*Untitled* New Story Starter

By Jason A. Wendleton

The lights slowly flickered to life inside the corner coffee shop. This premature sunrise birthed another busy work day. Moments later, a tan and neatly dressed clerk had flipped the front door sign from “closed” to “open.” As soon as this was done, a queue sprouted at the shop’s gleaming white counter. Busy-on-the-go looking types flowed in and out, like coffee from a spigot. And just like the store’s warm confections, the patrons came in an assortment of flavors. Among these were the youthful ladder climbers with their fresh faces and newly creased khakis. The mobile offices decked out in their cyber regalia—laptop, blackberry, portable fax…all whirling and endlessly toiling. A few were stay-at-home moms stopping for a quick jolt of caffeine—that notorious All-American pick-me-up. College students and the blissfully under-employed wafted in among the thong of cubical workers. Everyone had a cell phone of some make or another, most had it pressed firmly to one side of their head.

The shop’s brilliantly neon, faux-diner aesthetic made customers feel both at home and strangely uneasy. Everyone was running in the door, to the counter, and back outside. A few older customers took their coffee and sat down at one of the vinyl encrusted booths. Curling up with a warm cup of java and an icy newspaper, they sat and enjoyed their leisurely morning ritual. Each of these older “folks” would occasionally steal a quick glance at the younger customers—some with envious eyes, others with a sense of “thank God that’s not me” relief.

The line operated like a smooth, well oiled machine. Pay and go, pay and go, pay and go. Sleepy hands exchanged foam cups with thick cardboard hula hoops. Some also purchased one of the impossibly gigantic raisin and oat muffins. All natural organic fresh squeezed pomegranate juice was on hand to satisfy the thirst of the non-coffee drinking minority. All of these things conspired against ones better judgement, and soon took over your life. Pretty soon these indulgences didn’t allow one to work or even live without them. Behind the now soiled and brown spattered counter, the clerk tried to keep pace with the waves of orders. Glowing brightly orange, his tan skin resembled the icing on the all-natural-carrot-cake-cupcakes sitting near the register wrapped in their wrinkly, cellophane death shrouds.

“Will that be credit, or debit?” he asked with an obtuse shrug.

“Will that be for here, or to go?” he asked numbly.

“Will you need any napkins or sugar substitute packets?” he blank faced.

Weber entered this java themed hell around nine thirty, just as it was reaching its zenith. In another hour the morning crowd would taper off considerably, leaving the youth behind the counter dazed, exhausted, and effectively on break…until the lunch crowd rolled through. Weber didn’t care for lines, so he by-passed the velvet roped rat maze and headed for the front of the line. The woman he cut in front of was angrily shouting into her chrome accented Nextel. She didn’t bother to acknowledge this injustice.

“I want a coffee,” Weber said.

“What flavor?” asked the clerk.

“Black.”

Approximately forty-two seconds later Weber got his coffee and turned his back on the gears of capitalism behind him. He didn’t leave the coffee shop, though. Instead, he opted to sit down in the small “café” with all the old timers. A warm, delightfully bitter taste filled his mouth as he sipped. Swallowing, a gentle burn traveled down the back of his throat all the way down to the middle of his chest. Weber looked around the shop—the line was starting to die down. He set the cup down on the table top in front of him and looked for a spare newspaper…