A Nice Cuppa

CROUCHING BARISTA, HIDDEN LACTOSE (continued…)

Exterior - Bukittinggi, West Sumatra

GUNTER: (In thought) Why are we hiding in a motel? They know where we live….sure to know where we work. Whatever. You get freaked out, you hide. We’re hiding. I like hiding…even like being found. Game o hide and seek at the cottage, make a point of being found. It was easy. Behind a bush…the kinda bush that walled off your yard from the neighbor who told you to stay the hell out of his….neighbor with only three shirts and the same two were always hangin on the line. As long as you weren’t being chased by neighbors with rakes, it was easy to give yourself away in a game of hide and seek. Crouch down sideways and stick a shoe out beyond the lower tree needles. A white shoe in moonlight was as good as…obvious. Whoever was “It” would have to walk up to you at that point, confirm it was you with a peek at your face before the quick burn back to home base. Now that was suspense. “Wet the pants suspy”, as he called it. He loved it. And so, a little give-yourself-away was all goody. It was living. Maybe that’s why he was walking now, outside, where he could be noticed, tailed, whatever. He did want to prove himself at the coffee shop. He was on the level with the tea thing but come on, even he rose above the ranks of syrup-headed occasionally.

Interior - Dean’s Coffee House

He was there. His memories had done their job preoccupying him on the walk. A pull on the handle and he was in, nervous though. The last time he’d been here wasn’t fantastic. Seeing it again made his knees weak, like the ex-girlfriend whose wallet size photo still made your teeth rattle. The inner lobby was a tightly decorated hall of plants and flea market artifacts, a pay-phone for the generation still skilled enough to remember how, and an eight foot rodent-themed pole carving. For the area, the place was distinct…enough to remind Gunter of his embarrassment last time around. He backed away from the inner door, the door between the lobby and actual paying customers. Not yet, so Gunter calmed himself by browsing a pockmarked cork board of local business cards.

“Tender Jeeves. Practical Business Massage. Daily.” Didn’t exactly shout, “feel like a new man.” Was a cross between canned pet food and an accounting firm.
“Move to Move. Top furniture and office relocation. Will do.” Very big of em.
“King of City Escort. A Queen for Lonely Knights.” Prince of cheese, but there were extras on the board so Gunter did a community service and pocketed one. He took a breath. And even as John and Troy were on their way out, he didn’t budge.

JOHN: You’re all thumbs til you find your fingers.

TROY: Parables. I have a dad thanks.

JOHN: Do you listen to him?

TROY: Only once.

The two move outside.

GUNTER: (in thought) “You’re all thumbs til you find…” Who said that?

Then it hit him. The evening so far had treated his memory well. The lazy recall of Gunter’s childhood on the walk here, tripping through backyards for a 12 year old quickie thrill, almost seemed intentional now, as if the experience had lubed up his mind for more important memories. “You’re all thumbs…” Well, he knew this one. Oh God.

A potted fern took the brunt of the fluid. Gunter expelled in two waves about equal in force. His torso rocked as the insides surged out of him; delicate leaves didn’t stand a chance. He at least kept it quiet. Down on one knee, Gunter caught his breath, too stunned even to wipe his chin. John’s words twisted themselves into a wrought iron knot and raked back and forth behind his eyes. Just to rub it in.

“You’re all thumbs til…” Gunter sang it back to himself in a hot flush of blood. Bad feeling. He secretly regretted having hung up the Sunday morning service when he was 19.

GUNTER: (in thought) Give me something pure in my corner right about now.

He belched and it came up as bile. Nothing left. Bodily punishment done, he had nothing else to do on the floor but worry.

GUNTER: (in thought) I gripped the toilet as a boy like this, almost sitting on the floor. But my legs were locked in a crouch. Nothing ever comfortable about doing the sick.

Back then, his face had alternated between pudding yellow and red with each spasm. His hair was matted and wet like an athlete. He’d felt like an athlete…sometimes….and wondered if Mom ran her fingers through his hair out of pride. Whenever she did he felt that yeah, there must be a right way to toss your breakfast, and congratulations for your technique.

GUNTER: (in thought) Ahhh Mom. Where are you now? Are you thinking bout me? Are you wondering what ratio of my adulthood’s misery could be pegged directly to you? No worries Mom. You did good. Blame the worst of me on the world you could never know, and call it a day. Ahhh Ma….always there to hold my hair back. But….with John here…..best you stay away.

(To be continued….)