The Flying Dutchman

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The café certainly wasn’t my cup of coffee, but it was close by and it was not Starbucks so it would do. I sat alone both in terms of being on my own and being the only customer, but that didn’t really bother me; people would just cause a distraction. I settled down with my book and prepared to spend an hour reading for my course. The barista clumsily cleared cups from a table that had been occupied at some stage in the day but certainly not since I’d been there. Game Of Thrones season finale was paused on his PC screen and I got the feeling that I was a bit of a inconvenience for the man who obviously was hoping to catch up on his addiction before some spoiler on Facebook ruined it for him, but now, because I was there, he had to make the place look tidy.

The bitter taste of over brewed coffee clung to my tongue while unconstructed jazz poured from the speakers annoying the hell out of me and making the job of concentrating on the dry words in front of me even harder.

The ginger haired man looked immaculately flustered as he stepped into the joint. He looked like he’d rather but anywhere but there but he brusquely ordered an espresso and sat at the table nearest the bar anyway. He adjusted his tie, tapped his foot and checked his expensive watch while the barista fiddled with the Cimbali. Why had he stopped for coffee if he had such little time? The barista put the coffee on the table and the ginger man tipped the sugar container up, but nothing came out. There was brown sugar in the pourer but the granules clung to each other and refused to budge. Like workers on industrial action they stood steadfastly united, defiant in the face of the coffee-drinking oppressor. The man looked at the container before trying to cajole the sugar with a few gentle taps to the glass. Eventually after one piece of stroppy, tempestuous brutality enough sugar reluctantly fell into his coffee to sweeten it adequately. He picked up his spoon but before he could stir he was lying face down on the floor with a police officer on top of him and three others buzzing around; one pointing a gun at the man’s head. Harsh punishment for manhandling a sugar pot but I guessed there was more to it than that. A minute later, maybe less, I was again the only customer in the place and the only evidence that the whole thing had happened was an upturned chair, an untouched coffee and bloody fingerprints on a sugar shaker.