Serve Me?

The man walks in.

It is a beautiful place. The sort of place where people have a practised laugh. Sleeves do not get rolled up here unless a catastrophe, such as spilt coffee, ruins their evening.

He has gotten a new job, you see, a good job. A job he puts in his tinder bio and squeezes into almost any conversation he can. Perhaps, he now belongs…here.

Weeks prior, he began trying to sand down the guff surrounding his speech. Slang phrases that do make sense, just not to these sorts. Words that, in some ways, can describe events better than the 'Queen's English'. Nevertheless, the guff must go.

He finds himself spending a frustratingly long time preparing for what is only an afternoon coffee on his day off. He hoped to one day bring a date to the place but wanted to get acquainted with the establishment before daring to bring a guest. He would mention the site as if he was a regular visitor. Trying to impress potential mates with the notion that not only has he been to the place, but he goes there often. Is it really a lie, or is it a premature truth?

He considered whether to polish his shoes. On the one hand, he wanted to look pristine. On the other, looking pristine suggests newness, and newness connotates otherness and otherness? Well, we can guess how these people feel about others. New shoes that have been worn a few times were his solution. A solution that, admittedly, seems wise. The trousers were an easier selection as the difference between an expensive pair of black trousers, and a cheap pair of black trousers is just longevity. He had only had one paycheck thus far from his new job, so his wallet remained restrained for the meantime.

The shirt selection was more complicated. People will think he is on his break if he wears a work shirt. But, he plans to stay much longer than the typical break. He is reading 'The Adolescent' by Fydor Dostoevsky, a book he is struggling to understand and is, perhaps, a book intellectually above his pay grade.

"There's too many characters to remember!" he would say to himself.

So he had planned on at least two hours of reading to overcome the book's complexities. A two-hour break? Only the biggest of big shots have a break of that length, and he did not dare try and present himself as one of them. So, he wore a more casual shirt but used a formal blazer to blur the lines. A mystery, but a successful mystery.

He walks in. Some customers are sitting, but no one is manning the till. He thinks this must be normal, so he grabs a seat. With establishments such as this, he assumes, the waiter serves you. So he sits, and he waits. Some new customers arrive and, with the waiter returning to the floor, they are greeted and subsequently order. They must be regulars, he thinks, as they already know what they want. Coffee is our man's order. Nothing fancy, but he peruses the menu to seem sophisticated. The first page of the food menu already tells the man that he will not order food. It may as well be in a different language, but the prices aren't there. Whenever the prices aren't visible, you know you can't afford it.

It has been about twenty minutes by this point. Peering over towards the waiter doesn't seem to be working. The man isn't angry as he remembers that he did come in whilst the waiter was AWAL. When he stands to approach the waiter, everyone stares at him. A mixture of judgemental looks and looks of fear. The man felt as if he was walking towards the edge of a cliff, and half the audience were alarmed, and half were excited- alarmed but not worried.

"Hi. I'd like to order."

"Yes just have a seat I'll be with you in a second."

The man smiled and felt guilty. You don't do that here, he thought. Sitting back down, he struggles not to tense his fists. More customers come in and order. "What the fuck is going on here!" he thinks. Another twenty minutes go by. His head begins to pound. Usually, he would have had his first coffee at his flat as soon as he woke up. But today was his special day. He was planning to savour the elite coffee coming his way.

He finally receives his coffee without eye contact. No milk and no eye contact, half right. His dreams of sipping coffee and reading Dostoevsky were dampening. His skin was itching to leave. Every one of his movements, he felt, made the room hush as if some wild animal had made its way into the place.

A bit pissed off; he heads to the waiter to pay. He was ready to be told to take a seat, so he made sure to have his card out prepared.

"Sorry, we don't take card here."

"Oh, that's all I have. Is there an ATM nearby?"

"Yes, just round the corner but you'll have to leave your belongings whilst you can withdraw money."

The man is stunned.

"Whit?"

"If you could leave your jacket or something at your table that would be appreciated, thanks."

"You don't trust I'll come back to pay for my coffee? My coffee that was, what, £3? Or was it fucking £17 because this place doesn't exist in the real world?"

"Sir, please, it is simply our policy."

"Why aren't you taking card anyway you fucking weirdo? It is 2022, why is an establishment as fucking esteemeeeeed as this, fucking tax dodging or some shit? I'll be back in a second with my cash and my jacket is coming with me."

The man storms out. Any pedestrian who witnessed him on the short walk to the ATM received sharp daggers. He slows down as he approaches the ATM, but his legs won't stop. Several steps behind now, the ATM sits staring at him.

"Fuck um," he says.

Cheers.