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Sunday Morning Coffee
By
Steven Hoadley
I walk into the Starbucks by my home to get a cup of coffee. I get it, go out, sit down and grab a slab of newspaper from the little newspaper holder thingy next
to where I sit. It’s got coffee spills and maybe someone’s phlegm on it. I don’t care. I just need to wake up and get some joe in me and get back to my house before my little Mexican boy in the closet wakes up.
I’m in the middle of reading an article about the proliferation of semi-automatic weapons in American middle-schools when a young woman takes a seat across
from me. A tiny table separates us.
I look at her and she looks at me. I’m older and have fat in odd places. She’s young and has no fat, only tattoos and multiple facial piercings in places I’ve
never even itched. I don’t care, she looks interesting.
“Hello,” I tell her.
She says nothing.
“My name is Jack and I live up the street and I’ve never seen you here before.”
She glares at me as if she wants to give me a piercing. At least that’s how I perceive it. Then her face softens and she speaks:
“Hi, I’m Jill. I just moved here from Orange County. I live up the street.”
Bingo, I think. Got her.
“Well Jill from Orange County, welcome. I used to live in Anaheim, the world’s happiest place. It’s no longer that, I suppose, it is probably much worse now. It was sad then, a far cry from happy, but now I hear it’s tragic.”
She looks away. I am losing her. That was a fucked-up opener, I think. Damn. What can I say to reel her back? I remember.
“I have a small Mexican boy I keep in my closet,” I say.
“What?” she replies.
That gets her.
“Yes. He’s small and young and fresh from the fields. I keep him there for his own good. The world would eat him up if I didn’t. He does my chores for me, keeps me company when I am lonely, fetches me things, you know—“
“No, I don’t know,” she says.
“He’s quite cute,” I reply. “But I don’t say that in any odd fixation sort of way, he just has a clever, perky way about him that stands out. That’s why I picked him.”
She straightens her back, twitches and fidgets a bit. Maybe I told her about my Mexican boy to soon, I think.
“Whoa,” she says, staring at me and past me alternately. “I’m out of here.” She rises in a huff, grabs her coffee, latte, or whatever she has, and heads to her car. It’s a dark green Toyota with a sunroof. Something dangles from the rearview mirror, but it’s too far for me to see exactly what hangs there. It figures, I think. Bitch owns a Toyota with a sunroof. Only bitches own green Toyotas with sunroofs. I dismiss her as sub-par and unworthy.
My coffee tastes great. Just the right amount of cream and Sweet ‘n Low. I never use sugar, the crash always brings on a depression that makes me anxious, which in turn brings introspection, which then makes me cower in a corner like a whipped child. It’s a nasty circle I’d rather not cope with. Sometimes it doesn’t pay to look too deep.
I conclude that the article about the saturation of semi-automatic weapons in American middle schools is overblown hyperbole, probably written by a Green party gay man hell bent on spreading lies and rumors in an attempt to brainwash the masses into believing that America is going to hell in an abandoned well. I look for the author’s name. It’s a woman! Ha! Probably some middle-America soccer mom who’s pissed she found pot in her son’s room and now wants to chip away at MY lifestyle in some misplaced attempt to over-compensate for her maternal failures. No doubt she doesn’t suck her husbands cock, that’s a given. I now dismiss the entire article as socialist propaganda.
The sun rises over the tree line across the street and is hitting me in the eyes. I’m light-sensitive so I look around for a table that is shaded. I spot one on the other side of the patio. An older woman sits there with her laptop. She looks mature and possibly horny. Don’t ask how I know these things, I just do. There’s an extra seat at her table so I get up and saunter over.
“May I?” I say, as I grab the back of the chair. She looks up at me, her glasses resting low on her nose. My cock lurches. She’s horny alright.
“Sure,” she says. I sit.
“My name is Jack and I live up the street and I’ve never seen you here before.”
She takes off her glasses and sits back in her chair. I take this as a sign of interest.
“I’m sorry, but I have some work that needs to get out right away, you’ll excuse me?”
This hurts my feelings, but I’m a bigger man and rise above the pain. “Of course,” I tell her.
“Thanks.”
She puts her eyewear back on, leans forward and seems to be resuming her work. I wonder if it’s a ploy. I decide I’m going to hit her with my trump card right
out of the gate.
“What would you say if I told you I had a little Mexican boy living in my closet?”
“Excuse me?” She says, lowering her glasses again in a way that seems intimidating. But I’m not easily intimidated. I sit my ground.
“He’s young and cute and fresh from the fields. I could show him to you.”
She takes her glasses off, sets them down and speaks: “I suggest you leave this table right now or I’m going to call the police.”
I take this as a challenge.
“I have a right to be here as much as you, ma’am,” I say, “if you want to leave, then you may, but I myself am staying put.”
She sits back, closes her laptop, stands, folds the computer under her arm and goes in the store. She wears a striped dress in light summer colors. The pattern is vaguely reminiscent of a Leroy Neiman print, but without the sport stars. It figures, I think. Only a true bitch would wear such a disaster. I dismiss her as unworthy as well.
“Excuse me.”
It’s a man’s voice from the table next to me.
“Yes?” I answer.
“Did I hear you correctly? That you have a small boy at home?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Um . . . I might be interested in discussing it with you further—“
I turn and face him. “What are you trying to say?”
“Well, that I might be interested in such things.”
“In what such things?”
“You know, in small boys.”
“Excuse me? Are you implying—?“ I wait no longer. I grab the ceramic cup the woman left behind and smash him in the face with it. It breaks apart on impact and he immediately starts bleeding. This seems to disrupt the flow of serenity that had permeated the area and people scatter. Chaos takes over. I care not. A man had suggested improprieties with my young Mexican boy and instant justice was imperative.
“There is such a thing as civility!” I yell at him as I get up to leave. Everyone is standing in a circle as I walk towards the parking lot. They make room for me. Sometimes you have to be uncivil to be civil.
My car starts beautifully. I look forward to the day. There’s much laundry that needs to be done. Much.
Copyright © 2004 Steven Hoadley
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