The sun illuminated a rim of cloud over the Coast Mountains with its blinding light. Waking, he attempted a smile, watching the molten bulk heave itself over the horizon, but his anticipated joy proved unsustainable, the dawn splendour failing to warm or cheer him. Coffee! That’s all he could think about. All he cared to think about, the theatrics of another dawn seeming overrated.
There was a Serious Coffee just down the road, a Tim Hortons a couple of clicks beyond that, at the Mill Bay junction. He’d shoot for the first, and a bracing latte; settle for the second, and a working man’s brew, if needs must. Let’s go, he forced his stiff carcass upright. Firing up the Matrix, he was cheered by the residual warmth streaming out of the heater vents. There are moments, if you look for them, when it can be comfy to be alive.
Buddy grunted disapprovingly, shoving his reluctant torso into the full upright position. He decided to drive as slow as possible down from the summit, allowing himself to acclimatize and hoping Serious would be open by the time he got that far. Latte, he mind chanted. It’s definitely a latte morning.
Serious was opened, it turned out. Thank god. Shambling up to the counter, he glanced into the barista’s eyes, then quickly away. She was beautiful. He worried she might mistake his simple gratitude for something absurdly personal—the intimate yearnings of an old lech. But he couldn’t help being aware of her, of loving her for who she was—one of those bright, confident, glowing beings comfortable with the effect they have on ordinary mortals.
Innocence, when it outlives childhood, can be a variant of pure wisdom, he thought, ordering a scone and coffee, mumbling like an inmate.
“That will be eight dollars and fifty cents,” she said. “Would you like your scone warmed up with some butter?” He nodded, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket, flipping it open, and slipping out his credit card. “There you go,” she smiled, sliding the card reader in his direction. “Your scone will be ready in a sec, your coffee will be up over there when it’s ready.” She nodded toward the far end of the counter, at the espresso machine, then pointed with her slender, goddess-finger as if he were a foreigner without even a rudimentary grasp of sublime English.
Buddy tried to look unflustered as he shambled from the counter to a table, concentrating on the precarious balance of his plated scone, a tightrope walker with dangerously jangled nerves. He sat down, listening to the thunk and hiss of latte in the making, letting the disjointed constellations of his surroundings coalesce into something like memory. But it was a cut-and-paste rendition of his familiar world, and as he made his way back to the counter to pick up his latte—his beacon of hope—the axis suddenly lurched.
Stroke? he panicked, dizzy and disoriented. How fucking embarrassing is that?
But it wasn’t a stroke. It was more like the tilting nausea you’d expect on the rolling deck of a storm-tossed ship. Coffee in hand, he imagined himself staggering around like a drunk, weaving his way from the espresso bar back to his table under the chastising glare of his fellow coffee shop patrons. But looking around, once he was securely seated, he was relieved to discover that nobody seemed to be taking any notice. He adjusted to the reassuring pull of gravity, waiting for the episode to subside and the room to square itself. Then he sipped his latte as if it were an antidote that would dissolve his lingering sensations of futility and self-loathing.
Leanne and the kids? His thoughts turned to them. Should I miss them more? How can I sit here, sipping coffee and munching a scone, knowing the plane wreck I’ve left behind?
He needed to feel more guilt. Like a penitent. That’s expected.
Why? He protested. Why make myself feel like shit? The question hung in the air, thick as stale cigarette smoke. Was it visible to the other patrons and the barista—a cartoon text box floating like a placard above his head, waiting for someone to fill in the idiot-words?
He extricated his mobile from his jeans pocket, switched it on, and watched warily as it came to life, the black screen a backdrop for the stylized white apple with the defining bite taken out of it. He punched in his security code once the phone had completed its opening routines, and there it was, the red icon in the lower left corner, letting him know there were messages for him on his answering service. He jabbed it. “You have six new messages and no saved messages,” the monotone voice informed him. “Press one to hear your unplayed messages…” Wincing, he poked the keypad.
“You need space?” Leanne yelled, loud enough to be heard at adjacent tables even though the phone wasn’t in speaker mode. “You don’t want to go gently into that good night! What the fuck are you on?” Panicked, he hit the red hang-up button.
Christ! What were you thinking?
After a moment’s pause, with his head bowed in an attitude of contrition, Buddy looked up. If anyone had overheard the opening to Leanne’s rant, they weren’t letting on. The old-boys hadn’t interrupted their ruminations about the idiocy or genius of Donald Trump; the counter-girl was busy with a customer. The world spun on. Still, he felt exposed. Dutifully, Buddy slurped his latte, swallowed his scone, and left without a backward glance.
Next: Help Wanted