A young man looked up at the wall clock just in time to see the minute hand lurch, treacle slow, from 59 to 12. The hour hand imperceptibly followed suit. Midnight.
The Coffee World café was empty but for him self and one acne ridden barista, lost in concentration, pimpled nose inches away from a hand held video game. The sound of tinny, digitized explosions and cartoonish squeals accompanied the light jazz that was de rigueur for this type of establishment. Or it would like to think so. For all its Miles Davis and “would-you-like-it-venti” pretences, this little café was still a greasy spoon with nothing of any worth 50 miles in any direction. On the forecourt, barely lit by a flickering lamp-post that was so ancient it would have been quite suitable as a meeting point for little girls and fawns bearing gifts, there was a small car park that would strain to hold 4 children’s bicycles, a coin operated kiddy ride-on, of which the ‘beg mode’ was apparently voiced by a drunken clown desperate for attention, and a supermarket shopping trolley brimming with plastic carrier bags filled with God knows what. Despite the summer heat the trolleys owner wore many layers of clothes in varying shades of brown. The young coffee drinker observed the tramp as he or she left his or her cache to waddle across the small road the café sat on, headed, apparently towards the only other building within 100 miles of where he was sitting. The house opposite Coffee World looked like it had once been semi-detached. The large, flat, windowless west wall and the two garden gates giving an onlooker clues that, despite its impressive, imposing 4 storey’s and intimidating solitude, it once had a neighbor. For now it begs to be left alone to brood and intimidate, but, once upon a time, it sat on a street without potholes, its garden was well kept and was a link in a chain of well kept gardens, with equally well kept houses. The tramp reached the gate and turned to face the café before opening. A woman. A cat with its tail high tip-toed quickly up to her and pressed its body against her legs, trying to tie knots around them with its tail as it cried for attention in a figure of eight. The watcher could see that the woman was old. North of sixty. She fished in her pocket and produced a key. The house belonged to her.
The Coffee World café was empty but for him self and one acne ridden barista, lost in concentration, pimpled nose inches away from a hand held video game. The sound of tinny, digitized explosions and cartoonish squeals accompanied the light jazz that was de rigueur for this type of establishment. Or it would like to think so. For all its Miles Davis and “would-you-like-it-venti” pretences, this little café was still a greasy spoon with nothing of any worth 50 miles in any direction. On the forecourt, barely lit by a flickering lamp-post that was so ancient it would have been quite suitable as a meeting point for little girls and fawns bearing gifts, there was a small car park that would strain to hold 4 children’s bicycles, a coin operated kiddy ride-on, of which the ‘beg mode’ was apparently voiced by a drunken clown desperate for attention, and a supermarket shopping trolley brimming with plastic carrier bags filled with God knows what. Despite the summer heat the trolleys owner wore many layers of clothes in varying shades of brown. The young coffee drinker observed the tramp as he or she left his or her cache to waddle across the small road the café sat on, headed, apparently towards the only other building within 100 miles of where he was sitting. The house opposite Coffee World looked like it had once been semi-detached. The large, flat, windowless west wall and the two garden gates giving an onlooker clues that, despite its impressive, imposing 4 storey’s and intimidating solitude, it once had a neighbor. For now it begs to be left alone to brood and intimidate, but, once upon a time, it sat on a street without potholes, its garden was well kept and was a link in a chain of well kept gardens, with equally well kept houses. The tramp reached the gate and turned to face the café before opening. A woman. A cat with its tail high tip-toed quickly up to her and pressed its body against her legs, trying to tie knots around them with its tail as it cried for attention in a figure of eight. The watcher could see that the woman was old. North of sixty. She fished in her pocket and produced a key. The house belonged to her.
“She’s lived there for as long as I’ve worked here.” The teen barista was stood beside the young man, watching her unlock the front door and enter after the cat.
“How long have you worked here?” The young man asked. The teen barista looked at the young mans face, narrowed his eyes and placed a hand, almost in a reassuring manner, on his shoulder,
“Fifteen months,” he replied, sagely, as he patted the man on the shoulder. Then he repeated as he walked away, drying a cup like an old west barkeeper, “fifteen months.”
The young man turned back to the window to see the weathered old lady looking right at him just before she closed the weathered front door of the house opposite with a slam. He brought his coffee to his lips and could tell without taking a sip that it was long cold. He pushed his stool back and walked to the bar for a refill. The video game playing barista was not behind the counter. A cool breeze on the young mans face and the faint odour of cigarettes led him to the conclusion that the boy was at the back door taking a clearly well earned break. The smell was sweet and leafy. The man cleared his throat in a bid for attention.
“Help yourself!” came a shout from down a hall, “refills are free!”
As the man reached for the coffee pot he noticed that days newspaper. He poured his free refill and took that and the paper back to his seat. He opened the paper close to the back, just after TV listings, just before sports, and looked at a large colour picture that filled up the whole page. It was a graphical representation of a mall. Computer generated families and young scenesters explored the sharp corners and gleaming curves of the shopping complex of the future. The young man looked closely at the picture. Where the very talented artist had placed a fountain, The young man saw an old lamppost. Starbucks turned into Coffee World. And, amongst the imaginary families and pixilated children he saw one very real old woman, looking in the window of a designer store, with a cat, crying, between her legs.
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