INTERIOR - THE CUPPA - DAY

Ferina hands the box to her father, the thick brown cardboard perhaps the size of two shoeboxes taped together. Dad’s eyes get wide, maybe curious for the first time since he realized he had them way back when.

DAD: (in thought) I love this. Not quite sure how a box of beans and packing tape can excite an old man, but I am. International postage is a turn on.

He propped up the blade on the exacto-knife…and stopped. His hand was barely inches away from a cut.

DAD: This could be considered one of those moments I think.

TUTI: (in thought) How was this gonna work? If I just grab it and run I might have to wrestle Pops and his little girl on the sidewalk outside. Not exactly indiscreet, but I could take the old guy without worrying much. Ferina though…she’s alright.

JUSTIN: (in thought) You’re so deep.

FERINA: (in thought) Jesus’ not on my side.

DAD: And if we can recognize em, we should celebrate em. Right?

Smile. Nod. Fake whatever. Dad extended a finger toward Justin.

DAD: You rolling your eyes kid?

JUSTIN: Stretching sir.

“Days of Cheese.” That’s what Justin liked to ceremoniously call these moments. He’d seen his share during his time at The Cuppa, in the presence of his boss, the Cheesemaster. And the pointed finger made it all the worse, always riding alongside eyes that looked up from a head dramatically pointed down, the “beaten down hero moments before he leaps bare-chested back into the bloodied mob” movie look. The Kurt Russell look…without the cool. But the look was also Justin’s cue to make beverages to toast in celebration of whatever needed to be celebrated. Free beverages on work time. Sure. Here was the breakdown: Ferina - Caramel Coretto; Justin - triple mocha latte with vanilla flavor shot; Tuti - black coffee, raspberry Italian soda chaser; Dad - Turkish coffee. And even with each of them rather particular about the way their drinks were constructed, they held them high in salute to that moment just minutes later.

DAD: To things not yet seen. To the future and the unknown mys-

Enter Paul, loudly.

PAUL: Nice drinks. Dad I’m sorry to interrupt but I need to talk to you.

FERINA: (stunned, though not totally unfamiliar with Paul’s hero-antics, made all the worse by eyes that looked up from a head dramatically pointed down, the “beaten down hero moments before he leaps bare-chested back into the bloodied mob” movie look. An expression of familiarity swept the group) What’s up?

PAUL: I need to speak to your dad hon. It’s fine.

DAD: Don’t you have a job?

PAUL: Ha…brilliant, but no. I just quit.

FERINA: (suddenly silent, choking on her tongue perhaps) …uh.

JUSTIN: HA! Hmm.

PAUL: Not important though. Uhh….okay, listen to this….

He rummages through his pockets, and pulls out a folded piece of computer paper.

PAUL: I have a poem.

JUSTIN: (in thought) I’m never leaving here.

FERINA: (in thought) ….ughkdjksdj….

PAUL: Strange situation, sure, but….hey, a poem! It’ll explain what I can’t.

DAD: (on the verge of a brand new emotion) Yeah.

PAUL: (fully confident)

Are you sad Sad Girl?
let me know
I’ll butter the sun with a hotcross bun
give you a licorice whip sunrise
with sprinkles
if that ‘ll do the trick

Is that a heavy lip Sad Girl?
let me know
I’ll caramel coat every pig, sheep, and goat
knit you a rainbow pinata scarf
if that’ll help the cause

Do I detect a somber air Sad Girl?
let me know
I’ll send you adrift on a ladeeda rift
a one-way ticket to cuddly bunny town
if that’ll raise your spirits

And if not…?
I’ll get the hell outta dodge,
cause I have a life too ya know…

Paul takes a beefy man-breath through his nose, more than pleased.

(To be continued….)

INTERIOR - THE CUPPA - DAY

Tuti enters, fresh off her run-in in the trash bay. By all visual accounts, things couldn’t be righter. Cool as a cucumber, though time was foremost on her mind. She needed the box.

JUSTIN: How’d it go.

TUTI: Bit messy for my taste.

Nudge nudge….double talk that’d make Schwarzenegger proud. It’d always come easy for Tuti. Sarcasm was the protein shake that drove her to new heights, a salesman type attitude that got her out of scrapes. Maybe into a few. Grade 8, June. Twenty three students handed forward a geography paper: natural disasters; the kind of project where students first made a creative attempt at plagiarism. Try putting tectonic plate movements in your own words. Assignment date: six weeks prior. Tuti sat decorating her fingernails with magic marker.

MS. HILLIER: Dog ate your homework?

TUTI: Dog did my homework. Thought I’d save you the trouble of reading eight pages of paw prints.

For anyone who did laugh, it had to be automatic. Ms. Hillier may have slapped her knee well with sting enough in the teacher’s lounge, but in the classroom, ha ha’s and hee hee’s offered up outside of a scientific context was frowned on. Anyone with time to think before laughing, wouldn’t. She’d do whatever the early 90’s called detention that day, not caring either way.

INTERIOR - DELIVERY VAN/MOVING - DAY

Earlobe didn’t stir. He was cuddled up in the back, fetal style, just another package on the move. Brad had wrapped a towel around his head to buffer him from his surroundings, mostly packages huddled in the back of a well worn delivery van. Besides, the bump fast growing into the second head needed sanitation. Brad cracked an ice pack from the first aid box and placed it in the towel. As potent as it be, the taste of Tuti was wearing off now, and he was beginning to feel maternal again.

BRAD: (in thought) You’re weak Brad. The worst a man can be, and aren’t you doing it? It’s gotten the better of you. Come on!

INTERIOR - THE CUPPA - DAY

A man was opening cupboards. Man? He was older, though stocky, still a physical deterrent to whatever young punks still supplemented their income via accosting seniors. The skin wrapped around his face looked thin; toughened him actually. It gave the bones underneath the look of barbed wire in saran-wrap. She could take him.

FERINA: Dad, this is Tuti…our latest.

TUTI: Maybe greatest…we’ll see though.

He turned to her mechanically. His eyes had all the experience in the world behind them, and a disappearing smile said, “I know it.”

DAD: Sure you’ve got something for Ferina to consider you…though I have my own standards.

On the last beat his body swayed towards Justin, ever the non-chalanteur.

TUTI: S’got you where you are wherever you are today sir.

DAD: (in thought) Cocky river-siren, I might enjoy this. (taking a shot of his own) Right you are, though one look and I can’t wondering wherever you were.

TUTI: Not the barista poster girl?

DAD: That’s it. (in thought) Here we go.

FERINA: (in thought) Here we go.

JUSTIN: (in thought) Nail his ass.

TUTI: Should be uglied up a bit maybe.

DAD: (in thought) She’s a fireball. (aloud) It’s more the poise.

TUTI: Or is it pose? Street corner lamppost style.

DAD: Happens to be our location.

TUTI: And me without my fishnets.

DAD: (in thought) Electro-static!

FERINA: (in thought) I’m unemployed.

TUTI: (in thought) The arrogance of age meets a small business owner bullhead. I’m looking at Pram in 30 years. Son of a bitch. (aloud) All I can do is my best sir. And after meeting you, I can honestly say I’d like to.

Stunned…the lot of em. Even Tuti reeled inside her head. A smart-ass poet is born. Ferina’s dad smiled. He may have been smitten.

DAD: (in thought) I might be smitten. (aloud) Welcome aboard. (turning to Ferina) Some day kiddo. If good things come in threes, what’s next?

FERINA: The Luwak I suppose.

Tuti twitched.

DAD: I’m counting that. You puttin in your two weeks Justin?

He gave Dad the only reaction he was allowed to…the kind without the middle finger that would keep him on the payroll.

DAD: You know I’m kidding youngster. You culture up the place just nice. (turning to Tuti) It’s a mixed bag here dear. You’re lucky to be a part.

TUTI: I get the sense.

DAD: And a lucky day to jump in. Don’t know if my girl here’s told you about our Dom Perignon (to Ferina) So! Where’re you hiding it? Let’s crack it.

(To be continued….)

WEST SUMATRA
INTERIOR - CAR/MOVING - DAY

GUNTER: Is this possible?

PRAMANA: How much do you have in personal accounts?

GUNTER: We need it now? What for?

PRAMANA: To make a buy. What d’you think?

GUNTER: All of it?

PRAMANA: Maybe…I’m kicking in too, so…whatever. Depends on what the street says. You’ll get it back.

GUNTER: I don’t know. I kinda have plans.

PRAMANA: In two days we’re done. You can do whatever you want.

GUNTER: I was thinking of Thailand.

PRAMANA: Cause it’s sooo different from where we are. Gunter, this is the way to get John. Why do you think you puked in a fern? Because seeing him pissed you off. You want this guy as much as I do.

GUNTER: It’d be nice.

PRAMANA: F**k’n yeah. We need cash for product, product for a shipment-

GUNTER: Casey’s close.

PRAMANA: His stuff’s crap. You could water down a dead horse and get better coffee.

GUNTER: Who’re you thinking of? Jatna?

PRAMANA: Yeah.

GUNTER: He’s under the eye you know.

PRAMANA: I know. 200,000 kms of coastline and he starts shipping into the port central. His stuff’s pure enough though, and he knows me.

Interior - The Cuppa - Day

“Hip Hop MVP”…and the letters twisted their way across his back, around his shoulder blades almost. Six gold stars spread themselves across two wavy swooshes that underlined the initials. He probably thought highly about the gold embossed lettering himself as he strutted. Probably admired its ability to stand out in a room of blazers and tucked-in t-shirts. Probably considered it a cloak of some kind…made him a bulletproof cosmonaut. Ferina gave him a look without meaning to look, then directed her mind on her side of the window, towards more important things. Scheduling.

Justin: Pretty much got what he requested. Smart mouth or not, he was always there, and at least the customers who had gotten comfortable with his “Now let me tell you what I really think” quippiness, seemed to come back. Mon, Tues, Thurs, Fri days. And the odd crisis Saturday.

Emma: A good egg with a cracked smile made you love her all the more for allowing her personality to surpass her ugliness. Weekends and Wednesdays.

Brendon: Early 20s. Third year microbiology student. A sweet bleeding heart who cared for everything but his hair. The F14, wind-tunnel bed-head infuriated her dad’s grooming standards, though without a speck of dry scalp to be seen, how far could he really take it? Wed to Fri afternoons. Sunday evenings.

Chassy: Employed long enough to be bitter about it, and long enough not to be axed for any other reason than being bitter about it. Great coffee knowledge with little incentive to use it. Felt very comfortable correcting certain patrons on their coffee knowledge. Mon, Tues, Fri evenings. Saturday day.

Tuti: Newbie. A “made it up as she went” who came off like a “knew it all along.” Justin-like quick to the punch, with reinforced steely lining. Hidden agenda? Who didn’t. But until it was known…Mon to Fri days. Could make life at The Cuppa interesting again.

TUTI: Thanks.

Speak of the devil. Tuti smiled over Ferina’s shoulder, playing the part of the grateful employee. Brother did the music thing. She handled the acting. An artsy family.

FERINA: No problem. If they need to be adjusted, let me know.

TUTI: Sure.

FERINA: (gives a nod to the bathroom) How’re the fruit flies?

TUTI: Paradise. Hard to leave.

FERINA: Yeah right. Invite the family.

Tuti settled into their conversation, and leaned her body back into the shelving behind her. Her arm close to buckled, still raw from her meeting with Earlobe. She compensated by tightening her jaw, channeling the pain out of her mouth, and managed to hide it. Earlobe. The kind of guy who ruined days by waking up. Tuti didn’t need to look over her shoulder now. He had left the building. By the time she patted her face with a dampened ball of TP, he was gone. Probably perched himself on a nearby street light, preening himself.

TUTI: (in thought) You’re made. It’s over then…essentially. Whether I pawn the goodie bag or not, it’s over. I can’t see me being their only final play though…which means they’ve got Pramana too. Ha. To see his face as he walks into the Academy at Levitt, into the lab. No, better yet, coming up the old sidewalk across the campus lawn, with me approaching opposite, like a movie. He wouldn’t wink. He’d have the same wicked face as when they slapped a hand on his back and he realized he was going home. “Thanks for helping out,” he’d say…something half way between putting the blame on me and actually expressing gratitude for my involvement. Ahh, who knows. Maybe coming off this assignment would be the best thing for him….give him his sense of humor back. He’d be pissed though. Be pissed about being bagged into 2nd place for a long time. I won’t. I can let the war games go without the 6th grade grudge, but not yet. And not on account of Prince Dorko: Lord of the Lobes. Hell…far as I’m concerned, if this is gonna be the last day of summer camp, I’m goin home with the best damn pine-cone necklace in the troop. Pram will do the same. He’d been a huge sore loser since I’ve known him, and the more serious the game, the harder he’d spit. Even in play, he wouldn’t let up. Guy couldn’t lose a dumb chess game without attacking the character of the piece that finally did him in.

“What was he thinking?”
“Nothing. It’s a bishop.”
“Who’s been playing out of character for the last 10 moves.”
“It’s wood.”
“He’s wishy washy. Half hour ago, I’d flinch and he’d jump behind your pawn.”
“Comeback then. Came through like the champion he is.”
“He’s inconsistent. You don’t run your whole life and then decide to attack the biggest thing around. He never would’ve had the guts.”
“He? Give me a break.”

She pitied the wincing sack of unfortunate that Director had chosen to catch Pramana. But this was Canada dammit, land of permafrost underwear and Tim Horton’s fine dining. Her problem was getting Earlobe out of the way. Could frame him. She had faith that the city’s policing would hold a freak for being a freak, for a bit. College St. HQ was literally a 40 second jog away, close enough…but if she faked a crisis she’d be out of the picture too…have to make a statement. Nah. Didn’t feel much like a Q&A with Lieutenant what’s his face. Probably fall in love with his pencil chewing and corduroy jacket. Earlobe would be better off just being unconscious.

TUTI: So where’s the trash go?

The metal garbage bins were outside, or rather inside through an automated parking door at the rear of the building, but a fellow needed to breathe open air to get there. The bins were shared by five small business within the building: Travel Gains, Sandwich Stop (skimpy on the tuna), Credit Union, The Cuppa, and Moosezz Bar & Grill. Each had a one button plastic remote with a blocky white button set into the middle. It tripped the door, but as ugly often does, the users confidence in the remotes often wanned. Tuti put it in her pocket. Justin held the door open and she stumbled outside with three garbage bags, two in her left hand. Used coffee grounds were heavy.

JUSTIN: Say when…
TUTI: I need help? You a gentleman?
JUSTIN: Nope.
TUTI: (adjusting her grip) I got it.
JUSTIN: See ya.

She walked. Game plan. What would Pramana do? Punch Ferina, grab the box, and run. Maybe later. This called for something a bit more inventive. Tuti turned the corner and ran.

(To be continued….)

Interior - Motel - West Sumatra

PRAMANA: You seem to know people.

GUNTER: Mm.

Gunter still hiccuped bubbles of stomach bile to his throat. The taste was forgettable but he couldn’t retain it while his head spun. John was the man he’d heard in the cafe, no question. John. An anonymous enough title that wouldn’t get any more specific over the next few hours, but he could care less. Titles worried him less than reputations. John had his. Prince of Meth. Consummate business man with a heart of lead, though he peddled his product under the pretense that he cared, he really cared. After the tsunami hit, he ordered his troops to the scene with adulterated meth “rescue pacs”….a crumbly brown rock known as peanut butter crank. It was an acute CNS stimulant sure enough, an epinephrine-provoked fight or flight response that no one really needed or wanted to feel again that soon. But there were buyers. He sold it to anyone who had anything, mostly burned out relief workers. How entrepreneurial. So yeah, Gunter knew his rep. Even when this tropical adventure was over, with Pramana in a scuffed and bloody sling and him coughing his insides out, punching EpiPens through his skin in a suffocating wheeze, he’d still only know him as John.

Inside, the panic was just starting to ease up. On Gunter’s face though, he tried to keep things as dull as possible. Losing face in front of Pramana was an uncrackable habit lately. He was sick of it.

PRAMANA: You’re not a total bad luck magnet though…

GUNTER: Hmm?

PRAMANA: Depends how we spin it off.

Pramana’s hand went up to the chin and cupped it. It helped him think. A good time to.

PRAMANA: What else did you hear?

GUNTER: I didn’t hear anything else.

PRAMANA: Just the famous tag line.

GUNTER: His signature line.

PRAMANA: “All thumbs til you nah nah nahhh.” Yea. Hard to imagine anyone else in South East Asia saying that.

GUNTER: Don’t mock.

He did. Insult kept people on their toes, made them question their own reliability, and in an drug enforcement officer’s case, hopefully their powers of observation. It definitely qualified as a mock to an inexperienced Gunter, after having heaved in a helpless plant instead of gathering more useful information on the man even their DEC only knew as John. But he believed Gunter. DEC before life in the field placement was a thorough text and tech marinade. International law, distribution and trafficking, linguistics, surveillance and satellite imaging - they’d had their share of stuffed shirt lectures, logged a ton of hours sitting in headphones, analyzing tapes and wire taps (most having the fire and pomp of a Book on Tape). The DEC officially put to rest any dreams of playing Crockett and Tubbs, saving the world with a Corona waiting on a nearby beach front patio, though even after months of speeches discouraging the recruits from considering any part of their career glamorous, try tearing any one of them away from a Friday night airing of The French Connection, or Heat.

“You’re all thumbs til you find your fingers.” That’s where Gunter’d heard it…via surveillance training. Pramana too. John was a moderate player at the time, building in-roads to meth distribution for an operation he’d inherited from big brother and recent executee, Jonah. Seems after the firing squad, rumor had it that Jonah could have played fearless leader with a bit more information on his side. He was the hands on type, the kind of guy to verify a food’s best before date by downing a mouthful. In this case, it was crank: crystal meth’s less pure powdered form, bagged and saran-wrapped around his torso for travel purposes.

“So…,” Jonah may have asked himself before that day, “…the best way to test overseas smuggling prospects? The best way to research solo smuggling operations and which nation’s security may be lax enough to warrant creating routes there? And the best way to test whether carrying grab-bags of mind-altering chemicals make their carrier’s behavior….noticeable?” Do it, it seemed was his solution. Jonah had told Taiwanese authorities between his capture and death that it was the last question he was most curious about, most curious to know first hand about. Otherwise he would have strapped crushed animal crackers around his waist instead of the real thing. Otherwise he wouldn’t have put himself in danger. Gutsy to be sure, but choosing Taiwan as a port of call was…dumb. One drug smuggling death penalty later and John would promote himself upwards, into bro’s shoes, while bro would just promote himself upward.

As the area’s new meth go-to man, John was even more fond of recycling his one-liners than ever. During his five years as Jonah’s number two, he’d been logged by DEC agents using his “thumbs to fingers” proverb a total of six times. In the two years since his rise in the ranks, the number climbed to 29. Pramana could only imagine how sick John’s cronies were of his evangelizing. Maybe the drugs helped. Regardless, yeah, it was John. Now, the only question in Pramana’s mind was how to get him.

…to be 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….)

Interior - Motel - West Sumatra

GUNTER: I want a tea.

PRAMANA: You just had choco.

GUNTER: I got something to prove.

Pramana could have cared less. Their location had been made, and the “good” side of a smuggling simulation was threatening to end their training in the field. “Had been made.” The tough guy banter wasn’t him. That’s why he spoke it in his head. Even in front of Gunter, he tried to keep it to a minimum. Bitching about their situation like a Hollywood Navy Seal with nothing but one liners made him feel like a child. They were here to train, in the real world, playing smugglers for a few months to get a sense of what the business (and the life) was like from the other side; law enforcement education turned inside out. And now, the other team had been given a few extra runs just to catch the game up. That’s the way he saw it.

GUNTER: I got a tea the other day. You know the place.

PRAMANA: Nope.

GUNTER: Across from the watermelon place.

PRAMANA: (to himself) Can you focus for two seconds? I’ve got to figure out a way to tip Tuti into recovering an illegal item that doesn’t necessarily exist without tipping our tail as to its non-existence. Am I bugged? No. Wouldn’t have bothered with a personal visit then. Would have just presented tapes to Director and been done with it. Goddamn khat! Without that in the box it’s just a box. Without that, Tuti could walk away now….spend the week twitching by the sampling bottles at the Body Shop and leave it be. Screw it. It’s not the way to play these guys anyway. Myers…punk, and his pals…investigative sense of a Flinstone vitamin. They weren’t gettin shit. Tuti wouldn’t let them. Personally, yeah, she was like filet-o-fish at a wine and cheese party, a hardship discharge with more baggage than a domestic departure kiosk, but she could perform in a crunch. Hence, her employ. There. I’ll give her credit.

A year ago, when we shared a pillow and toothpaste holder, Tuti could have had your full attention without being naggy about it. She was talented. In retail speak, she was the customer who got her money back by making a scene, but not by steamroll-bitching management. She had other ways. It was her voice to begin with. It was edged and sultry, the proper mix of sex and no-shit common sense it took to manage bar staff. She had that going for her. And when she spoke, people listened, first because they felt they had to, next because they wanted to. That was then. Now? Sure….she could still pull it off if she needed to, but she was starting to lose it.

Pramana gave her some silent credit. Again, the privacy of being in your own skull afforded him the occasional moment of humanity. You could be happy with yourself for a minute, remind yourself that when all this caramel coated bullshit is over, that the touchy feely crap can still make a comeback. Someday.

GUNTER: It’s a coffee joint, but they have tea too. I had a green tea.

PRAMANA: Yea.

GUNTER: It’s just a tea bag in water, right?

PRAMANA: Usually.

GUNTER: Artsy fartsy tea.

PRAMANA: Yep.

GUNTER: You put the tea in the water…but it’s in the bag. The tea leaves are in the bag. Not in a filter. They had…like…loose leaves in a filter…sittin in the water.

PRAMANA: A bit different. S’like a diaphragm with tea leaves.

GUNTER: It was a bit different. It was a bit different for me. Hmm….how to put this.

PRAMANA: Just put it….some way.

GUNTER: I drank the leaves.

PRAMANA: Sure. (to self) Moron.

GUNTER: It was the way the diaphragm was set into the mug…cup. Really hard to tell it could be lifted out. Really hard.

PRAMANA: Sure. How were they?

GUNTER: Not the best. Filling. They gave me a funny look when they…collected the cup.

PRAMANA: Right. (to self) Who birthed this guy, Yogi Bear and a spatula?

PRAMANA: The leaves stuck to your teeth didn’t they?

GUNTER: You’d think they’d tell a guy.

PRAMANA: Amateurs. You’re going back.

GUNTER: I’m ordering another and I’m going to do it right.

PRAMANA: You da man. Grab me a cap…and don’t be followed.

GUNTER: Sure.

Pramana slapped him on the shoulder.

PRAMANA: (to self) You’re too human for this job today my friend.

Interior - The Cuppa - 3:30 pm

FERINA: Nice.

Tuti gave one of the stainless steel frothing cups a spin around her finger. For what it was worth, the serving thing was kind of nice. The relief of real work.

FERINA: You just might have yourself a job.

TUTI: If I believed in one liners I’d say I told you so.

FERINA: Suppose you did.

TUTI: Thank you though.

And how did that work again? That thing about a place changing its character after you begin working there? Tuti took the theory for a test flight and looked the place over for the first time since the afternoon blitz. It could have been a calming effect though, the way the eyes tend to wander about during a long exhale. Some people played up the effect more than others: the inflatable headed types who liked to exaggerate their contributions to the world by sputtering their eyes about like a popped balloon.

TUTI: Umm…

FERINA: End of the hall. Only door before the stockroom.

TUTI: Merci. Coffee be jammin mon.

The room was tiny, size of a suburban broom closet without the spare blankets. Big enough though.

TUTI: (to self) Can they see me from the counter? The hall curves but barely. Would have liked to have played dumb and tried the stockroom door myself, thinking it was the bathroom, play snoop dog for a little khat. A bit tough after just been given directions to the bathroom though. Not going to play this like a grunt though. As likeable as Ferina and the kid are, these cats are fluff. I can take a bit of time and still get this taken care of, then I’ll split. Besides, the dish-boy wages and an even split of a $5 tip jar ain’t gonna tilt the scale towards being…nice.

For a room this small, you wouldn’t think a shove to the far wall would register as hurt. The far wall just isn’t that far from the near. Still. Tuti hit the wall with her forearm raised and it twisted towards her body. A stab of pain came, and with it a 3rd grade jungle gym dare came flooding back: “spider crawl the monkey bars on your back, or you’re chick chick chicken.” She tried. Then she fell, and spent the summer in a cast and nowhere near a swimming pool. This sucked too. She heard the door click shut. Whoever it was, they were already inside. Tuti turned to fight. Shit. It was Earlobe.

EARLOBE (formerly CUSTOMER 2): You want another? Be difficult.

TUTI: F**k you gorgeous.

He grabbed her shoulder, and held it tight before Tuti knocked it away, but he made his point. Strong boy.

EARLOBE: Customer’s always right Tuti.

TUTI: One liners. Why me?

EARLOBE: Sorry about your assumption that this is all…fun, but it’s over. Pramana’s through. You too. No body’s interested in carrying on with it…because it’s not real anyway. Get it?

TUTI: (shrugging her shoulders; hiding any pain) Me don’t know. Just a coffee girl in a coffee world.

EARLOBE: I doubt it. I know who you are. I know why you’re here. I know you’re not coming back tomorrow to do this thing you’re here to do, so it’s a one day adventure Tuti. That means I’ll be around for the next while. Definitely outside, but I’m also a paying customer, and bang a duck if I just happen to loooove coffee. Get it?

TUTI: (to self) Here we go.

(To be continued….)

Exterior - Bukittinggi, West Sumatra

Black and sporty, a bit arrogant. It glides up to the curbside and comes to an abrupt stop. Music blares from the inside even before the door is cracked. A well-dressed foot steps out and the camera pans up for a first look. TROY, 20, a wannabe Teenbeat recruit past his prime, steps out and looks about the world (perhaps giving the world a look at him). His friend DEV,19, Mediterranean, is behind the wheel.

TROY: Alright man…

DEV: (muffled from the music) You gonna bus it back…?

TROY: I’m gonna phone you.

DEV: Phone me then.

TROY: See ya.

They shake a homemade handshake.

DEV: Go be a superstar.

TROY shrugs as if to say, “What else?”. He slams the door and the music jumps a notch, if possible. The car roars off. As TROY walks the camera follows. He glances into anything that might reflect him.

Interior - Dean’s Coffee House

Deep red stains the wood from ceiling to baseboard, giving this coffee house more B&B feel than Ikea-assembled Starbucks. A half bar greets you at the end of a tiny lobby, just before it opens up into a deep house interior. Antique clocks, bound-worn volumes of unreadable classics, and strategically placed fauna mark the decor. Any excuse for a $5 cuppa.

JOHN sits alone in the long room’s back corner, beneath a brown leather trench coat, and a worn but neatly pressed Andre Agassi t-shirt. His side of the table sits on the cool edge of the streaming morning sunlight. It just misses him. Mid to late 40’s, hair slightly thinning and miscombed, JOHN rings of a dime novel dick with the fashion sense of Seinfeld’s Kramer. But here, he’s as caught up in the deepness as anyone could be. He stares at nothing in particular.

Med CU - JOHN
Several conversations seep in from out of frame, via seated couples. It’s impossible to know whether John’s listening.

A: ….Common sense.
B: So, what’s so common about it?
A: (laughs) You apparently don’t know.
B: Says wh…? Packing up…everything, and shipping off to another town, to avoid rental fees that may or may not…jump….isn’t worth the inconvenience..
A: To who?

C: (extended laughter) Cause you’re my woman.
D: (laughs) Get over yourself.
C: What are you talkin…..I’m tryin here.
D: Mmm Hmm.
C: Ya see, we’ve been here for 5 minutes and already I can tell exactly what your problem is.
D: You can.
C: I certainly can……so now that we both know, what d’ya say we get on enjoying each other’s company.

B: I’m not travelling an extra 30 to 40 miles a day-
A: They do.
B: …because some moron thinks…..who does?
A: The other…200 people who live an hour away. Doesn’t seem to be a problem for th-
B: Hey!….tough. Are they going to pay our gas bill? Are they going to pump it too?

E: I love your hair.
F: I love your eyes.

C: (singing) “When a man loves a womaaaan…”
D: What the hell are you doing?
C: I’m singin…serenading your beautiful ass. Don’t tell me you don’t know romance when you hear it.
D: I know a vintage wine too…doesn’t mean I wanna be clubbed with the bottle.
C: Shiteeeet. That’s frigid girl.

A: You’re taking their side then.
B: There’s no side.
A: No, there’s no side but joining your…country club compadres out in Padang to create your own private Jonestown….that’s something approaching levelheaded?
B: I’m a managing partner.
A: So what?
B: So, I have more to consider than the one employee I happen to be dating.
A: Now, I’m not a consideration-
B: Look. My….the personal just stays out of my business. Get it?
A: No.

E: Who’s the man?
F: You know I’m your daddy.

C: So when did it happen?
D: What have you chosen to babble about now?
C: You know. That moment…
D: Mmm hmm…
C: The one that love forgot.
D: Ahh, let’s see….I think it was when I was born and became your sister.

E: What do you love about me Darnelle?
F: Mmmm…
E: Hmmm?
F: Your taste in men.

C: Details. You’ve got to push it out of your mind my lady.
D: Yeah. Tell me again when the kids start calling you Uncle Daddy.

B: Is this about a ring?
A: Unbelievable. No. It’s about a child in the body of a man who, when he doesn’t get his way, suddenly gets tough.
B: I’m not a child.
A: You’re not somethin…

An approaching body eclipses JOHN’s, bringing his thoughts back to Earth.

TROY: Mr. Whit? I’m Troy. How’s it going?

JOHN: Troy. How are you? Sit down.

TROY: Yeah. Thank you.

JOHN: Sit. Coffee for you Troy?

TROY: Ah, why not.

JOHN (looks about): Do you need a waitress? How are you? You made it fine.

TROY: Yeah sure.

JOHN: And you’re here for the money.

TROY is surprised by his forwardness.

TROY: Come on Mr. Whit….it’s all about the experience, right?

JOHN (pleased): Okay then.

With that, JOHN rises suddenly. TROY is convinced he just blew it, but is amazed how quickly. JOHN slaps five hundred dollars on the table.

JOHN: Let’s go.

They leave, John with Pramana on the brain. And not in a slap on a back buddy boy kind of way.

(To be continued….)

Recap: Things heat up for the chemically involved: Tuti’s attempt to get closer to the package brings her head to head with a customer who makes her uncharacteristically quiet, and Pramana’s bungalow is routed out by a not-so-mysterious gentlemen from his past.

And now we continue, with the Vanilla Thrilla.

Interior - Seedy Motel (what else) - West Sumatra

Our two zero heroes bunker down for the night. Pramana heaves an overloaded sack of belongings into a corner and takes position at the wall beside a war-torn window frame. The lights are low for a reason other than aesthetics. Gunter stumbles into the bathroom, a lumbering oaf with smile. A water tap shutters on and his face goes under it.

PRAMANA: Did you send him?

GUNTER: I met him….don’t know who I met. Drunk as a drunk as a (happy gurgling sounds).

Answers sent without yes’s or no’s attached to questions given by assumed leader types….expect decibel increases.

PRAMANA: Did you send him?!

GUNTER: He came to the club. He asked for you, and that’s it. I didn’t-

PRAMANA: He would have come anyway.

GUNTER: It wasn’t even Moyers….Myers…oh my tongue is such a tongue todaaay.

PRAMANA: I don’t care. There’s two, so what? Bastard thinks he’s won.

GUNTER: We travel in twos. Then why come to me? If he knows where you are anyway?

PRAMANA: Because he thinks it’s over.

GUNTER: Like pumpin your fist while the hail mary’s still in flight.

PRAMANA: Smartest thing you’ve ever said in your life.

Complements that read like insult. Pramana’s all time favorite.

PRAMANA: Ball’s still up though.

GUNTER: Can you intercept? Still a little woozy.

PRAMANA: Doesn’t matter anyway because he didn’t find anything, and we know he’s looking cause he’s looking.

GUNTER: He’s looking around.

PRAMANA: Why’s he even looking? What am I, sloppy?

GUNTER: It’s been 7 months. Wasn’t that the point of going this long? Test the methods after half time.

PRAMANA: Get off the sports dummy. For experience.

GUNTER: We have it, don’t we? I feel we do, yes I really do…oooh, pretzels would be a gift from angels. Don’t you feel we’re nice and trained for bad people?

PRAMANA: No.

GUNTER: Drug dealers are chick magnets. I’m fully trained.

PRAMANA: They shouldn’t have found us.

GUNTER: This be DEA academy bro! How long did you think this was going to go on?

No answer. The half who normally did the thinking was thinking.

GUNTER: Director knows all. Director sees all. He has nothing to do with our little drug-o mock-ups but he…knows all. And did I mention he sees a bunch? I did….cause he sees a wack dammit. Ahh…..schnookems! I’m surprised he left us in the bush this long. And you know what? I see four or five sets of your lips, but that aside, I’m glad we got bagged! Cause frankly my dear, I wanna go home. The people of Greater Indoneapolitan are soo nice, but I miss…..the food and drink of my birth, certain commercials, and my mom. If she even remembers she has a poopy-doop, cause we haven’t held communicae in almost a year. I’m also anxious to see that new Daniel Day Lewis movie, though I’m sure it’s been ripped and wrapped….available for 55 cents a street corner.

PRAMANA: Day Lewis is dead.

GUNTER: Wha!

PRAMANA: No. Just shutup!

GUNTER: Why would you do that?

PRAMANA: This thing will end but not this way.

A moment of silence. Funny how they’re always timed to precede pivotal bits of news.

PRAMANA: Director doesn’t know we’re here.

….and how the silence following news bits precedes even tastier reactions.

GUNTER: I’m sober. Repetez S.V.P.

PRAMANA: We were given a detail. This wasn’t it. I changed it. No goddamn way I’m gonna lose this.

GUNTER: How’s it a “winning” thing? We’re training. F***in stashes aren’t even real man.

PRAMANA: It’s definitely a losing thing.

GUNTER: How can-

PRAMANA: Director knows we’re out here playing bad guy, he just doesn’t know where. I told him we were relocating.

GUNTER: Mama Spank-o I’d say!

PRAMANA: At least he had the pack to admit it was the better way to learn this business. Consider yourself lucky to maybe be mistaken for someone who had a hand in it. You’ll have twice the credentials a field agent’ll have in his third year.

GUNTER: You could have ended both our careers.

PRAMANA: Then be a walking fence post with Myers! How valuable is this to you? You think mailing boxes of sawdust to Uncle Fester West Virginia for 8 months is worth 10 minutes of street time when we’re done? I can’t waste my time!

Needed pause.

GUNTER: Can we drink again?

PRAMANA: It’s an idea.

GUNTER: (a breath) Wow. We’re really out here on our own.

Pramana nods, though not with any dissatisfaction. Clenched teeth is housed by a set of lips turned upwards, not down. He’s enjoying this. Pramana parts the motel blinds long enough for a peek.

GUNTER: Was it Myers…here?

PRAMANA: Almost sure. Fool’s got a lifetime supply of Aqua Velva.

GUNTER: Hmmm. We f****n rock.

PRAMANA: Yeah. However….covering our tracks here is the least of our problems.

GUNTER: Tutu.

PRAMANA: Tuti.

GUNTER: Oh…right.