He was always there, the fresh-faced guy, always talking to the barista, and while at first this seemed disreputable because the barista was always one of two attractive young women, over time it became clear that his motives were not quite this, and that he was just as jovial when the counter was manned by one of several bearded young men or Dave, who was approaching sixty and couldn’t stop talking about how the Motown songs people didn’t know were far superior to the ones they did know. The fresh-faced guy didn’t get involved in that debate or any other one. He had an unlimited supply of benign observations and self-deprecating remarks, which is why it was all the more surprising when he was named a person of interest in a string of violent bank robberies, then the prime suspect, after which he fled town in someone else’s Mustang, the original license plates of which were found in a dumpster behind the coffee shop with a note that read “I’ll miss you all.” Seventeen days later he was shot to death while sitting in a bright yellow Alfa Romeo Disco Volante near Venice Beach. He had spent the rest of the money on jewelry, clothing, and a book called Nice Guys Finish Laughing. The woman next to him, the spitting image of one of the baristas, was unharmed. Dave somehow took pity on her coffeehouse twin and brought her a rare 45, LaBrenda Ben & the Beljeans singing “The Chaperone.” She loved it.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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