A Nice Cuppa

CROUCHING BARISTA, HIDDEN LACTOSE (continued…)

TUTI: (in thought) Follow me Earlobe.

She knew he would. The sight of her running would pull him from his roost. It was like breaking from the blocks before the gun…everyone’s nerves were so jangled, people were looking for an excuse to run. So Earlobe would be on his way. He was.

EARLOBE: (in thought) There she goes. Someone is that stupid. Panicking bi**h.

TUTI: (in thought) I’m sure you think something’s in the bag. Come and see.

EARLOBE: You’re stupid. You’re carrying the evidence and you’re running.

He was sitting comfortably when she left the shop. Finding a place to squat and watch, possibly for hours, was difficult for the area. The intersection where the shop sat was just deep enough into the financial district to make casual rest spots a rarity. The Cuppa was there of course, but the nearby buildings spoke more towards taking care of business than putting your feet up to recapture your mojo. Capital One, Anderson and Sons, Leo Barnes, Scotia Venture, Manulife, and Malay Bank were a few professional examples. Even the postman wore cufflinks. Juiced was the only exception, second floor and kitty-corner to the Cuppa. It did well, catering to the other half of the business world. The half that just didn’t like the taste of coffee. The half for whom noon hour power walks (hosery in white runners…what a look) and fabricated excitement over the veggie casserole recipe in Woman’s Day came off as the true obsessives. Lobe didn’t care less. Juiced had the view he needed without anyone caring why. The internet service helped. He could fake the role of the all day gamer without so much as a peep from Toadie, the day’s Gen-X counter boy.

EARLOBE: Computer. For a while. (pointing to a station by the window). What about that one?

TOADIE: It’s fine. Juice’ll make it tropical though.

EARLOBE: (in thought) Hate these burnouts. Everything’s a quip. (in voice, browsing the menuboard) Sure. What d’you have? Kiwi-melon. Large.

TOADIE: Aussie rules yeah? $4.25. I’ll bring it over. Computer’s the boxy thing with the wires.

EARLOBE: Thanks (dick).

He was e-mailing Mom when he saw Tuti break into her sprint. He dropped everything.

EARLOBE: Log me out.

TOADIE: Always.

Lobe tore down the stairs.

TOADIE: Stuff’ll go right through ya.

EXTERIOR - BUSINESS DISTRICT STREETS - DAY

Running full tilt. It had to be toned down on a city street. Not that a cop would stop you. Not that a schmuck in insurance sales, dead to all aspects of life but the bleeps and blips of the palm pilot he could never seem to own when it was trendy to own it would care. Or the wavering college student. But the difference between a full-on “I’m gonna catch this b**ch” run and a “Damn, I’m late” hustle was mainly a case of how much attention one attracted. He wanted little. All the same, Lobe went for the crosswalk long after the green man had given him ample warning to slow down. From the other side it was a straight run uphill, one block. Tuti turned left and was gone from sight as he started to pick up speed. Even loaded down with black bags of milk-stained j-cloths and coffee grounds she was quick. Lobe sucked in a breath through barred teeth and picked up the pace.

LOBE: (in thought) You better run…this time I’ll break you.

10 seconds.

LOBE: I warned you…

7 seconds.

LOBE: Which means I can punish you.

4 seconds.

LOBE: Don’t care so much that you’re ahead of me…

2 seconds.

LOBE: …more that you think you can win.

He bounded the corner sharply. Garbage bags in the way. Jump them. Thirty feet beyond, a black apron tail whipped to the left, leaving the sidewalk.

LOBE: You’re caught. Good luck wearing the humiliation on YOUR FACE back at the Academy. It’s called meeting your match.

INTERIOR - BUILDING PARKADE - DAY

Brad tapped the gas and the truck nudged a foot in reverse. Not that it mattered. Lobe’s speed had attitude. He hit the truck corner with the snap of a broken yard stick and spun to the concrete. A small trickle from the side of his face coldest against the concrete was the most obvious sign of concern…besides the unconscious body. Brad jumped down from the elevated cab, to Lobe, mortified.

BRAD: Wh, Whu, Whu…

Tuti walked out from the far side of the truck, deepest into the white walled garage.

TUTI: (in thought) You’re either p-whipped or you have a bit of dignity Brad. Don’t tell the hot chick you’ll do whatever you can to help and then act like you weren’t exactly sure what smacking a man with a 2 ton delivery truck was actually all about.

TUTI: Brad.

BRAD: Call….someone!

TUTI: Brad, he’s okay.

BRAD: No. No.

Tuti pressed a fat red button on a panel. The garage door shut.

TUTI: He’s sleeping. Relax. Put him in the truck.

BRAD: Ambulance.

TUTI: Shut up.

BRAD: Look at…his face is bleeding. His face is gone. His face is on the truck!

TUTI: His face is on his face. (in thought) Shit. From one male liability to another. At least Lobe was arrogant enough to keep his spineless nature to himself. With Brad it was more on his sleeve. Worrywart. He’d throw a rib-eye steak to a wolf pack then toss and turn about not having cut it into bite size pieces.

Tuti needed to calm him down. With her right hand bunched around his shirt tail, she rough-housed the back of his neck with her left. She sank her lips into his mouth and held him there, alternating forceful and soft pressure, one to distract, one to impress. He wasn’t going anywhere. He was pacified. Pathetic. Tuti was no expert on the unconscious. From what she’d seen on Cops and in North end night club parking lots, she had about an hour before Lobe would come to.

TUTI: (in thought) So, that’s it. An hour. Good. Gettin tired of this dickin around.

(To be continued….)