Conversation

"Conversation, n: A fair for the display of the minor mental

commodities,

each exhibitor being too intent upon the arrangement of

his own wares to observe those of his neighbor."~ Ambrose Bierce

John scanned the row of coffee brewers on the counter in front of him, watching brown liquid slowly drip from the nozzles. “Excuse me, could I just get a cup of black coffee?”

The helper, an employee of some sorts, dressed in a coffee smeared smock glared from beneath her blond curls. “Now, what size did you say, did you say a size?” asked the girl beneath the curls.

“I think a medium will suit me fine,” answered John with a tilted smile.

Curls scowled, “Sir, we don’t have mediums. You can have a tall, grande or venti.”

John scratched the side of his head, “I suppose I will have a tall then.”

“A tall is the equivalent of a small, just so you are clear,” said Curls.

“I’m afraid I’m not clear. Doesn’t Grande mean large?” asked John.

Curls maintained her scowl, letting her eyebrows fall animatedly, “Perhaps it technically means that but we don’t like to use small, medium and large because it’s boring. And why don’t you try our Joya Del Dia Blend, which is inviting, with delicate flavors and a soft cocoa finish, or perhaps a frozen mocha with mint, blended to perfection in our industrial blenders with quarter inch blades. Black coffee is boring, sir.”

“I’ll have a grande coffee, black,” said John.

“We appear to be out of that at the moment, just have a seat and I’ll bring it to you when it’s done,” said Curls.

John draped his jacket over a chair and slouched onto the worn seat as to imitate his jackets relaxed state. He waited, trying to listen to how Paul McCartney was trying to add an eighth day to the week, but the blur of conversation and beans being ground into fine powder shrouded the music. He heard conversations, broken fragments, pieces of separate puzzles being jammed together faultily.

“Politics. Republicans are going to hell. Seperation of church and state. War. Peace. Democrats. Vote next year. Habeus Corpus.” An older man beside a decorative lamp pointed his stubby finger at a slim man with a scarf neatly tied around his neck. The scarf was pulled tight; the man was ready to be strung up at a moments notice. He wasn’t paying the older man any attention.

“Boyfriend. Men are pigs. Bitches. Mascara and lipstick. Margaritas and frozen coffee drinks. Short sex and long sex. Party.” Motley young women were crammed around a table with Betty Boop cutouts laminated on the surface. They jammed their straws into the melted slosh of their drinks, holding the tops of the lids to avoid the sweaty sides of the cups.

“God is love. There is no God. God is dead. God is here and God is there if he cares. Believe. Don’t

make me. Sin.” The unblemished hand of a man in a dark suit jacket rested on a book with golden pages. His

tie, puffed out near his chest contained

fictional, slanting blue lines. A young man underneath curled, blond hair sulked while attempting to get a word in, but mostly unable to speak. The man in the suit pointed condemning pointer fingers at the end of each sentence. The boy sulked silently.

“Shit. Fuck. Ass-hole and damn bitches. Slut. Bastard. Cock. Obscenities and mother fuckers. Damn all to hell.” Two guys named Lance or Rocky or Tyler stood in line laughing between short, illiterate sentences. They careened from the line in bouts of hysterics, bumping into shy waitresses and causing the stained coffee cups she held to wobble in her hands.

        “May I move, may I move said he / is it love said she) / if you're willing said he /
but you're killing said she.”  A man droned into a microphone of which was placed on a mic stand that grew out
of a small wooden stage floor.  Tie-dye shirts crowded around him and swayed.  Someone yelled something
about E.E. being a genius.  

“Family. Job is boring, always tired. Baby cries a lot, but still cute I suppose. Husband is fine. House is fine. Dog is fine. Car is fine. Backyard is fine. I’m fine.” Ladies with multiple chins and half personalities sat straight backed in a booth beneath a modern painting of a small red square on a white canvas. Tea bags rested beneath the ladies tea cups, small drips of unused tea making brown puddles on the table. Both women sipped tea, both talking to themselves, together.

John watched as Curls approached him with a smile and a cup. “Here you go sir, one mocha mint to go.”