A Penny for Your Thoughts
The world is divided into two groups, the mini golf face people and the poker-face people. Poker face people can contain and maintain what they want and do not want to share with the world. Their faces can remain in a state of secrecy no matter what situation they may be enduring internally.
Mini golf face people, flash billboard sized graphics across their features that expose every thought, emotion and sensation that is occurring in that moment.
I have a mini golf face.
I like to write at my local indie coffee shop. The barista’s are disgruntled artisans with a gripe against the world at large and the coffee reflects this in its bitterness, darkness and unpleasant after taste.
The music, angry and acoustic, is set at an ear splitting volume that deters casual light conversation and drives patrons to individual corners to stew alone.
The chairs are a blend of mix-matched garage sale item rejects that are thoroughly worn in and badly abused. Basically, it’s a perfect place to write humorous stories.
Last week, during an exceptionally dismal day when the rain was pelting down with the velocity of a waterfall, I headed out to my ‘office’ to get some writing done.
The place was packed with people whose collective pissyness and damp clothes gave the coffee shop a sweaty, steamy aura.
I found myself in line, sandwiched between a realtor and a retiree. They were passively, aggressively arguing about the implications of the gentrification happening in our neighbourhood while I stood, smiling, almost apologetically, trying to get the bully barista’s attention.
When my chance finally came, I spat it out, loudly and quickly, “Latte mug (the fish bowl size) with one shot of espresso, steamed soymilk, no foam and no sprinkles, please?” A grunt was his reply.
I assumed this meant he had heard me. But when a coffee, contained in a short mug with a double shot of espresso, filled with 2% milk foam and sprinkled with coco was placed in front of me, it was confirmed, he hadn’t heard me at all.
And frankly, he didn’t have any fucks to give on the matter.
Not wishing to make a scene and get spit in my next coffee, I refrained from comment, paid the man and headed to my table in the corner; demurely and discreetly so I thought.
Appearing out of nowhere, an older man approached my table and declared he was the owner.
“Is there something wrong with your coffee?” he asked with a tinge of concern.
“No, no its fine, thank you.” I said out of fear that he would rat me out to the aggrieved barista.
“I noticed, from across the room, that when you got your coffee, you looked well…. thoroughly, overwhelmingly, disgusted, like you had just discovered a severed finger in your cup.”
The only thing severed in that moment was me from the nickname…MYSTERIOUS.