“Some mornings,” Gary said, putting both hands around the cup of coffee he had no intention of drinking. That was the thing about Gary. He proselytized endlessly about “the market” and “passthrough purchasing” and “active customerhood,” but in fact enjoyed nothing, so when you were out with him you had to endure the pageantry of ordering food or drink, all the while suffering from the knowledge that most of it would go to waste. “Some mornings,” Gary said, “I run into Darren in here. You know him? We used to work together, me and him, over at Arktronix. The other day he said to me, ‘Hey, man, they have some prime new baristas working here. I’d like to put a straw right through the middle of her latte art, if you know what I mean.’ I didn’t know what to say so I just stared at him. And after a few minutes a tear appeared in the corner of his eye. ‘I didn’t mean to say that,’ he said. ‘There’s one woman they hired recently who I just love to look at, especially her posture, and the way her hair goes down over her shoulders. It’s like a waterfall of black vinyl.’ He sniffled, this guy, and then caught himself. ‘What I mean, I guess,’ he said, ‘is that I wouldn’t mind putting an extra shot in her espresso.’” Gary clutched the cup tighter for warmth. “That fucking scumbag,” he said. “Afraid of his own poetry.” He stood up and tossed the coffee in the garbage. “Let’s go,” he said above its loud thump.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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