A Duel before Sunrise

A young man's daily duel against a "cunning" barista.

He pressed his hand, made bright red by a conspiracy between the almost-freezing morning air and his mother, (who had once again, the perfidious hag, surreptitiously and without instruction hidden away his fraying and slightly too-small black cotton gloves with such devilish cunning as to render any attempt to find them in the short window of time between his befuddled awakening to the unwelcome sound of his alarm and pulling on his unpolished faux-leather work shoes and leaving the house entirely hopeless), against the chilled glass of the coffee shop door. Multifarious human paw prints would have revealed to the perceptive observer that he was not the first person to do so that morning, despite the offensively early hour, although a cursory glance through the same glass into the already-packed interior would have allowed an imperceptive observer to draw a startlingly similar, if not identical, conclusion. God only knows, he thought to himself, as he crossed the threshold between the grey cobbled street damp with overnight rain and the lacquered flooring of the coffee shop, strangely glossy in sporadic blotches as a result of an enthusiastic-but-unsystematic attempt at polishing.

 

 God only knows how many times I’ve stepped across that bloody threshold into this bloody coffee shop before the sun has even thought about contemplating rising. He immediately cursed himself for such a lazy rhetorical device. For one, God was very unlikely to have paid attention to how often a young bottle-cap factory machinist had stepped across the threshold between any given street and any given coffee shop, concerned as He (upper-case H to denote Almighty bearded white man. Assuming He hadn’t shaved off his beard to avoid being compared, unflatteringly, to Ben Affleck) was with adhering to and constantly refining His divine non-interventionist policy. For two, he (lower-case h to denote just about still teenage bottle-cap factory machinist sporting only patchy facial hair) could probably make a rather accurate estimate if he simply applied himself a little. Six days a week for two years and three months, excluding Bank Holidays, two days taken off ill due to a very nearly fatal case of the flu, a third day missed when his alleged father had been inconsiderate enough to die and a fourth day missed when his family (not including his mother) had been considerate enough to arrange a funeral for aforementioned alleged father. That tallied up to an alarmingly high number of threshold-crossings. And a pleasantly low number of ‘fathers’.

The coffee shop was, adhering to the law of averages, an outlet of a world-conquering multi-national chain. As such, it looked entirely indistinguishable from the other one on the street that ran perpendicular to the one that this one happened to be on, as well as the one that was on the street that ran parallel to that one, which was effectively a single knight’s move away from this one. It really was considerate of the colossal coffee corporation (Registered Trademark) to provide the residents of such a small village with so much choice, he thought. He also thought that the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus and the Vladivostok branches would be comfortingly familiar, should he ever find himself there.  Being cut from this common corporate template, of course, meant an instantly recognisable colour scheme, a liberal and entirely unnecessary smattering of Italian and singularly incompetent staff.

He waited in the queue behind a young, fat girl in a garish purple polo shirt, a regular customer, who he vaguely recognised from a nearby greetings card shop (flat white, ordered nasally and augmented with three sachets of white sugar) and a lean, grey-suited/haired/skinned/voiced gentleman who was obviously in a hurry from his clipped order of an Americano (no milk, no sugar, no time). As he waited, his heart began to beat faster and faster. His moment was approaching.  Then it was his (small h, not to be confused with God or Ben Affleck) turn to enjoy the full attention of the lanky, bespectacled and bepimpled ‘barista’ whose name badge displayed the Dickensianly perfect: “Colin”. With his greasy dirty blonde hair, floppy fringe covering a forehead of aggressive acne ,and absolute lack of anything resembling charisma, the customer thought, his surname was Grimes, or something similar. At least if Ben Affleck had any sense of decency or propriety. He hated this ‘barista’ with an unbridled passion. The disdain he felt for the corpulent, balding, middle-aged Daily Mail acolyte that was his foreman at the bottle-cap factory, great as it was, paled in to paltry insignificance before the rage inspired in him by Colin, just as Mercury buzzed across the face of the sun like a fly.

The Assumed C. Grimes Esq. had served him at this hour for the past two years and four months (Bank Holidays, illnesses and technical bereavements not included) and yet- and the customer believed that this must have been a deliberate part of some larger plan- absolutely refused to betray a scintilla of recognition in his small, unobservant pale blue eyes when this regular customer arrived at the counter at practically the same time every morning, wearing the same uniform, hair brushed slightly forward and slightly to the left, without exception. No chance of a familiar smile, or of a greeting that deviated from SOP from this Machiavellian genius.

“good morning sir how may I help you” Colin asked, with vulpine cunning. This, as was of course his intention, incensed his customer. Every morning for as long as he could remember this perfectly-played opening gambit had caused him to consider taking the tip jar (a ludicrously inappropriate thing to exist in a place which strove toward good service about as thoroughly as National Socialism strove toward ethnic diversity which yet was someone half full with coppers.) in his left hand and smashing it against the side of Monsieur Grimes’ peculiarly-shaped skull. This morning was no different. His fist clenched and unclenched in his pocket, crushing a forgotten piece of tissue paper in his cloying palm. Yet he would not less Herr Grimes get the better of him now, after so skilfully deflecting his attacks for so long in this protracted duel. He simply resolved to strike back verbally.

“Grande latté to go please. Thank you.”

The satisfaction of a blow well-struck. In the interests of gentlemanly decorum, he suppressed a victorious smile. And yet Colin’s riposte caught him off guard, as it was exactly what he was expecting.

“is that to drink in or take out”

The b*****d. The clever b*****d. Never, in two years and four months, had he deigned to “drink in”, and yet never in two years and four months had Colin failed to ask that damned question. His lack of initiative was masterful. Sublime. Colin composed banal enquiries with such skill and precision that Mozart would be shamed.  And yet, this morning he had made a misstep. One thing that Colin Grimes did not know was that his rival had spent the previous evening in bed devising the most dastardly and devious stratagem. With the eagerness of a lion cub pouncing, for the very time, upon a wounded animal, he said:

“I’ll drink in, please”.

And yet, Colin “Stonewall” Grimes, did not blink at this drastic turn of events. He quite literally did not blink. In fact, the humiliated customer could not think of a time he had seen Colin Grimes blink. A long moment passed. The angry red pimply on the tip of Colin’s nose glowered at him challengingly. The customer wanted the inconsistently polished floor to open up and swallow him up, but instead he was forced to look at his enemy’s gloating face, completely unchanged by the exaltation brought by victory. Silently laughing at him, beholding him with the same mockery in his vegetable-like aspect with which the statues of Easter Island beheld the sea. And then, the hammerblow.

“is that all for you sir”

Hatred began to well up inside of him. His mouth went dry, and he began to feel  burningly hot despite the bracing cold outside and the unchangingly oppressive temperance of the interior. His next strike was feeble, a toothpick scraping a tectonic plate.

“Yes, thank you”.

“thatll be two sixty five please sir”

Wordless, ashen-faced, with a shaking hand, he handed the spoils of victory to his conqueror, receiving change as an act of clemency. He looked down at his shoes, and then up again, now presented with the disdainful back of Colin’s triumphant and dandruff-infested head, as he proceeded to make the coffee.

A flash of inspiration. Divine inspiration. His legs weak with joy, he nearly fell to the floor, but steeled himself.

Thank you, Mr. Affleck!

He clenched and unclenched his hand within his pocket. He cleared his throat. Once. Twice. And then he struck. Not eager like a cub, this time, but with the precision and ruthlessness of a well-versed killer.

“Actually, you’d better make that to take away”

In his mind’s eye, his saw Colin turning round on his heels, dead eyes finally alive with blazing passion, perhaps hurling the now half-filled mug at his head like a Scud missile, perhaps even decapitating him in a shower of lukewarm milk and cheap porcelain. How sweet that victory would be. He braced himself for his deliverance. He heart leapt into his mouth.

And then he almost choked on it.

Without skipping a beat, the automaton Colin simply transferred the contents of the porcelain cup into a paper one, and continued his procedure. He deigned to cast the most well-aimed of shots over his shoulder to his now totally crushed opponent.

“no problem”

The next two minutes passed in silence, as Colin finished making the coffee. He placed it firmly and lightly upon the counter, and, staring firmly into the middle distance with a voice of average pitch and volume, said-

“grande latte to go thank you have a nice day”

 

He saw no other option. His hand clenched in his pocket once, twice, thrice more in quick succession, a shot of hot pain lancing up his arm to the shoulder. It darted out from the pocket, viper-like, and move within the blink of an eye to the oft-dreamed of weapon. His hand hovered, shaking, over that glass Excalibur. He fixed Colin with his gaze, but the drapes were drawn across the windows to the soul. He clenched his jaw.

With a hollow, sickening ‘clink’, deposited a solitary cold penny into the tip jar.

His retreat was hasty, undignified. He splashed coffee onto his thumb and cursed under his breath, fumbled with the door, passing a brace of schoolgirls on the way out, face burning. The cold of the street hit him like a faceful of Styx. Behind him, he thought he heard Colin laughing.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, by Affleck, would be his day.

Author's Note

First thing I've written in pretty much ever. Reviews not only welcome, but actively desired. I'd love to hear some feedback if you have the time.

Not proof read, written very quickly.

Just interested in general opinions on style. Was it actually funny, or just annoying?

Thanks!

Reviews

[E.J. Newman]

This was a competent, amusing piece I thoroughly enjoyed, but I do have a few comments/tips that would ameliorate the overall style and flow. For starters, I found the first paragraph to be a little confounding. Try to avoid going into too much detail in a parenthetical remark, as it often compels readers to go back and re-read the beginning of the sentence sans parenthesis to get back on the right track/understand what follows. I would suggest stripping your first parenthesis down to its essence - the parenthetical run-on detracts attention from the direction you're headed + your otherwise competent writing skills! Also, I advise you to add more sentence variation in the first two paragraphs to tighten style and add a sense of dynamic flow. From then onwards, though, I have to commend you - the style becomes wonderfully focused, with pointed humor and witty metaphors rendering it a masterfully-crafted read. Wonderful use of figurative language and dialogue - the piece takes an intriguing, crafty turn that speaks to your talent as a writer. A more polished, subtle beginning would have a elicited a higher rating, but well done so far!