Vanilla Thrilla Pt. 5
CROUCHING BARISTA, HIDDEN LACTOSE (continued…)
Recap: Tuti pursues the target package via a mailable young Toronto courier named Keith. While he gives her no question asked access to incoming packages, she plays matchmaker. But the package has already been delivered, and what should have been a walk in the park for Tuti, is now…a problem.
And now, we continue with the Vanilla Thrilla.
Sound effect: a phone ring punctuates a look of concern on Tuti’s face. It’s an audible sense of urgency that toggles with the scene that follows it.
Interior - The Cuppa Coffee Shop - Day
A hand reaches down frame, cutting off the phone mid-way through the second ring. It’s attached to Ferina.
FERINA: Hi.
DAD: No Good morning? No Home of the foam?
FERINA: No one wants to hear Home of the foam. It’s infomercial sick.
DAD: You’re talking like a boy band. They’d like to hear something. Coffee’s conversation.
FERINA: Good morning Dad. Your Luwak is here. No, I didn’t open it.
DAD: It’s there is it? It’s there, great. I’ll crack it when I drop by. Keep it away from Justin.
Speak of the devil and he walks by the office door carrying a black forest cake tray. Incidentally, a cake shaped customer eyes the register readout, rummaging through his pockets. He mumbles, nothing audible though. Justin dishes out customer service smiles all the same.
FERINA: He’s not interested.
DAD: (disappointed) He should at least be interested.
Cut to Justin in serving mode.
JUSTIN: Enjoy your day.
CAKE CUSTOMER: Bye bye.
A customer enters on a confident strut. Early 40s, upper class cougar, she’s a Sex in the City cameo waiting to happen, without the approachability of the series regulars. She pulls an artificial sweetener from a handbag.
JUSTIN: (flat) Welcome.
COUGAR: (flatter) Hi. Tall cappuccino.
JUSTIN: Sure.
Justin begins. He’s swift to it, extracting the needed espresso grounds and tamping them into the portafilter in an invisible amount of time. He grabs a regular sized mug without looking.
JUSTIN: Is this okay?
COUGAR: If I ordered it. What did I say?
JUSTIN: Tall.
She tilts her head in either direction, confirming the location it’s not. Whoops. No green-rimmed mermaid in sight.
COUGAR: Oh. I’m here. That’s fine then.
Justin locks the portafilter in place in a single authoritative stroke. Cougar holds up the sweetener.
COUGAR: May I?
JUSTIN: Sure.
He reaches for it.
COUGAR: I’d like to if you don’t mind.
He spins the white porcelain in his palm a full turn then places the mug on the counter in front of her.
JUSTIN: Sure. It’s not epinephrine.
COUGAR: Pardon?
JUSTIN: In an emergency. Say you’re having an allergic reaction to a bee sting, start ballooning up like Oprah…old Oprah. I wouldn’t be allowed to give the injection.
COUGAR: Sure I wouldn’t be looking like old Oprah.
JUSTIN: You might. But I couldn’t legally administer, or rather, I’d be held liable if something went wrong. Could only go so far as taking out the epi-pen, placing it in your hand. So it’s not like adding sweetener.
COUGAR: An old clubbing habit, avoids added surprises.
JUSTIN: Really. Powder-in-a-vial bastards eh? You watch your back Miss.
COUGAR: Always do hon. Always do.
Cut to Ferina.
FERINA: He has his moments.
DAD: Don’t marry him.
FERINA: Ahhh, no. And a boyfriend might get in the way of that.
DAD: Mmm. Don’t marry him either.
FERINA: Great talking Dad. See you soo-
DAD: Now don’t go girlie on me.
FERINA: You have another-
DAD: Remember November? Huh? Hate those rhyming words, but whatever. You know what I’m saying don’t you?
Ferina inhales and gathers an extra mouthful of air, like winding up for a pitch. What’s the point. She holds it without responding, letting her father fulfill his purpose for being: anecdotal wisdom.
DAD: The 8th. He phoned you from a business conference….all expenses paid lap dance get away more accurate to the point. Ha. Western productivity in the shape of…drunken g-strings. Pathetic to the end.
Ferina finds a hard surface to lean on. The counter outside is steady at a flow of one to two patrons, an easy time for Justin. The lunch crowd would move quickly past the front windows now, knowing just what underground eateries would give a cheap fill without sacrificing the Code of the Food Court. The mixing of professions in these environments was unavoidable, but mixing status within individual sections of wobbly white tables, a story to avoid. Like day-old pastries from the fresh, a hierarchy must prevail. For example, financial services could share space and even condiments with insurance brokers, but not with government survey cold callers. The use of a telephone or computer alone in a vocation did not determine minglability. Never would. Artists, photo-developers, and picture framers could break bread with cleaning staff on the grounds of not having achieved their ambitions, but rarely with law clerks. And servers of all breeds would clique above ground. But standards in taste, what was dumped down the food tube, was all encompassing regardless of career (at least until the dinner hour, when eating out turned into paranoid public statements about one’s degree of importance in the world). Lunch was a quick fix, and not even the cuff-linked studded creme de whatever would schlep away from a foot-long meatball on whole wheat. At noon, food was food, and nothing more. But when the meal finally settled, the head attached to it would soon realize the afternoon ahead was dead weight without…a kick. And then they would come. Commerce loves an artificial stimulant.
FERINA: Did he call you Dad?
DAD: No. Would’ve punted him through a donut hole. He asked for you, then said I was pretty much standing there with him because my voice was coming out the other end. Bull-bonding-crappo.
FERINA: Mom would’ve liked it.
DAD: Your Mom had big tolerance for freaks. I don’t have the parts for that.
And the next words, Ferina mimes along with him. For a not yet grandfather, her dad re-hashes thoughts like a pro.
DAD: Show me a boyfriend with a stone tongue, and I’ll show you a son-in-law with a place to rest his head.
FERINA: Good then. I’ve got customers.
DAD: Go, go. Plug the Luwak….no, don’t. It’s an event. Have to handle it right. Maybe some Korean dancing girls. Mmmm. Get along then.
FERINA: Bye.
DAD: Sure. The attitude’s coming along too Ferina. I mean it.
FERINA: Mmm.
DAD: I’ll be by.
FERINA: Sure.
The new package sits by her feet. Wrapped in brown paper, probably on brown cardboard, one thing the world seemed to agree on. Ferina winds up, kicking it under a nearby supply rack. It’s the closest thing to her, and him.
(To be continued….soon)
