What Happened At The Coffee Shop

As I pulled up before the coffee shop, the engine of my car ticked, a little too loud, even when I turned the key to power it down. I told it to shut up but it didn't listen. My lack of telekinetic mastery over inanimate objects humbled me.

Also, I hate myself for writing that sentence.

Also, I just plain hate myself.

Don't feel bad for me, bitch.

I mean it in more of the sense of the Apostle Paul's sentiment: I don't do what I want and I do what I don't want to do. Now there was an honest man. And he thought deeply. And he realized that there is a self watching the self. He understood the complicated and fastidious nature of reality.

Yes.

There are many levels of reality. Meta-verses stacked on one another falling down, down, and down like the Alice story. Meta-worlds and personalities and stories. Hell, even this story.

Welcome to my humble, meta-verse.

And now you might think I'm smart.

I'm not.

And I'll prove it:

Climbing out of the rust-bucket of the car that I loath so much it's not even worth giving it a description because giving it a description would imply it has some sort of intrinsic value (I've already wasted enough time) I headed straight for the glass doors of my favorite coffee shop: Jason's Java Juice.

The owner wasn't technically named Jason. The owner was a Korean man straight-outta-Seoul. Didn't even speak English. Didn't care. Didn't even drink coffee. His name was 지수. And he was a nice guy. Sort of.

He once said to me: 누군가가 당신을 좋아해주기를 바란다면 그들에게 당신을 위해 무언가를 해달라고 요청하십시오.

And then he asked me to sweep the patio of the coffee shop, and I did. Because I respected the man. He was small and had dark black hair and was always on the move. In his fifties, but he kinda looked ageless. As far as I was aware, he had no wife or kids. I had no clue what he did in his spare time, but I couldn't help but wonder. What did a business-oriented man in his fifties do with his spare time when he had no wife or kids?

A question of endless depth and meditational value.

It kept me up most nights.

And I took his advice to heart. And used it on others. It worked. But not on old Joe. But old Joe was a rare one. That's why we like him so much, right?

When I entered the coffee shop, 지수 was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, I approached the counter. Before I could say my order, I was interrupted by a voice all-too-familiar. It traveled to me from across the small space, over the din of the others, and snapped me awake faster than any caffeine could ever hope to.

"Dear, my dear, Audrey. Fancy seeing you here."

Aunt Jenny.

She walked across the concrete-finished floor towards me. Wearing tall stilettos, her footsteps fell like the beat of a drum. And the drum entranced the otherwise uninvolved patrons of the small coffee shop. From the four corners of the room, heads turned in the direction of the graceful and lithe and elegant woman in the bright green frock and the similar-green scarf and the blonde pinned-up hair and the presence of someone otherworldly.

And then, as Aunt Jenny came near, they looked to me:

A shabby excuse for a struggling-tattoo artist who spent most of her time watching Jordan Belfort sales training videos on the internet and pretending she knew more than she did.

Aunt Jenny approached and stood before me and squared her shoulders and took me in. "You look like you live in a cave?" she said.

I turned my attention to the man behind the counter, who was sorta cute. Floppy hair. And whatever. I didn't recognize him. Must have been new here. "I'll take a hot latte," I said.

"With wolves as companions," said Aunt Jenny.

"I am reading Call of the Wild," I said, looking at the man and not at my aunt. "Where's Jason?" I said, alluding to 지수, of course.

"He's busy," said the man.

"Doing what?" I said.

Aunt Jenny was only watching my interaction now.

"I was told not to tell."

Judas-Priest man, the suspense is frickin' killing me.

"He told me about you," said the man.

I pointed to myself. "Me?"

"He said that YOU ESPECIALLY could never know."

Shivers ran down my spine.

Perhaps Jason was a front for a cartel. Or THE cartel. Or perhaps he moonlighted as a mid-level salesman for a bank but he secretly exported bank codes and wire-transfer numbers to Thailand gangsters. Perhaps he was a buccaneer. Which would be crazy, because I don't even know what a buccaneer is.

My cramps hurt.

"Aunt Jenny, do you have pain medication?"

"Do you have cramps?" she said very loudly, which I felt betrayed her overly-defined sense of class.

I nodded, hoping.

She began digging in her purse and found a bottle. "How many?"

"Full dosage."

She handed me three pills.

I swallowed them as I scanned my phone over the counter.

A loud beeping noise announced to the whole room that I was broke.

Payment denied.

Aunt Jenny, making a great sacrifice and making sure that everyone, including myself and including everyone, knew it by expressing it with a great sigh and exaggerated motions, placed her phone over the counter and the payment processed.

"So how did your meeting go, young lady?" said Jenny.

"On my way, right now."

"Wearing that?"

"Don't exactly have time to change. Late as it is."

"Don't you think it's kind of slutty?"

I hadn't thought of it. But I realized she was right. I was wearing a plaid skirt and long socks and black shoes and a grey-and-blue cardigan. Whoops.

Aunt Jenny drew me aside from the front counter as I waited for my drink.

"And what is this business opportunity exactly?" Jenny asked.

"Don't make me launch into droll exposition for the sake of it," I said. The writer in me coming out. The Jack-London-imitator in me, I should say.

"I am genuinely interested."

"If I get this investment," I said, "I'll be able to get a brick-and-mortar shop, right on McVicar street. Tons of traffic. I'll hang a big sign. And I'll have an advertising budget. I'll be able to carry over my current clients."

Aunt Jenny only stared.

After a few long seconds, she finally said, "I'm glad you didn't come to me for the money."

"Noted," I said.

"Hot latte," said the cute man setting my drink down on the counter.

As I took it into my hands, I said, "Tell Jason I was here. Tell him that I am going to find out what he's up to."

The man shook his head with great enthusiasm. "Nope. Never."

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Carter."

"What kind of a name is that?" I said. "You're the worst, Carter. You know that? You're the worst kind of human being there is. You might be a cyborg."

"I might," he said. "And I might be programmed to tell you that you smell. Rather, you look like you smell. I haven't actually smelled you. I've been holding my breath."

I gasped, feigning terror. "Cyborgs can't smell, idiot."

"I'm not a cyborg, idiot."

I turned away from the man whose name was Carter. Back to my aunt.

"Classy," she said.

"Thanks for the meds," I said and, in lithe motion, I spun around her and headed for the glass doors. But it was in that moment that the worst thing that could have happened, happened.

But it wasn't actually in that moment.

It was a few moments later.

Stick with me.

I went to my car. Climbed in. When I closed the heavy metal door, the entire car shook and internal mechanical parts jostled and chimed.

I turned my key.

The car didn't start.

Wouldn't start.

Ceased to start.

Ceased to begin.

It only rumbled and powered off with a descending sigh.

"No, baby," I said to it affectionally, hoping to coax it to life.

I turned the key once more.

Again, the engine fired and faded.

I tried a third time. Turned the key. I yelled, "Damn-you-Judas-Satan-damn-excuse-for-a-Priest's-bitch," and the words didn't work.

So I sat back in my seat.

Blew a loose strand of hair out of my face and crossed my arms.

This was where the worst thing ever happened.

Someone knocked on my window—rapped their knuckles against it. Big hands. I couldn't see the man. Only the long black trenchcoat. A light coat, appropriate for the weather. I'd seen the emerald-green studded ring on his hand. I sensed affluence.

I sensed pity.

Opening my door, I stepped out to face the man. Because of the way he stood, even when I moved aside from the door, he practically squeezed me into the car—his frame and presence imposing. And so many emotions flew through my pea-brained mind.

First of which was this man was hot-damned-Judas-to-hell attractive. His deep brown eyes made me dizzy. His broad shoulders made me blush. His soft face and kind eyes made me feel better. I looked away. But then I looked back.

And I stared at him.

Several seconds went by.

And neither of us spoke.

Until he finally said, "Need help?"

But I couldn't speak.

Not because he was so handsome. Not because he was tall. Not because he was so sure of himself. Not even because I was embarrassed.

I couldn't speak because I'd dreamt about this man last night.

He was the vampire in my dreams.