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  Morning in the Coffee Pot.
  
      There was a fresh-musty openness in the Coffee
  Pot as it stretched, yawned and was woken again. A cool
  morning breeze stirred the fluff on the floor, rolling gently
  from the pile of ash and soil into which it had been swept
  and onto a mopped area  that hadn t dried fully yet. A
  delivery of fresh bread was being carried into the kitchen
  by David from the bakery at the end of the alley. Moist
  fresh bread smell mixed with dusky dust. It was morning.
      "How are you this morning Mrs. T?"
      "Suzie is playing up again, I despair of that girl
  sometimes I really do."
      "What s she done now?" he smiled.
      "We got a phone call this morning at about 4
  o clock, she was only in bloody Wobourne. She d been to
  a nightclub with her friend Mandy and gone round to this
  bloke she knows from training college s house. What does
  she want? She only wants us to drive out there and pick
  her up . Well, I said to her, ‘He invited you ‘round, you
  can bloody well stay there until the morning and get the
  bus back.  So she bursts into tears, says she hasn t got any
  money, that she s cold, then it all got lost in sobs."
      "What happened then?"
      "Oh, Mike went out there and brought her back,
  she s sleeping on our sofa with a blanket over her as we
  speak. You re such a sensible young man David, don t
  ever change."
      David just smiled, felt vaguely insulted and amused
  and lay the palette of baps down on the worktop.
      "Just sign here," he pointed to a receipt,
  "oooooookay, and you keep the bottom sheet."
      "Ta very much, will you be popping by a little later
  for a spot of lunch?"
      "I might nip in for a bacon sarnie, yeah."
      "Ta-ta, then" she burbled cheerfully, but he d
  already left and she was only speaking to the ring of the
  bell over the door.
      She pottered around the kitchen, put the bakery
  palette on the rack and flicked on the lights in the sweets
  cabinet. A clinical blue-white glow passed across the
  custard creams. She hummed gently to herself, something
  she d heard on TV at  the last night of the Proms. Large
  cans of filter coffee nestled in rows in the darkened
  storeroom, the light had blown two weeks ago, but she
  couldn t reach to replace it. She might ask David to do it
  tomorrow, if she remembered.
      She carefully pulled out a new tin and remembered
  to lift it onto the counter from her knees. The pain of the
  last time she d put her back out had not yet subsided and
  every so often when she leant forward suddenly, it jarred
  and flaming tongues of fire seemed to lick at her spine.
  There was a hiss of air and a bitter smell from the can as
  the tin opener sank into the metal.
      She ran out of tune to hum and so she hummed the
  last bit (the catchy part, which she liked) again. When she
  was able to lift the lid away she sniffed the powder
  suspiciously. A lifetime and the same sights and smells
  begin to lose their charm.
      The bell rang and she peered into the shop to see
  who had come in.
      "Sorry about this, Mrs. T. But I forgot to bring
  you your bill."
      "David, you couldn t possible give me a hand with
  this lightbulb could you?"
      "No problem." He said, walking over and handing
  her the bill.
      As he balanced on a chair and stood on tiptoes to
  reach the fitting, she looked at his young buttocks as they
  tensed through his trousers. Her mind cast back to the
  days before, when she'd had time and hadn t spent her
  days working at this place or looking after the house.
  When she wouldn t get woken up in the morning because
  she was already awake and in Wobourne. But nostalgia
  left a nasty taste in her mouth, like the coffee, she d seen
  too much of it.
      "There we go," He said as he climbed down, "are
  you feeling alright? You ve gone awfully quiet."
      "Just thinking back a bit," she smirked "you ll
  know you re past it when you notice yourself doing it."
      "I already do Mrs. T." He assured her, "I was only
  just now thinking about my nice warm bed and how
  pleasant it was just lying there asleep without work to be
  done."
      "I m not sure that counts. . ."
      "‘spose not, anyway the light works now so I d
  better be getting back before the Master Baker himself
  starts getting uppity."
      "Yes, you don t want to be getting Michael upset
  now do you, I ve heard he can do terrible things with a
  batch loaf." She laughed.
      "It would be funny," he said earnestly, "but it s
  true."
      He broke into a broad grin and then ran out of the
  shop. She saw him sprint past the circular window,
      "He s a little bastard," she thought kindly, "he just
  hides it very well."
  
      It was quarter past eight and the shop was set up
  and ready for the first customers of the day. Theresa
  Taylor sat down for a while with a glass of orange juice.
  This was her favourite time of the day. In the winter it was
  still dark outside but for most of the year it was a hazy
  grey. The most interesting customers always arrived
  before nine, after all, it takes a special sort of person to get
  up before nine and come into town when they don t have
  to be getting to work.
      It was just before nine that she had first served
  Mikal, the foreign computer systems engineer. She didn t
  know which country he was from, but he spoke with a
  crystal clear accent. So clear in fact that he could have
  read the news. He was over in Britain to promote a
  program he d written which helped to motivate people as
  they worked.
      But that wasn t why he was interesting. He was a
  strange character because he told her at the end of their
  half an hour chat that one of the things he d said was an
  outright lie. She s never worked out what it was.
      Then there was Eden, she was in the middle of a
  particularly messy divorce with her sixth husband, a drunk
  American who had wasted the most valuable year of her
  life (apparently 43 is a good year) and even made her
  fourth husband (who had collected quite a range of
  complimentary soaps during their twelve weeks together)
  not seem too bad. She sat in the shop until they closed at
  five-thirty regaling the customers with stories of her
  husbands and lovers. As she closed up the shop and Eden
  was leaving she turned to Theresa and laughed softly.
      "They all say the same thing though, they say that
  I m not very good in bed."
      Then she left.
  
      As she put the empty glass in the dishwasher the
  first customer walked in, there was a chime and a scuffling
  of leather soled shoes on tile. Mr. Joe Jones stood about
  six feet tall, hunched, with his bowler hat on his head. He
  wore a thick-set raincoat and was one of the Coffee Pot s
  regulars.
      "How are you this morning Joseph?" enquired
  Theresa with a wink.
      "Oh, T you set a mans heart a-racing with that
  steamy talk. Maybe you could give me something hot
  later, eh?"
      "Don t  take that tone with me Joseph!" she
  exclaimed in mock-protest.
      "Shunned again," he cried, "it doesn't seem right,
  the way you lead a man on with your teas and your
  shortbread and your ‘Oooo, you ARE terrible Josephs'.
  You're all the same you poxy women you promise us the
  earth with those big moist eyes and then you take it away
  without a single qualm in your pretty little head."
      "What'll you be having today then Joseph?"
      He picked up a plate with a small piece of sugared
  biscuit on it and placed it on a tray with a napkin and a
  spoon.
      "A pot of tea please."
      Theresa looked at him stealthily as she filled the
  dappled pot and placed it with an upturned cup and saucer
  on his tray.
      "That'll be one pound sixty pence."
      "And if you can find it in your heart to spend a
  short time talking to a silly old man," he breathed feebly,
  "I would very much appreciate."
      "If I have a moment."
      He waddled off to the table for two by the stairs
  and sat down heavily. He pulled a paper from under his
  arm and started to inspect it's pink pages with meticulous
  interest. Pausing occasionally to nibble his biscuit or brush
  some wandering crumbs from his lap.
  
      The light in the Coffee Pot flickered and seemed
  almost candle-lit as people walked by the window and cast
  shadows inside. The shadows stayed briefly and then were
  ripped back outside, screaming silently into the morning.
  Two shadows stopped at the glass door, lingered, and
  there was a stir of air as they walked in.
      "It is chilly out there." exclaimed the slight man as
  he shivered and walked through the door.
      "It is." agreed the thin man's scrawny wife.
      "Ahhh luscious!" exclaimed Joseph as he wiggled
  his eyebrows at the lady from above his copy of the
  Financial Times.
      "Oh, Stephen!" she cried, gripping her husband
  tightly by the forearm, "Will you stand by and let him
  speak to me in that way?"
      "Of course not Doris." he whispered proudly, then
  turning to the flirt, "We have come here for a quiet drink
  and would appreciate it if you would let us sup in peace
  for once."
      "You're a lucky man Steve, a lucky man indeed."
      Stephen grunted and adjusted his hold on the
  walking stick he carried. Nailed to it's stem were little
  metal shields with coats of arms and green hillsides
  enamelled on. They charted countless walks and countless
  revisits to myriad National Parks.
      "Will you two please behave!" scolded Theresa
  from her vantage point behind the counter.
      "I only want a quiet life." sighed Stephen.
      "I sympathise deeply." Joe nodded to Doris, who
  huffed and turned to the sweet trolley.
      Stephen picked up a lemon meringue, had a change
  of heart and swopped it for a cinnamon apple pie. Why did
  that man always make him feel so inadequate, he didn't
  know why EVERY morning they came back here to be
  harassed and insulted. But it would feel like he'd won if
  they stopped coming, that he'd chased them away from
  where they had a perfect right to be. He put back the apple
  pie and picked up a slice of cherry crumble. Yes, that
  would be far nicer. Besides he shouldn't feel hassled, he'd
  spent the last forty years before he retired in a stressed,
  oppressed mood and under near breaking pressure. Then
  he'd retired and it stopped. But soon he was intimidated
  by the weeds in the garden, by Doris who he'd had to
  meet again after all these years and from Joseph in the
  Coffee Pot. I'm just marking time, he decided. He looked
  viciously at Joseph, but the effect was lost as Joseph was
  running his finger down the columns and sucking a biscuit,
  oblivious to the outside world. Doris paid for the pot of
  coffee and the lemon meringue (instinct - first choice is
  always the best option) and they sat down at the table next
  to Joe.
      Theresa hummed mildly and walked into the
  kitchen, untied and retied her apron and then started to cut
  and butter the baps. She sliced salad and took out small
  packs of cooked meats from the industrial refrigerator.
  The pile of sandwiches built up gradually and she marked
  her process by stages, quarter done, half done, mostly
  done, finished. There was a chime.
  
      "Hello you old beggars!" said Ray.
      "Morning."
      "Top of the morning to you."
      "What have you been up to with that wild boyish
  grin on your face?" asked Joe.
      "It's been a long time since I could be called
  boyish, but do I really seem wild?" he asked, concerned
  that his friendly cool and collected attitude had slipped.
      "You have a devilish gleam in your eye m'boy and
  you cannot hide it."
      "I've just been keeping busy, as always, it helps me
  to retain my youthful looks and vigour."
      "I doubt it, more likely you've just got laid."
      "How vulgar, how repulsive, how utterly wrong
  you are."
      "Oh, I forgot I was talking to Ray the asexual.
  Ray, friend to all, lover to none. You probably haven't got
  laid but I think I spy the beginning of another liaison?"
      "Couldn't be further from the truth, I've just been
  helping out my new neighbours."
      "Ah, the sweet flush of selfless charity, I must try
  it sometime."
      "Yes, you MUST." interrupted Theresa, "How are
  you this morning Ray?"
      "Well, I'm looking wild and boyish, apparently."
      "I wouldn't take too much HE says as Gospel."
  she nodded contemptuously towards Joe.
      "Oh thanks."
      "You're a big boy now, you can take the reality."
      "I suppose so, I preferred it when you all thought
  I was Casanova."
      "I don't believe you."
      "No, Raymond never was a particularly sexy name.
  Anyway I'd quite like a slice of ham and broccoli quiche
  and an orange juice, ta."
      "Anything for you, my lover."
      "She's such a tease." moaned Joseph.
      "She is," chuckled Ray, "she is indeed."
      "Could I ask for your confidential advice actually
  Ray?" Theresa said quietly under her breath.
      "Of course, dear lady, anything to be of service."
      He picked up his plate and glass and meandered
  over to a quiet table by the window. Theresa waited for a
  minute or two and then joined him.
      "They're colluding again!" Joe informed his
  neighbours confidingly, "He's got a finger in every pie, has
  that one."
      Doris gasped and Stephen sighed.
      Theresa ignored the muffled conversation and leant
  forward slightly as she spoke.
      "It's Susan, she's worrying us again."
      Ray rested his chin on his hand and asked
  consolingly what had happened this time.
      "Do you remember all that business that went on
  about 6 months back?" she asked, rhetorically, "well I just
  thought we'd got over that and what does she do? She
  goes off God knows where in the middle of the night and
  calls up when things start getting hairy. She does it every
  time, she drinks a bit too much and when she finally
  regains her senses she's in a strange house with people she
  doesn't know who she's led to believe are going to, well,
  Ray, you know what men are like. The slightest loll of a
  head in a drunken stupor can be taken the wrong way,
  that's all. I mean, I love her, but when it comes down to
  it there's only so much I can take before, well, before I
  give up."
      "Don't take it so personally T. She's a young
  woman and God knows if I can remember back that far,
  but to my recollection, young women have never been that
  helpless or innocent. That is something which we project
  upon them.
      "I'm sorry Ray, are you saying that I was wayward
  once, because if you are I think you'll find me denying it
  very strongly."
      "I can only speak for myself, obviously, but my
  general impression has been that the older I get, the more
  innocent I become."
      "You've lost me. . ." she looked bewildered.
      "Well, in my teens I did some things that, well, I'd
  rather not talk about. I blush to recall the stuff I tried,
  because now I'm older I find it all so much more
  distasteful. I know it doesn't make those things wrong. I
  remember enjoying them at the time, or more exactly
  perhaps being intrigued by it, at the time. Maybe all I mean
  to say is that in the intervening years life is less novel and
  so different things start to seem attractive or exotic."
      "Like the feel of a new hairdo?"
      "No that's a female thing, women of all ages feel
  that." he laughed.
      "Well, I'm glad that someone is finding this
  amusing."
      "I'm sorry T but all I mean to say is try not to take
  it personally, it's natural to worry but remember that we
  all did the same things when we were younger."
  
      "I don't CARE whether you think it's inner nature
  and that you cannot control your animal instincts but I will
  NOT have you there making lude suggestions to my
  wife!"  screamed Stephen in a high pitched wheeze.
      "Listen old boy, I was merely complimenting you
  on your good fortune and your wife on her good figure.
  You must agree that it is a very nice figure."
      "How dare you!"
      "I find your disrespectful attitude even more
  degrading to your good wife than any innocent passing
  comment that I have made."
      "Do you what to take this outside?" he squealed.
      "Stephen, no!" pleaded Doris.
      "Listen, there's no need to take it that far."
      "Okay, you two stop it NOW!" yelled Theresa, "I
  do not need this right now, okay! I, do, not, NEED
  THIS."
      Ray stood up and put his arm around her and sat
  her down.
      "Please could you try and be civil" he asked them
  politely and then turned his concern to Theresa.
      Joseph nodded in quiet vindication.
      "There IS something going on." he beamed.
      "Oh, do be quiet Joseph." snapped Doris.
  
      "Are you alright?" asked Raymond, "Here, have
  some of my orange juice and try to relax a bit."
      "No." said Theresa, coldly "I think that the best
  thing I could do right now is to get back behind the
  counter and do my job."
      "Whatever you think is best." agreed Ray, "but I'll
  pop back in at lunchtime to see how you are."
      "You're very kind Ray." she softened slightly,
  "But I'll be fine."
      "Okay then."
  
      She stood up and walked quickly between the
  tables and into the kitchen. What a condescending man
  Ray is, she thought. But he does mean well, he might even
  be slightly right but I'm more inclined to feel that Suzie is
  just wayward. At the end of the day there is a lot of guff
  talked about why people behave in the way they do.
  Professors would spend hours arguing over poor Joe out
  there, about whether it was his childhood, his innate
  personality or a terrible shock that made him the way he is.
      But I've sat in this shop for too many years and
  personally I can only see that people are people and
  they're odd creatures at that. Everyone's an expert, and
  can tell you why they're not happy or you're not happy
  but in the end they're just trying to justify the things they
  see in themselves.
      She glanced up at the clock. It was two minutes
  past nine.
  
©1998 Mark Sexton