, which was still continuing to get in his way, was a very dark
soil colour, and was violently unmanageable and raggedy. If the top
twenty world championship hair combers, armed with unbreakable combs,
were given free run of Keighley's hair, none of them would be able to
unknot any of the locks or tangles. He wore his hair reasonably long
and footloose, allowing it to do as it pleased. Under the mess of
hair, sat on the bridge of a broken nose, sat a pair of thin framed
glasses, which he wore more as a fashion accessory than a visual aid
(though they are a prescription pair; he doesn't need to wear them as
much as he does). Underneath the glasses, his eyes were very dark
green.
After
a quick change, he was now clad in a black, mucky Café Danté apron
(noticeable by it's logo: a cup and saucer with devil horns) and
standing uselessly behind the counter.
Back in the café,
The early-risen Lincoln Populace continued to meander endlessly past
the shop windows, none of them daring to come in. The door remained
shut, the tables remained empty, and the washing-up remained undone.
Keighley suprised
to hear the door rattle open, and the oldest man in town shuffled up
to the counter. Keighley waited quietly for the man to choose a drink
and announce his order.
Meanwhile, the
Head Barista, Maynard, had finshed his lukewarm drink, but was still
sat at one of the tables outside, running a stubby finger around the
rim of his coffee cup, taking the final drags of his cigarette. His
sad, tired features stared blankly into empty air, and occaisonally a
dull, heavy sigh would jettison into the public airwaves.
Maynard is not the
happiest of chaps. In fact, despite having known, and lived, with him
for nearly six years, Keighley had never seen Maynard happy. He
wondered sometimes if Maynard was clinically depressed; but it seemed
that Maynard was not sad at himself or his life, but at the lives of
others. More specifically, why those lives had to continue to get in
his way.
Under a sad
tangle of short knotty hair hides a sad tangle of features that make
for a very forgettable face. Of all the people Keighley had met
whilst living in Lincoln, Maynard was the most eager to leave. He was
the same age as Keighley, though managed to look at least ten years
older. He was hit at the early age of thirteen with the ability to
grow a formidable stubble, which required shaving frequently. Today,
he had not bothered, and a thick, raggedy black mess covered his jaw
like thousands of dark pins. His dark eyes were surrounded by dark
bags, which he claimed came from having no sustainable sleeping
pattern mixed with insomnia and occasional night terrors. Though,
much more likely, it was because he stayed up too late.
He was, like
keighley, quite into his fashion, even if he didn't look the sort who
cared at all for his appearance. He wore an expensive black shirt and
expensive chord trousers under his mucky apron, and very shiny, very
expensive, brown leather shoes. His hands were pale, bony, and
covered in tobacco stains and slight burn scars.
After another long
period of absolutely nothing interesting at all happening, Maynard
picked himself up from the table, entered the shop, scowling at the
old man standing at the till, and shuddered across to the Coffee
Machine.
“Ugh?” he
sighed, annoyed.
Humans spent
millions of years evolving to master the miracle of spoken
communication, a function unique to the Human species; Maynard was
the exception to the rule. He mainly clicked his tongue, or made
annoyed gestures, or grunted.
This
particular sigh-grunt combo Keighley took to mean “Friend Keighley,
would you care for a Hot Drink?” so he replied with a “please.”
He was proven right when a paper cup full of gloopy hot chocolate
was placed on the counter in front of him. he nursed the beverage,
sipping occasionally while the old man stood silently scrutinising
the menu. Maynard had made himself a cappuchino, which he gulped down
in a couple of mouthfulls before throwing the empty cup over the old
man's head and across the room. It bounced off a table and landed,
rolling, across the wooden floor. Speckles of coffee cartwheeled
through the air. Maynard always, at some point, throw
something across the shop.
“what did you do
that for?” Keighley knew he would be the one cleaning up the mess.
Maynard was just as lazy as he was glum, though, in defence, could
make delicious coffees. “it could have hit this gent!”
Keighley
isn't one for arguments. If he got in more of them, perhaps he would
be more practised at it. His words of protest almost always fell on
deaf ears.
Maynard
gave the strongest hate-glare he could muster, before rebuttling
“whatever. Don't think Mr. Moriarty minds.”
Mr. Moriarty, for
those of you interested, is the Boss, Though neither Keighley or
Maynard had never seen, met, or heard anything from him. He stays
behind a large wooden door at the back of the shop. The only reason
anyone knew he is called Mr. Moriarty is because his name is written
on the door. Inside there there could be anything - Mr. Moriarty
could be dead, or non-existent; Satan, Santa, robot, alien, or just a
bored man.
It could be the
name of the door.
Keighley sighed,
only just before Maynard reached over and punched him in the arm.
“hey...ow!”
Maynard smirked,
turning back to his machine. Keighley, still holding his arm, turned
back to the customer he should have been paying attention to, all
this time.
He was still
waiting for the old man to decide what he wanted to gum on. For the
last ten minutes an old man had been staring purposely at the big
board with the menu on above the counter, where all the glasses and
cups were kept, stowed away.
His ancient eyes
dragged themselves through dusty sockets, as they arched over all the
drinks and back again, checking twice and twice again. His gaunt and
crooked face didn't show any sign of emotion, and his arms swing dead
by his dusty old raincoat. It wasn't wet, despite the rain. For a
panicky second Keighley considered that he may have had, or was in
the process of having, a stroke, and was just about to phone the
emergency services when he sparked:
"Coffee,
please."
"Which
one?" Keighley asked, politely.
"Just
a coffee."
"Cappuccino,
Macciato, Flat White? Americano, Espresso, Frappuccino, Café Latte,
Mussolini, Rossetti..."
Keighley had
memorised the drinks available, and had automatically pointed upwards
at each drink on the board. I needn't tell you that Mussolini and
Rossetti aren't coffees. Keighley occasionally threw In some fake
names to see if anyone ever noticed. No one ever did, despite how
clever they were, or at least made themselves look.
"Coffee."
"OK."
He sighed. "Maynard?"
Maynard,once
again, stared his cold murder glare at him.
"What?"
he barked, angrily. Though it probably shouldn't be described as
angry, as no one had ever heard him use a different tone of voice.
"Flat
White."
Maynard mumbled, and
was dragging one of the mugs under the big machine that does stuff.
Keighley didn't have the foggiest clue what it did, but could operate
it. He knew, at least, that coffee comes from it. He has to clean it
at the end of the day, but he always puts part of it back in the
wrong place, usually a small and tricky little gizmo that has a
really important job. Only a month before, smoke had blared out of
one of the appendages, due to a misplaced filter and a dislodged
piece of gaffer tape.
Maynard didn't give
Keighley time to ask whether it was take away, or whether it was
small, medium, or large. He grabbed the first thing he could reach.
It was large mug, for sitting in. (the shop, not the mug).
"That'll
be £2.75" Keighley smiled.
The
old man's painfully aged features crawled up into a grimace. "That's
disgusting!" the old man shrieked, or at least as much shriek
and as much rage as one can muster after watching looping footage of
inspector Morse and BBC news 24 for the last millennia. "£2.75?
for a coffee? that's criminal, that is!"
Keighley was about
to stumble some apology about price in demand, changing times, and
recession, when Maynard collapsed into the argument with some
ferocity.
"So is your
respirator, or life support, or lung machine, or whatever the hell
you'll be no doubt plugged in in the next month or so. You'll be
lying there, the machine grasping for the last crumbling days of your
lifespan, and I'll look down on you, disgusted, and pull the chord. I
won't bat an eyelid or flicker a muscle. It would be like turning off
a television. I wouldn't have to think twice. The machine would just
slowly come to a stop like the remaining static. £2.75, please."
The man seemed to
forget, or perhaps wasn't listening, but still seemed scared by this
sudden interruption. Looking a mixed of defeated, happy, sad,
thankful, and used-to-it (that's an expression and a half), he forked
over a crinkly fiver.
Keighley paid his
change and handed him his reciept. “I'll bring it over for you.”
Keighley didn't
notice, but Maynard accidentally dropped his Biro lid in the coffee
as he leaned over to place it on the serving tray. He didn't take it
out.
The
flow of customers started to increase a little. It was ten, a much
more reasonable hour for people to be coming in. Speaking of
customers, the old man had perched himself in the corner and, only
having half finished his drink, was dozing quietly, his frail arms
folded over his dry raincoat, resting on his plump frame. That
doesn't say much for the quality of our coffee, which Keighley had
taken to assume was full of high energy, thrilling caffiene, but then
again he looks as though he could probably fall asleep in the middle
of a burning nightclub full of airhorns and hurricanes. he'd wake
him up and ask him to leave, but he really don't think it mattered.
No one is going to complain, and he's happy, asleep, so it's better
for everyone if he stays zonked out for the time bieng.
Time
passed, as it is wont to do, without much happening. The Man slept
for a good two hours before falling off his chair, slamming into a
dead heap on the wooden floor, still slightly damp from the earlier
coffee throw. Keighley, once again stumbling over apologies, and
Maynard, eyes burning with hate, helped the man up and assisted him
to the door. He seemed Ok, not even a bruise. The Customers looked
disgusted and shocked and shamed at the two of them – but then
again, they hadn't stopped him falling or helped him up, had they?
More
customers came and went, all of them too busy or self important to
cause a fuss or strike up a conversation, so for the bulk of the
Morning Maynard tried his best not to have to chat to Keighley. It
is difficult, considering that they live in the same flat, but
Maynard stood his ground and remained silent for the rest of the
shift, only occaisonally grunting if Keighley offered to make coffee,
or Maynard offering to make one for him. Keighley didn't mind – he
was used to it, and he was too focused on all the different tangents
and thaughts bounding about in his head, like a handful of motorised
tennis balls in a room made of trampolines. They weren't important
thaughts or life changing considereations, just little things that
pop into your head when there's nothing to talk about. They were
officially allowed three free hot drinks per shift, but due to Mr.
Moriarty's constant absence, they felt free to make as many free
drinks as they liked.
When
it came to one, which is the busiest hour of the day, Maynard
announced he was going to take his lunch hour. Keighley, not wanting
to struggle by himself with the onslaught of dinner-goers, Work-break
students, thirsty businessmen and mid-day prattlers, also took his
lunch break. They knocked on the door to Mr. Moriarties office and
told the door they'd be back in an hour, and made themselves a couple
of free drinks each.Keighley served the last the remaining customers
with take-away only drinks and decanted the drinks of anyone sitting
in (fortunately no one had baught any food, so they didn't have to
repackage that) while Maynard swung the doors closed and turned the
OPEN sign to CLOSED, adding “Back at 2” on the bottom. When all
the confused customers had been provided with their drinks, they were
quickly ushered out of the café, and the two locked up and left the
thirsty Lincoln populace to fend for itself.
They
both went opposite ways, agreeing to meet back at the café just
before two. Whilst Maynard probably went to skult in some shadows in
a bleak and dreary back alley somewhere, Keighley headed uphill. He
had much more interesting things planned.
