Located in my usual cafe, I’m sat at a table to the rear of the dining area, feeling hungover, waiting for my English fried breakfast to be served. In this fogged state of mind, I am unable to maintain the necessary chemical synaptic connection between thought and action. With the signals blinking on and off, my eyelids drawn half-down works best for now. Continue reading “vapid escalation”
“Basically,” Sue said to Hannah, “computer simulation theory is split into three separate suppositions.”
Hannah, sitting opposite Sue, stared into a space, her attention drifting. A gingham patterned tablecloth, wooden chair and contrasting coloured floor tiles blurred together, swirling in a clockwise direction. Taking hold of the teaspoon in her coffee cup, she stirred the brown milky liquid in an anticlockwise direction, hoping to counteract the effect. When this failed she blinked a few times, restoring focus and easing the sensation of soreness in the corners of her eyes.
Continue reading “more than two”
Looking at how I set out my table when in a cafe, I will concede to the casual observer something evident to uggest behaviour akin to OCD. I rationalise this, by telling myself the layout is practical, logical, of good composition – easy on the eye and serving a good purpose in terms of energy efficiency.
By design, I also see it as cooperative. The waitress can glide my plate down in a gentle descent, sliding it gracefully into the landing area between the neatly laid out cutlery. She has no obstructions to manoeuvre around or over. Bottles of sauce, salt and pepper, a glass of water, a coffee cup and saucer are distributed evenly in order of height, on both forward flanks of the table. At this stage, anticipating her approach, the paper serviette is already opened up and resting across my lap, ensuring the minimisation of unhelpful distractions within the busy environment of a dining area.
It seems to work, with no incidents recorded. I have yet to experience an upturned plate of food on my knees and so far, no coffee has been spilt. In point of fact, the waitress executes delivery to practised perfection. I frequent an Italian-run, traditional cafe where the many variations of a fry-up breakfast dominate the brightly coloured laminated menu. Mercifully for me, with reference to my chronic shyness, food orders are taken at the counter rather than at the table. Naturally, I still have to speak, but at least not under the imagined spotlight of table-service. I wait at the counter for my coffee and I collect my own cutlery and condiments, before finding a table as far away as is possible from anyone present.
Mia, the waitress at Angelo’s Cafe, likes the colour black. Her hair, tied up in an immaculate bun on her head is a natural, dark shade of black. She usually wears a long-sleeved, black cotton top with matching colour leggings and high top trainers with a white trim. She is slight of frame and possessing a refreshingly cheerful demeanour. I noticed her eighteen weeks ago, just as summer had started and the days were beginning to feel warmer.
As chance would have it, Mia often brought my food order over to me. It didn’t take her long to notice my table top layout, given away by just a hint of a smile as she approached. Over all this time, she’d never actually made mention of it and yet, I detected a light-humoured element of theatrical plate placement creep in, as she became familiar with my arrangement.
Today, Mia went further.
I have a tendency to watch her thumb as my food approaches, I can’t help myself. Subconsciously, I’m making sure the thumb doesn’t stray into the scrambled egg or baked beans – which if it were to, would make consumption impossible. I tend to become somewhat transfixed, with only sparing glances darting here and there around the table, checking everything is prepared and in its place. On this day, the plate swooped in and settled slightly off dead-centre between the cutlery.
As my eyes rested upon a decently produced breakfast, my peripheral vision gave information suggesting Mia had sat herself down in front of me. This was a first. I looked up, she had leant forward slightly in her chair, an elbow resting on the table and her perfectly understated chin resting in the delicate palm of her hand. Mia had cocked her head slightly to the left, her large brown eyes staring into my own. With eyebrows raised slightly, a red lipstick smile widened pleasingly, showing-off a suggestion of perfectly shaped white teeth.
My attempt to reciprocate resulted in a smile twitching unconvincingly at both ends. In a self-conscious manner, I flattened out the paper serviette across my knees. Quickly, I abandoned the action, fearing this could be construed as fiddling with my trousers. Meanwhile, Mia rested her head to the other side, bringing her other hand up and out across the table. I have no idea where she thought she was going with it, but before I could unravel the mystery, she’d knocked over the small, plastic topped, glass salt pot. As a result, I’d estimate several thousand grains of salt spilled out across the table.
“Oops!” She said, grimacing, “I’m so sorry, I’ll clear it up.” Drawing the side of her hand across surface, she began ushering the spillage towards the table edge. Although startled and confused by the antics, I knew in my heart she’d be unable to clear away the mess entirely.
“It’s okay,” I blurted out, “please don’t worry, it’s only some salt.” Mia ignored my intervention and continued with what she’d started, her other hand cupped ready to catch the wasted salt. What had started off as a miniature, snake shaped sand dune, soon became dispersed over a much wider area. “Honestly, please, it’s alright.” In a nervous reaction, I lifted up the paper serviette to my chin, only to realise I’d scrunched it into a tight ball while the drama had been unfolding.
“It was an accident, I’m sorry – I understand how particular and tidy you are. I’d noticed your fork needed straightening, I’d knocked it slightly when I brought down the plate, I hope I haven’t spoilt your meal.”
Had she done this on purpose I wondered to myself, was she getting a kick out of this? I scanned her expression trying to decipher a clue to indicate self-satisfaction, but found none. Mia ceased with the clear up and rubbed her palms together to remove the salt, casting the grains into a free-fall descent towards the checkered, vinyl tiled floor. With an apologetic look upon her face, she finished off by slowly rubbing her hands backwards and forwards across the tops of her thighs.
I twitched a smile and blinked a few times, forcibly trying to remove a muscular tic I could feel in spasm underneath my left eye.
“Would you mind?” Mia said, picking up the fork and twiddling it between her fingers before resting on a gentle grip midway along the stem of the implement. “I missed breakfast,” she whispered, “and I’m starving.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement she plunged the shiny fork into the succulent, perfectly formed Cumberland sausage, which had been neatly nestled between two hash browns on the plate. Establishing a firm hold, Mia rotated the sausage around slowly by use of her nimble fingers, before deftly dipping one end into a small pool of tomato juice, which had drained away from the main cluster of baked beans.
Elevating her quarry up to mouth-level, she proceeded to blow short, cooling breaths through her pursed, red lips onto the very tip of the sausage. Although cross-eyed at this particular moment, I couldn’t help but notice how sweet and angelic she appeared. Taking a delicate bite, Mia closed her eyes, let her head fall back ever-so slightly and chewed, while making sounds to indicate a mild sense of gratification.
Soon, she was ready for another mouthful, followed by another and another, until her lips pressed against the steel prongs of the vertically held fork.
“Do you want some?” A pointing hand gesture gave emphasis to her query. I dabbed at a bead of sweat tracing a line down my forehead using what had once been a paper serviette. Now melded with the sweat from my palm, it felt as hard as a golf ball.
The initial word of my reply emitted as a squeak, but after a short struggle, I succeeded in wrestling the intonation downwards in pitch for part of the second word.
“Yes… pl-ease.”. Without further ado, Mia proceeded to pick up the cutlery knife and cut a section of sausage off. This was then repositioned onto the fork, before squashing some hash brown and baked beans on for good measure. Her elbow and forearm swivelled into position and the prize presentation hovered temptingly before my mouth.
“Eat it!” she said, raising her eyebrows at me. Leaning towards her, I opened my mouth. Teasingly, she pulled away twice. On the third approach, I felt a warmth spread across my tongue and a taste I had been yearning for. She smiled and after a few seconds of delay, withdrew the fork from my mouth, returning it to the plate.
“You’ve shared your food with me, now I want to share a story with you.” Mia said, folding her arms.
“Really?” I said, politely holding my hand up in front of my mouth as I chewed on the food, savouring the flavour of the herbs in the sausage meat. My eyes moved between the plate of food and Mia’s face. Honestly, I really wanted to eat rather than listen to a story. As I looked once again at my partially consumed breakfast, a brief telepathic connection occurred.
“It’s okay Mr. Brinkinfield,” Mia said, “you can keep on eating, just listen with your ears.” With a sense of relief sweeping down from my head to my toes I eagerly collected the cutlery into each hand and began cutting the food into neat, modest-sized chunks suitable for ingestion.
“I believe you are a Writer, I have heard your name mentioned around this town a few times and have come to recognise you.” Mia continued. “And, I know you write short stories.”
“And flash fiction – and poetry, or free-verse.” I interrupted, just before depositing another mishmash of sausage, mushrooms and baked beans into my mouth.
“Yes, that too.” She said, with just a hint of a dismissive tone in her voice. “But I read some of your ‘OCD Stories’ recently. These interest me in particular, because you come across as rather OCD yourself, if you don’t mind me saying.” Still with a mouthful of food, I shrugged my shoulders a little, to indicate I didn’t mind her saying this and nodded my head to suggest agreement with her diagnosis.
“Well, me too. I am affected by Obsessive, Compulsive Disorder. Although I reject the term disorder, as I don’t recognise anything disorderly about the condition – it’s quite the reverse, don’t you think?” I could see her point.
“I see your point.” I told her, before bringing the gradually cooling cup of cappuccino to my lips to take a sip. My mind wandered for a few moments as I contemplated how well coffee mixes with both sweet and savoury flavours.
“So, Miss.” I said hesitantly, bringing the cup down harder onto the saucer than I had intended.
“No, I mean you can call me Mia.”
“Right,” I said, reading mild exasperation in her tone, “Mia, how does compulsive obsessive behaviour affect you?”
to be continued…
“You’re a tall one!” The man said, catching my attention as I weaved my way through the crowded cafe dining area, busy with the lunch time rush hour. Acknowledging his comment, I smiled and sat down in a vacant seat at a small table next to his. Although struck by the broadness of his midriff, pronounced by the grubby tee-shirt stretched over his stomach, I noted he wasn’t so short himself. He beamed a smile over to me, before filling his mouth with a forkful of sausage and beans squashed together.
I made myself as comfortable as I could in a chair, which moved and creaked at each joint in the frame, challenged by my own eighty-two and a half kilograms. The queue at the front of the cafe extending from the service counter, had grown in the few minutes since my arrival. It’s August, the month when the locals who can afford to, move out as the visitors move in. I identified a high proportion of diners populating the cafe as tourists. While confounded in thought, wondering why they came here instead one of the popular high street establishments, my fellow diner delivered his second comment in my direction.
“I’d kill myself if I was short.” A simple statement delivered with nonchalance, but not one I’d ever heard said before, word-for-word.
“Really? You’d kill yourself?” I said.
“If I was short I would.” Without looking up from his plate, more English breakfast was eagerly consumed. “It’s the women, they all want a tall bloke, don’t they? Taller than themselves.” Juice from the baked beans ran down the knife he held and in a reflex action he licked his fingers, drying them on a tissue-paper serviette laid on the table next to his plate. He gave me another large smile. “It’s true, don’t you reckon? Just look around.”
“Why do you think that is?” I replied, undecided if I wanted responsibility for extending the conversation.
“Well…” leaning forward and lowering the volume of his voice a little, he said “It’s protection, they like to feel protected by their man.” His voice shrank to a whisper, “When I see a good-looking chap walking down the street who’s shorter than average, I think, poor bloke! He’s got it right in one department and badly wrong in the other.”
“But plenty of women are around five feet two, three, or four inches.” I said, feeling myself drawn deeper into an ill-prepared-for analysis. “A shortish man would still be taller than many women.”
Taking a break from his main task the man wiped his mouth using his forearm, finished chewing a mouthful of food, swallowed and hit a clenched fist hard against his chest releasing a loud belch.
“No, even small women want tall men, believe-you-me.”
The waitress arrived with my coffee, I thanked her, she gave a modest smile and returned to the kitchen. As she walked away, I estimated her as no more than five feet two inches.
“Her man works here too,” my dining companion continued, “sometimes takes your order at the counter, other times brings out the food. He’s taller than either one of us. Short and tall goes together, proves it, see?”
With half-closed eyes and open hands held in a ‘voila!’ gesture, his look of satisfaction brought to mind a Disney character. I stirred the hot liquid inside my cup, forming a small maelstrom.
The waitress hadn’t noticed him, sat in the corner at the back of the dining area. Knowing she had an interest in literature, Frankie mentioned him as he took the food order for a cooked breakfast, about how the man is a writer. She’d not heard of him before, the name didn’t ring a bell.
Mia felt he had a certain look about him, one which drew pity, sat alone by himself. “He rarely enters with a dining partner.” The cook said, “I’m certain he’s in here listening to the conversations of others, as material for his writing.”
Watching him, while waiting for the order to be prepared, she noticed his apparent discomfort. How he played around with the cutlery, constantly re-positioning the knife and fork, making minute adjustments to their placement on the table. By the time he had finished setting out the salt pot, pepper mill, coffee cup and a glass of water, the table resembled a chess board. How he thinks I am going to serve his plate to him without a mishap, I don’t know! Mia thought, I wish he would stop messing around. She found all his fussiness irritating.
Shortly, Frankie returned, whistling as he arrived from the kitchen carrying a plate of food. Handing it over, he nodded in the direction of the writer. “Look Mia,” he said, “it’s not so busy now, sit down and chat with him, he’s a regular, we want to keep our customers happy.” An encouraging smile spread across his handsome face. “Go show him he’s loved.”
“Okay Frankie, whatever you say.”
“And keep your thumb off the side of the plate and out of the beans,” Frankie whispered, “you see he’s particular about presentation.” Mia sank her chin into her neck and arched her eyebrows, balancing the plate elegantly atop her finger tips.
Sat at the table, the writer strokes his beard. He appears restless and proceeds to remove the round-framed spectacles from the bridge of his nose, folding and placing them onto the table. Immediately, he picks them back up and slides them into his shirt pocket. He senses the imminent arrival of breakfast. As is the tradition in the cafe, Mia calls out the order number and right on cue, the writer meekly raises his hand, as if excusing himself from a school classroom. She shows him a brief, half-smile in acknowledgement and walks over, deftly weaving around the chairs and tables. Why did he have to sit right at the back when there are several empty tables, located near the service counter? She wondered.
Mia had got used to men staring and mentally undressing her, while at work. She wouldn’t act upon it, but occasionally, she enjoyed the experience – if she fancied the guy. This man looked old enough to be her father and observed in a lustful way by him, made her feel uncomfortable. The young waitress felt a mild sense of disgust when she noticed his tongue slip out and run across the front of his lips, as she approached. She’d have preferred to wipe down tables, only Frankie had said for her to sit down and make conversation.
“Good morning!” she said, gingerly lowering the plate into place and sitting down in front of the writer. Surprised, the man spluttered something unintelligible and in the confusion knocked over the salt-cellar, spilling most of its contents across the table and onto Mia’s lap. “Oops! It’s alright sir, I’ll clear it up!” Again, she felt his intense stare as she cleaned up the spilt salt and wiped the grains from her hands down the front of her apron.
“I am dreadfully sorry Miss.” His cheeks flushed red. “I am so clumsy, please accept my apologies.” To Mia’s embarrassment, her tummy gave out loud a gurgle. Earlier this morning at home, she’d managed a coffee and a giant-sized maple syrup pancake. Having already completed the breakfast rush and countless circuits inside the cafe, pangs of hunger had started making their presence known.
While the writer’s normal colour had returned, Mia’s cheeks reddened as she took her turn to apologise. “Oh dear! I’m sorry about that.”
“Are you hungry?” He asked.
Yes I am, she thought. “Well, a little, I skipped breakfast today,” she lied, “never a good idea.”
“Look, please, have some of my food, here.” He pushed the plate a few millimetres across the table towards her.
“No, I couldn’t, that’s kind sir, but it’s your breakfast.”
“I insist, try some of my succulent sausage – and the hash browns. They are cooked to perfection and bound to satisfy a rumbling stomach.”
Tempted, Mia stared down the length of a Lincolnshire sausage, which the writer held aloft on a fork. Then, before she could take a bite, the sausage disappeared from view as he dipped it into a neat whirl of sauce, positioned on the side of the plate.
With sauce dripping from one end, the sausage returned level to her mouth. “Go on, eat it, you know you want to.” The writer’s smile twitched nervously, as if his facial expressions were not under his full control. Smiling, Mia decided to take up the offer and took a bite, followed by several more mouthfuls, until she’d eaten all of it.
Feeling guilt about having taken his whole sausage, she felt obliged to continue with some polite conversation. Wiping sauce from around her lips with a thumb, she said “Frankie mentioned you are a writer and a celebrity in this town. Is that right?”
“I’m not sure about the celebrity bit.” He replied, dabbing at a bead of sweat running down his forehead with a paper serviette. “But yes, I am a writer.”
“What sort of stories do you write?” She asked.
“My latest stories form part of a series, based upon obsessive compulsive behaviour.”
“That’s a coincidence,” she tells him, “I have my own story about an OCD episode in my life. Perhaps you’d like to hear it?” His eyes widened as he nodded his head enthusiastically.
“Yes, yes, please tell me.”
“Don’t let the rest of your breakfast go cold.” Mia says, pointing at his plate. “You eat, and I’ll speak.”
As the writer takes a noisy slurp of coffee, Mia begins. “It happened two years ago, not along after I’d arrived here from Sicily. The employment situation back home isn’t good, so having studied English the previous year, along with financial support from my family, I moved here. I found a modest one-bedroom flat to rent and set about looking for suitable employment. I soon discovered it’s not so great for work here either, is it?” Chewing on fried tomato and mushrooms, he held a hand up before his mouth and gave a muffled reply. With an uncertain smile, Mia continued. “Despite the generosity of my family, funds were running out and life had become stressful. My self-confidence drained away and I harboured doubts concerning my original decision to come here.” Swallowing, the writer made sympathetic gestures with his hands and nodded his head to express understanding.
Mia observed how difficult he found maintaining eye-contact. His eyes wandered and she noticed his focus return several times to the area between her neck and the edge of the table separating them. “Finally, I got a job waitressing at a cafe on the north side of the city, run by a Danish man. He was a hard taskmaster, paying little above the minimum wage. All I achieved was to add more stress and exhaustion into my life. At this point, something changed.” Hearing her remark, the writer’s line of sight moved swiftly upwards to her eyes, giving her his full attention.
“One morning, walking to the bus stop, I couldn’t remember turning the bathroom tap off. I recall the sensation, best described as a wave of fear passing through me.” A shiver went through Mia as she hooked a loose strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. “Naturally, fearing the consequences of a tap left running, I felt compelled to return to the flat. Upon reaching the bathroom, I found both taps closed with nothing more than a drip hanging off one of the spouts.” Her hands opened up and she shrugged her shoulders. “Now this will sound stupid to you, but when I reached the end of the street a second time, I wondered if maybe it was the bath tap left running and not the sink. I returned to the flat, to find the bath taps and also the kitchen taps, all safely turned off. With a sense of relief, I set out for work once again.
“Throughout the day, I felt uncomfortable. I wished I had gone back through each of the rooms, checking all the taps one by one before leaving. By the time my shift ended anxiety had taken hold, as I willed the bus to hurry along on the homeward journey. I actually ran down the street in a panic, back to my flat. Inside, I only calmed down once I’d tried all the taps and made sure they were closed off properly, by tightening each one.”
“And this happened again, the following day?” The writer asked.
“And the day after that and throughout the whole week. It simply continued and got worse.” Mia stared across the table at the half empty salt-cellar, with a look of dejection across her face. “The number of times I had to return and check increased. Frequently, I’d just stepped outside the front door and then had to rush back inside. On other occasions I returned all the way back from work, making up an excuse to the boss.”
“It sounds like your day-to-day life had become very difficult.”
“Oh this was just the beginning. By the end of the same month, I believed I’d left the oven on, the gas rings, lights, heating, windows open, refrigerator door open and the frontdoor unlocked! I had to get up earlier and earlier in the mornings, to account for the time it would take to complete the multiple numbers of checks and return trips.”
“I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you.” The writer said, pausing briefly before placing a forkful of hash browns and baked beans into his mouth.
“It became exhausting and ultimately, I avoided going out unless absolutely necessary.” Mia watched him as he chewed on his food, she had begun to warm to him a little. He’d sat there listening attentively and without judgement. She sensed a caring disposition in the him, which she hadn’t read earlier. First impressions, she thought, be wary, of first impressions. The man sat opposite her, who up to this point had been systematically working his way around the plate, looked directly into Mia’s eyes.
“You’re okay now?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How did you pull out of the nosedive?”
“Well, I’d become friends with another waitress at the cafe and she’d noticed how things were getting difficult for me. The truth is, the obsessive behaviour had crept into my work.” The cafe door opening for the fifth time in three minutes, momentarily distracted Mia’s attention. A number of customers had arrived, looking to get in and settled before the lunchtime rush. While mostly made up of individual stragglers, a group of several old men gathered around two tables lined up with each other. They chatted about local news, with one man critical of the new shopping centre project, now nearing completion.
“It’s been badly planned, badly designed and Oxford, doesn’t, need it!” He declared.
The writer brought Mia’s attention back to their conversation with a question. “How so?”
“Nothing too serious, re-checking customer’s food orders and change from the till, re-washing clean cutlery. In comparison to home-life, light relief I’d say!”
“How did the waitress help you?”
“She recommended a therapist who made home-visits, which suited my situation perfectly. A friend of hers, she’d told me, had seen him for just three months and from what she knew, he sounded pretty good.”
“So you called him up, how did he fix you?”
“Well, he arrived, a polite man in his forties, quietly confident, tall, bearded and stylishly dressed. We talked, he carefully listened. Both calm and relaxed in his presence, I felt an immediate connection. Unusual don’t you think, when meeting someone for the first time?”
Does she feel a connection with me? The writer wondered. He’d begun constructing a carefully worded question to ask her and find out, when Frankie shouted over. “Okay Topolina, cinque minuti!” Standing at the service counter where a small queue had formed, the cook smiled and raised his hand, fingers splayed wide.
ì, certo Frankie!” Mia replied, turning her head and smiling back at him. “For the first session, I did most of the talking, I told him everything I have told you. He listened attentively, rarely interrupting except when needing clarification. At the end of the hour, he said he understood life felt difficult and assured me we would work this through. When I look back, just him saying this made me feel a little better.”
“So he simply talked you out of the obsessiveness?” The writer asked, unable to conceal a sardonic tone, after ruminating over the earlier question of connection. “Did you talk all about your childhood and upbringing?”
“No, not at all. It surprised me, his approach was entirely practical. We could discuss my childhood for six months he’d said, that this may prove helpful and serve a purpose. Alternatively, we could strategise and act to resolve the immediate malady. Out of our discussions during sessions one and two, he devised and we agreed a plan to implement. Using my phone’s camera in the mornings before leaving for work, I photographed each set of taps, the gas rings, oven controls, windows, doors and light fixtures. Anything I’d ever fretted about. The photos showed everything turned off, or properly closed.” As she spoke, Mia had been pretending to take photographs with an imaginary phone in her hand. She finished by taking a close up photo of the writer’s face.
“How did taking photos help?
“Okay, the act of doing this helped put my mind at ease, the same as running around the flat carrying out a visual check. I noticed the difference shortly after I’d set off to catch a bus. On the first morning waiting at the bus stop, I felt a familiar flutter of uncertainty.” Involuntarily, the writer glanced at the waitress’ shapely chest, where her hand now rested. He could feel his cheeks begin to flush, as they were prone to do. Appearing not to notice, Mia continued with her explanation. “I took out my phone and scrolled through the pictures I’d taken and felt reassured. I continued to do this for the first week, looking at the photos a few times over the course of a day, whenever I needed to.”
“That’s still quite some routine isn’t it? Taking photos every morning all around your flat.”
“It is, you are right. But it bought me an extra hour in bed compared to before and over time, I began not needing to look at the photos during the day. Just knowing they were there on my phone, seemed sufficient. Soon, I felt more normal, like my old self. Calmness returned into my life, I slept better and adopted a healthier diet.”
“And were you keeping up with the counselling sessions?”
“Yes, I did. In the sessions we explored all these new experiences and the counsellor gave me encouragement and praised my progress. By our sixth and agreed final session, I had stopped taking photos each morning. I know this sounds silly, but if I ever felt a sense of anxiety rising, I just looked at the pictures I’d taken before.”
“Do you look at them now, nearly two years on?” The writer asked.
“No. I still have them on my phone. I haven’t seen them for over a year now. We agreed to one more appointment the counsellor and I, about three months after the last session. It served as a ‘catch-up’ session, to see how things were going.”
“Yes, it was. He gave me one last strategy, which has proven to be of value. If I go away, visiting friends or back home to Sicily for a break, I defrost the refrigerator and turn off the gas and electricity at the mains supply. I take a photo of the inside of the meter cupboard, showing the switches in the off position. I do this as an insurance.”
“I see.” said the writer, placing his knife and fork together centrally on his plate. “So you wouldn’t say you are cured, so-to-speak? There remains a risk.”
“Yes, I suppose you could say that.” Mia replied, “You know, everyone has issues. I guess I have learnt how to manage my situation, which lets me lead a pretty normal life.”
They both looked around to see a line of customers queuing from the service counter, out through the front door of the cafe. Frankie standing with both arms held aloft in a desperate gesture.
The waitress shifted the chair backwards and rose from her seat. “I hope you liked my story Mr Writer, every word of it is true – don’t go putting it into one of your stories mind!” She said winking and wagging a finger, as she turned to leave.
“Frankie! Aspettami, arrivo!“
I am a fly, on the wall, of a cafe. Not one of these modern, hipster cafes merely selling fancy coffee, cupcakes and macaroons. No, a classic British cafe selling English food, run by a Portuguese family upholding traditional values. Underneath the cafe name on each of the sign-written windows, is the inscription “Est. 1932”. Whenever queried about his family’s historical connection with the premises, as often he is, the proprietor answers with a weary smile that no, it was not his family who’d conceived of the cafe, he’d simply bought the enterprise back in 1988.
I am a fly. Simple, yet not so simple. What you humans don’t realise, is that we flies are telepathic. While telepathy can work both ways, my thoughts are coming across to you as the intense hum heard when I paraglide over your head. For me, I understand your language well, and I read your mind.
What’s more, in an ingenious add-on provided by the natural world, some of us flies can harness the power of thought control. In practice and in this particular instance, I have taken temporary administration over one of your species and will succeed in having him write this story, a little later on. He is sat in the same cafe, alone, where this story starts and ends.
I found him in a window seat, staring out through the glass, ruminating over recent events, while trying his best to ignore the loud coughing of a man positioned just a few chairs along from him. It had disgusted him, he’d pondered on why the old chap hadn’t employed the basic manoeuvre of covering his mouth with his hand or a handkerchief. Despite brave efforts, our man was losing the battle to block both the sound and the imagery from his mind and thereby continue with eating his cheese burger and chips. Instead, he found himself chewing mouthfuls of food, ever more slowly.
But enough of his trials and tribulations, I’ll come back to him briefly, in a while. What else has been going on in here? Well, earlier, ahead in the queue of the aforementioned man, was a young woman, simultaneously pretty, youthful and a little rough-looking. Wearing a faded pink t-shirt and jeans threaded and torn wide open at the knee, she studied the limited menu, clasping it tightly in her hands. We both studied a poor quality tattoo of a butterfly on the back of her smooth neck, the dark blue ink appeared smudged and the design had become ill-defined. She is wearing a jewelled piercing through her eyebrow and a delicate silver ring in the septum of her nose. Her skin is pale and her jet-black coloured hair looked like it had been cut at home, by herself.
At the counter, she’d ordered a standard breakfast and then proceeded to make several adjustments. Could the fried tomato to be omitted? Perhaps half the usual quantity of baked beans and please may I have an extra round of toast added, she’d asked. I followed her back to her table, swirling around gently at shoulder height, riding the undulating changes in airflow caused by her movement. She was working through uncertain thoughts about her food order, unable to recall if fried mushrooms were included and wondering if butter would be brought out for the toast. She felt sure she hadn’t seen individually wrapped servings on the shelf where the plastic bottles of ketchup, mustard and brown sauce are kept.
She joined a table where an older man sat reading a newspaper, a man whose presence I hadn’t previously registered. He was older than his companion by a good twenty years and as soon as she sat down, he engaged in an animated conversation with her. I wanted to hang around and learn more about these two, having established from their conversation he was her case worker. However, I became distracted by three young Korean women, expressing themselves in their native tongue. They were complaining to each other about the battered cod and chips they’d ordered for their lunch. Safe in the knowledge no one else in the cafe would be likely to understand them, their criticism was unrestrained. Mind-reading abilities were not required, only my understanding of the human language. If you can imagine different languages as essentially the same thing, affected only by different dialects, then it’s not as complicated as it sounds.
Anyway, battered cod served up in a classic British cafe, is a very different kettle of fish to the gimbap the women were familiar with at home. The expressions on all three of their faces gave clue to the utter disdain they felt towards the national dish of Great Britain. They picked at the fish carcasses on their plates with their forks, examining chunks up close before tentatively placing the food into their mouths. “Oh, this is so disgusting!” one said to the others. If you’d happened to have been nearby at the time, and heard the rapid oscillation in the buzzing sound I was producing, you may have recognised the laughter of a fly.
I made a beeline for an unlit, glass lampshade and once there, I rubbed together my forelegs, momentarily tensing the muscles in my whole body before I flew off. Navigating gracefully towards the front counter once again, I looked down upon the head of an old woman who was ordering a mug of tea. “Make it a strong one!” she barked at the young Portuguese son.
You have to be within a certain distance to read the thoughts of others, which counts as a blessing when in a confined space with more than a few people present. By flying up to the painted ceiling and holding on with the sticky pads attached to my feet, I am just out of range. This can come as a welcome relief. On occasions, I find the torrent of anxious thoughts streaming through my brain can have an adverse effect, on my own sense of self.
Continuing on my flight in a curving trajectory back to the centre of the dining area, I spot an orange-robed Buddhist monk at a table with his black tea and plain, wholemeal toast. In celebration, I perform an aerial somersault and land on the top of his head smack-bang in the middle. This is a safe place. No one will swat me perched in this position and the monk will tolerate my presence, as long as I don’t fidget too much.
Sat on the shaven head of a Buddhist monk, is best described as serene. It’s akin to being transported far away from the modern world to a mountaintop somewhere in the wilderness, with just the rhythm of a heart to keep you company. Although, it’s true, there are particular types of situations that can interrupt this tranquil scene. For example, I have known the sight of shapely legs extending from beneath the high hem line of a short skirt to produce several powerful bursts of neural energy through the hippocampus of a young monk’s brain.
Just the one monk in today, along with lots of coughers. None of them coughing into their elbow like their mothers ought to have taught them to. Who cares that they are sat in a cafe, spreading germs everywhere! I ask you, what has happened to human civilisation?
Remember the man I came in with, so-to-speak? Well, he’s still sat there, reading his library book, held up in front of his face at eye-level. The burger he’d started eating hasn’t moved off his plate for some time now. People walking past outside the cafe can easily see the book cover, showing the title and author. Buzzing towards his direction to be closer, I pick up he’s only just realised this himself, but is satisfied to be identified as reading this particular book.
His concentration levels aren’t in great shape, there is a repetition of read text going through his mind, suggesting he is re-reading paragraphs and sentences. The difficulties he’s experiencing in a relationship keeps gnawing away at him, until he realises his eyes are simply scanning words on the page, with no absorption of information taking place. His thoughts are also wandering around the memories of when he followed a vegetarian diet. The half-eaten burger abandoned on his plate continues to lose its appeal.
By coincidence, I am a vegetarian, this may surprise you. I’ve never been able to go the whole hog and become vegan, but vegetables, pulses, fruit and cheese, I love them. The popular myth that we mostly feed on animal waste, really bugs me. Okay, there are several groups of flies who do, but us that don’t, we call those guys shitsters. Whereas physically they are in good shape, they tend to have off-putting personalities and bad breath, predictably so.
Anyway, that’s me done here, I’ll send this man away back to his office to spend the remainder of the afternoon typing up this story, when actually he should be working. I’ve had my fill of observation for today. I like this cafe, I will definitely be back.