THE CHINESE ONE
Writing in my flat has never been my strong suit. As much as I love, or rather tolerate my flat, it is filled with all too many distractions. I know myself well enough to know that am I not forced to work, I will probably be distracted by whatever else might be within reachable distance. This will almost certainly lead to a day's work being wasted on self depreciation. In an attempt to rectify this, I had decided to reside at a newly opened coffee shop, not four minutes from my flat, where they make excellent decaf cappuccinos at less than favourable prices. A cheap price to pay for me, though, as it meant I might finally get some actual work done; since the dishes or my state of the art videogame console wouldn't be within a mere two metre distance from my workspace.
So the coffee shop became my second home for a time while I was working on my novel. Well, to be fair I am still working on it. Worry for the state of my bank balance started wheeling up as multiple cashiers knew what my preferred drink of choice was. So at times I would say something completely different, simply to throw them off; even if the decaf cappuccino was arguably what I actually wanted.
I was sat there, my newly acquired 2011 Macbook air, that I purchased in 2022, opened, logging into my google account with my embarrassing highschool email address still in use for some odd reason. I won't share the address, obviously, but it includes the word Hipster which at the time, I’m sure, I thought was quite cool. But alas, listening to all the worst songs The White Stripes ever wrote doesn’t possess you with the spirit of unbridled swagger, it just induces a mild headache. As it turns out, being a contrarian for the sake of being one is not the best way to make friends nor is it a particularly interesting thing to base your entire personality on. Please forgive me, like we all collectively forgive those people who made smoking weed their entire personality. I digress.
The barista stumbled with elegance to my table with a perfect cup of decaf cappuccino, asking for maybe the fifth time in two months if I was a student and liable for a discount. I suppose a bloke my age writing at a coffee shop on a laptop would logically be a student. As much as the gesture was greatly appreciated, I, however, am not a student. I did go to uni, mind you. For two months when I was eighteen, studying English ‘till that turned into nothing more than passing time. It didn't start out great either. Between the mixups of which older student I was supposed to follow on my first day, and someone right in front of me saying I hope there's no eighteen year olds starting, I'm unsure what might've caused my eventual disinterest in pursuing the world of academics.
Regardless, the coffee was warm and delightful and I knew that within the next couple of minutes the words would type themselves. The general chatter and bussing of the coffee house would in time become nothing more than white noise and away the words would fly. And they did. For about a good forty minutes, I wrote with no immediate interruption.
When the initial burst of energy wore off I indulged myself in a well deserved smoke break. The weather wasn't yet as chilly as it currently is here in early November, so my long winter coat was at the time packed away. I will say, it would've added that last pinch of salt in my pretentious and self-loathing margarita.
Even if it wasn't cold out yet, it wasn't warm either and my fingers were getting chillier by the minute. So was my still two thirds full cappuccino, although I did not know it at the time. I always seem to be surprised by how quickly coffee dips in temperature, and I barely know how many cups of that I've had by now.
The people of import to this story passed my array of pretends to enter the coffee shop. Up a short metal staircase, one with their hands in their pockets and the other which I could only assume to be the father. The father was deemed so because of his general demeanour, his decision to order a full portion of hamburger and chips for lunch, and his poor choice of language which should become apparent later. As the ember eventually kissed the bud of my cigarette, mostly without my knowledge, I decided to reenter the shop with the hope of a second wind soon to come.
I placed myself back down in my seat and took a sip of my now considerably colder cappuccino, a weird grin surely crossing my face, and decided to resume my writing. I had not written one paragraph before the father had taken the table behind me with his offspring. I shall from here on in try not to describe the man as if he were a beast of mythology but the temptation is honestly unbearable.
A loud thumb, that I was sure made ripples in my drink, sounded as he placed himself, looming half a metre or so in both height and width over his companion. At a comically small table, the duo sat in relative silence, a few groans and attempts at smalltalk exchanged here and there. Nothing too distracting though, since the detective in my novel was still in the midst of interrogating a potential suspect. The looming presence behind me was served his coffee, black, if I'd have to make an educated guess, and what I assumed to be his son was served a drink of a more colourful variety. One large mouthful of steaming hot coffee later, and I assume a wide self-righteous grin making its way across the father’s face, the food was being brought to their table. I surely can't be the only one who thinks it's a bit odd to have a coffee shop serve burgers and chips, although it did both look and smell quite exceptional.
The man ate about as loudly as he spoke. His humongous mouth, whose corners could quite probably reach his ears under the right circumstances, was subsequently filled as he unhinged his jaw to make way for the burger. It was at this point that the characters in my novel started to wonder why the detective had stopped asking questions, since the bloke who came up with said questions was currently trying really hard to not be distracted by the booming growls of gluttony behind him. I don't remember much of their conversation since most of it could be condensed to ‘emotionally distant father tries to take interest in his son’. The father had an air of confidence about him, similar to the one I see looming about rich people and found equally annoying. That supercilious and all knowing poise was honestly enveloping me in secondhand embarrassment.
I made great strides to direct my attention elsewhere to hopefully resume my static filled writing space, but every time I found it, I would write at most three consecutive sentences before another uncalled for roar would sound. The last growl the beast made was also the one I remember the best, since the first thing I did after hearing it was send a text to my best friend with a word for word recollection of the awkwardness I was witnessing. For most of their conversations the kid had responded with fairly short remarks like yeah, it's going alright and no, not anymore, so a question about his love life should be just what the doctor ordered.
"How's it going with that girl you're seeing, the Chinese one or Japanese or whatever?"
Not only was the air thick with about as unpleasant a toxin as a creature of that size could conjure, but apparently also laughing gas as I was trying my absolute hardest to not lose my shit and cause an embarrassment. My condolences and respects to the kid who was ready with one of his trademark responses and defused the situation quite quickly.
"Yeah, it's going good." or something to that effect was said and at that point my detective had gone home for the day, for his creator had failed his concentration check and could maintain the spell no longer. I closed my laptop, finished the cold remains of my cappuccino, and delivered my empty cup to the cashier. A last awkward look at the beast and his son and on my way I went.
On the way home the question kept welling up in my mind and I couldn't help but smile. As much as I would've loved to have written more than four or five pages that day, I would also not have wanted to be without the experience of the proverbial stockcube of embarrassment. At home there would be no more writing, and the dishes would most certainly be the last thing on my mind.
