Chapter 2

The second chapter. Please comment!

Down at the base of the ladder I gather my senses. Looking around, I see a cross street that carries new names, sights, and smells. Each city smells different, I’ve found. But cities in America smell less different from one to another than cities outside the border. I exit the landing of the ladder, and make my way to a gas station, though its brand is unfamiliar to me.

As I cross the street, a young man on a bicycle swoops past, grazing my personal bubble closer than anyone would have in Denver. If it could, I’m sure that his fixed-wheel construction would deny his mounting, as he puts them both in constant danger of collision and disfigurement, the bicycle more than the man. I glance at him as he speeds away, and realize that his arms are marked with white scars, some fresher than others. He probably likes subjecting his bicycle to unwilled treachery. 

It’s taken me this long to realize that the street is full of people, churning indiscernibly from home to work and play. They appear as if their walk is programmed into them. They have no choice of direction, as habit has cemented the steps they take years ago. I long for that feeling of tedium, all the sudden. The sidewalk shows no marks of their continued steps. By now I have made it to the door of the gas station. Trying to turn the handle, I find it is locked. The thirst for cigarettes now becomes real. I look through the window and find no answer as to why the store is closed on a"

What day of the week is it?

I haven’t known the day or the date for some time now. At first it felt freeing, but now I feel isolated and ignorant. That knowledge now seems to be in the same category as the knowledge of long division or piano playing"desirable, but forgotten. The people I see could represent random sampling of a Sunday, or a turgid Tuesday’s population. I would have no way of knowing for sure. An informed prediction would place today as a weekday, though my lack of experience in this city limits the certainty I retain in that prediction. I decide I am 30 per cent sure that the day is Tuesday or Wednesday.  Better than 28.6%, though only by a little. I spend a few moments thinking about what percentages the rest of the days present. After a few mental calculations that do not involve long division, I find the total does not add to one-hundred. Many of the things I think about these days do not add up to one hundred. 

Then I see a door. Painted orange, the windowless red-brick façade presents a decrepit mouth as if it is embarrassed of a negative attribute. “Here’s what I wanted you to cut off,” it seems to say. “I’m sorry, but you need that mouth to take in important nutrients"ahem"I mean customers.” I look closer. The handle is made of brass, hand beaten and polished. It appears to have experienced many more decades of life than I. I see it is attached to the door only through the ingenious utilization of a lone drywall screw, through one of the two baseplate holes. My shoulder feels the touch of a thick, well-worn hand, and when I look up I see an older-looking man peering at the handle with me, his hand firmly planted on my shoulder. 

“Don’t look at that old thing, Look up at the top!” he says

Atop the door frame, several feet above the limits of an average specimen, hangs a long piece of wood. It appears to be a 2”x4”, though my not insubstantial knowledge of aged carpentry causes me to recognize it as actually representative of those dimensions. No plank today is a full two and four inches in width. The name remains, even though some wood has been shaved. I no longer wish to look at it, so I look towards the man. His eyes look towards me, but refuse to focus on my face. I can usually tell how and where a man is looking at me, whether he is consciously focused on one eye, or slowly moving from one feature to another. This man’s eyes seem not to care where they gaze, as if lending caloric impetus to its brains’ thoughts. He stammers a bit, perhaps due to the effects of historic alcohol consumption, but soon starts to speak again,

“Nobody knows how it got up there, and nobody has been able to figure out why it stays. But I tell you, young lady, you can find what you need here by letting this mystery, and others, stay one. We don’t appreciate it when people take ladders to our doorway, wanting to learn whether glue, hidden nails, or strings are responsible for its suspension. Just leave it that way, please. There are more important things to think about, and a few of us like to have a few mysteries left.”

Puzzled, I shake his hand off my shoulder and stand up straighter. He coolly ignores my chilled maneuver, and looks towards the door handle.  Simultaneously stepping forward and turning the brass with the upmost care, he slips through, into the building. Behind the closing door I hear the sound of giddy chuckling, and realize I had just been made a fool of. I wonder why he thinks to say something so strange.

Another voice comes from inside, “Don’t worry about old Edgar, he’s harmless. Come in, and smell the coffee!”

I look up again, towards the wood. It lies about an inch above the top plank of the door frame, and I begin to lose interest. I turn around, and see another gas station. Cigarettes are more likely to be found in gas stations than behind unknown doors, so I set out to the big red building, my anticipation for nicotine rising with each step. Plus, my foot is beginning to feel tender with all this asphalt contact. I’ll need another pair of flip flops before I follow this man.

Leaving the station with a fresh cigarette lit and a new pair of generic green rubber gardening clogs, I see a few men leaving from the door I found earlier, in my direction. I take my first drag, and let the tingling feeling flow from my neck down to my lower back and legs. Only once weeks go by do I get this sensation, so I make sure to enjoy the few fleeting moments that it will last. The smoke leaves my mouth slowly, then is swept away by moved air from traffic. The men seem to have nothing in common, though they evidently know each other. 

One is dressed in a new, but wrinkled, blue suit. His height seems to cause a repeated, instinctual ducking motion when passing under awnings, even though a few inches remain clear from the top of his hat. He must be close to 6’10”. I believe this is the height when a man’s gait seems to relate to that of a giraffe more than another human. His suit fits uncharacteristically well, though. Most tall men don flooded pant legs, and sleeves that change appearance with the bend of the arm inside them. This jacket, oppositely, seems to have been especially fitted for the unique frame on which it sits. The torso fits so tightly, I am sure the small of his back grasps the silk on the inside of the jacket. The jacket masterfully attains the level of tastefully slim, I think. Each piece of the wardrobe matches another, as if they are to be viewed in an appreciable order. His shoes compliment and conclude the ensemble. I’ve found most nascent businessmen wear large shoes with dress clothing, perhaps a size larger than they need. Whether due to neglect or unavailability, the shoes often form the weak link of any man’s dress. This man picked his shoes carefully, however. They daintily, though firmly, plant themselves on the concrete with each step, as if the man had no toes inside them and instead fill the shoes with empty space, or more leather. Impossibly black, the shoes seem to glide slowly forward with each giant stride he makes. Pulling up his right arm, the man looks at a very old, sturdy watch. I doubt he is the original owner, though he seems to now own this watch better than anyone has before. By this time, the men have passed me and I have to look backward to catch further glances at them. The other two are both significantly shorter, and about the same height as eachother. One wears an archer’s cap. The attached feather seems to have come with the hat, as it juts back the way the quintessential cap should. He wears pale-green pants, with the bottoms rolled above his mottled green and brown wool socks. Similarly, this man seems to have picked his shoes carefully, with the implicit intention of appearing to have picked them haphazardly. They are of grey suede, and reach several inches above the ball of the ankle. The yellow rubber sole is stitched to the leather, with a hem. They appear old at first glance, but upon close inspection are quite new. He is wearing a brown vest over a pink dress shirt, the collar symmetrically oriented over the collar of the vest. From behind, I see a shiny grey tie peeking from under the pink frock. His body wear completes a “hipster” look, and his effeminate gait provides the finishing touches. 

The shortest man wears more leather than I have ever owned, even if stitched all together into one garment. Each square inch is adorned with a metal spike, and it seems none of them are the same shape or alloy. Some reach a quarter inch into the sky, and others reach the length of a golf tee.Either they are hand-made, or individually chosen. Or both. This man saunters, not walks. His bright orange beard makes him look like a character from a video game. He diverges from the group soon after I start to turn my head, making his way for a Harley Davidson motorcycle, though it is of an older vintage. Each adornment on the motorcycle seems to be chosen in the same manner as the spikes. The man does not look at his compatriots as they wave and say goodbye. I hear the leather stretch loudly against his skin as he mounts his bike. I wonder if he moves his limbs farther than necessary to achieve this effect. The booming sound of his Harley accompanies an exhaust trail that travels my direction. Its smell goes nicely with the last draw of my cigarette.

I decide I have to follow these men. I like to follow people, though I try not to overextend any pursuit, as I lack the skills to explain this behavior to the more suspicious people in the world. The remaining men turn towards a café, which seems to have come straight out of Seattle. White wicker counters, fresh coffee smells, and sophisticated students with their laptops make up the outdoor seating area, and it seems this pattern continues inside. I follow them through the door, hoping they assume I am a normal customer. Inside, the coffee smell magnifies, as it is now protected from exhaust and street-stink. The floor is old hardwood, though it appears as if this shop is the first in generations to have uncovered its tile or carpeting. The shop can’t be more than two years old, as each piece of business capital is of a newer make, like the espresso machine, the drip brewer, and the cash register. The floor provides the only antiquity in the otherwise-fresh design. I approach the bar, and wait to order. The two men have split, one ducking under the divider separating thedining area from the bar, leaving the taller one in the behind. The shorter one seems to be an employee here. They are still talking about the place they just left.

“Don’t get me wrong. I love fresh, locally roasted, organic coffee. I love talking about it to interested people, and I love that I get paid to do that every day. But that shop, man. They serve something we can’t. Their coffee is roasted ashier than Starbuck’s, their milk occasionally sours your drink, and you have to wait twice as long as most places to receive it. I haven’t been charged the same amount twice. I don’t think they even put all the money into a cash drawer, because I see them put it into their pockets with other bills from other purchases. That said, I would close down this shop in a second if it meant keeping that shop around. Bad coffee has its charm, Dave. Maybe we just try too hard.” 

The tall one has been listening this whole time, “Yeah, I know what you mean. They don’t like me, either. I am always charged more than the person ahead of me, regardless of what we each order. But I wouldn’t go to another place for my cup of Joe. Something about mistreatment keeps me coming back. Their bad coffee almost tastes better precisely because they don’t want it to taste good.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what it is about that place. Hey, move over, Dave, I got to get this lady a drink.”

I ordered a double espresso, and the barista immediately put on a more enthusiastic demeanor. He raised his hands high, and lowered them slowly towards the grinders in front of him, letting them lightly tap the plastic hoppers. He inhaled deeply, as if to recite a prepared speech with few breaks,

“We have three available espresso blends today. I have a lighter, single origin Ethiopian. Unwashed, this coffee comes from our collective in the Mocha Harrar Region. I personally visited the farm, and it is situated next to a field of blueberries. Each time I pull a shot, I can smell their blossoms and heavenly fruits.” This man had an awkward enthusiasm, residing half-way between that of an amateur yogi who spends more time in promiscuity than discipline, and carnival tent operator, desperately eager to have you try his ball-and-cup game. “But that’s not all; I contend that there are hints of almond, fresh-roasted chestnuts, peaches, and banana chips. Maybe you can find a few of those flavors, and others, yourself! Next, we have a darker blend with"“

I cut short his farcical performance, and order the first one. I have better things to do than listen to this, and I don’t even know what I’ll be doing in a half an hour. He starts the methodic process of pulling the shot, leveling the grounds in the cup and pushing the tamper down, giving an embarrassingly-precise movement of the wrist that ends with the tamper neatly placed in its starting spot, though only after his hand gave it an unnecessary flip. He seems dejected, though a banal platitude-of-a-smile partially covers this. Perhaps I was too harsh. I look at his friend, who shrugs.

“Four-fifty,” he says after setting the shot in front of me in a dainty vintage blue-glass cup. 

My lord, this café is full of itself. 

Author's Note

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