Human Beans
By Colin Taylor
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Sitting in coffee shops awaiting the dreaded office, yearning for escape forced me to write it.
As for the niche? Well, what can I say other than I guess coffee, along with people watching is what we all enjoy. I see hundreds a day doing just in my small corner of society. Everyday people stare blankly into their latte’s thinking, “What’s he doing with her?” or “She’s a bit fat for those jeans.”
Any uniqueness is hopefully within the prose, as it was written continuously in lengthy sessions, without revision, it has maintained a flow. The plot is twisty and the characters semi-autobiographical and various references to the beats give it an underlying, interesting edge.
Detailed
Synopsis
After taking up a job in Erno’s Coffee Shop, Jack Munroe is at first relieved to have given up on his ex-girlfriend, corporate life and routine, in favour of the more sedate surroundings of his beloved coffee shop. However plans to become the mysterious reclusive type are shelved when the patrons entwine him into their own routine.
A failed drunken date with psycho Gill is just the start of things for Jack, as he becomes gradually obsessed with the strange and unique regulars. The harassed, abrupt writer Fitz, who conveniently leaves his script on view whilst visiting the toilet, married couple Joe and Maddy, who are intrinsically mixed up with a local band, his fair weather stalker Gill, and Suzy, the cute co-worker are all sudden part of Jacks new life. A life that is consistently overlooked by his boss Erno, who is only interested in serving good coffee. Events unravel, and Jack is swept along by his obsession, whilst regularly alluding to his missing solemate and confidant, the inimitable ‘Fatso’.
The stories that link the characters come to a head at ‘Erno’s’ coffee shop on a Friday billed as ‘Performance Night’, Jack’s idea to recreate the crazy beat nights of fifties America. Confessions aplenty, twists and turns and revelations reverberate throughout the night.
Does Jack win the girl, will the mercurial ‘Fatso’ ever appear again, will Joe hit Mike, who hit Maddy, who did Gill used to date, what’s the deal with Matthew, and what of Erno? After ‘Performance Night’, Jack receives the answers to his questions, but is he happy with them?
Chapter 1
The smell of freshly brewed coffee carries with it much more than an aroma. It tells a story, sets a mood, and creates a type of situation that without the smell of coffee would be something less, and lacking the depth that a situation requires. Coffee doesn’t fully tell the story though, for that you need the people who drink, taste and obey its overpowering seductions.
Erno’s coffee shop carried those same such aroma’s, but it refused to bow to the restrictions of its franchised ‘betters’. Erno’s delivered good coffee and a mood to set the benchmark for all other coffee shops to aspire to. It was intangibly disjointed, and obscure; undertones of despair were rife, everyone held together in a non-tactile sense, and a communal feeling of desperate longing reigned throughout. This I would find out during my time there.
I arrived at Erno’s on a bright, Friday afternoon in June, not long after my separation. I had quit the house and took my half, for what it was worth. I did however accrue enough funds to pay off my debts and get a cheap rented one bed in Mosley, just three miles outside the big blue. I left my office job, and frugal fiscal management allowed me the unique and envied position of finding a job I would enjoy, rather than chasing the pound. As a former suit, I would often frequent coffee shops before work, and always envied those working behind the counter, and with immense regret, dreaded the boredom of telesales that lay ahead of me. Therefore my decision was made.
“Hello, I just wondered if you had any jobs going.” I enquired at the counter.
“Hang on” replied the courteous girl, who donned apron of beans and hat of Columbia. She turned and walked out through a door to the back, and almost immediately returned with a hulking figure of a man; a real old fifties strongman type. He had jet black hair that lay floppy on his forehead. His moustache was a bushy plethora of white and black bristles and his aged features displayed a man in his early fifties. He looked at me and threw a towel over his shoulder, whilst making sure he didn’t let go-movie style-like the old time bar-tenders of Hollywood idols.
“Hey, I’m Erno.” He half smiled, and nodded me into the back. We sat in a tiny office on near broken chairs, got comfortable to a point, and he revealed a notepad and pen from his shirt pocket.
“Okay, what’s your name?” Erno spoke with a Brummie/ Italian cadence that affected his enunciation with amusing results.
“Jack Munroe.”
“Okay three questions for ya, can you make coffee? Do you like coffee? And can you spell coffee?”
“Yes, yes and c-o-f-f-e-e.” I smiled as I spoke, bemused by his interviewing technique.
“Okay you got a job.” Erno then slapped my leg hard, as he grinned wildly. I quivered uncomfortably at being touched so intimately, but remained calm; time for a new, less anal, Jack Munroe.
“What, that’s it?”
“Yeah why not, you look okay. What you doing this afternoon?” he mused.
“Nothing much.” I said, feeling slightly worried.
“Okay, you can start now, come on!” He bellowed, and as he stood up, an apron hurtled towards my face, from leaving Erno’s mighty hands.
“Okay.” I muttered from under my work apparel. I stood up and followed Erno out to the shop area.
“It’s quiet, so I will show you a few things, and then you can go.” He smiled his huge smile, with eyes of Naples bearing down into my soul. He walked behind the counter and introduced me to Suzy, the small but shapely, dark haired beauty, who’d first led me to Erno moments earlier.
Over the next hour Erno showed me enough to be getting on with; making coffee, the till and other menial tasks that were to be my duties. Not a PC, fax machine nor photocopier in sight; I was sure to be happier here. After my whirlwind induction Erno gave me six pounds, said well done, and told me to come in on Monday at half six in the morning. I smiled, inanely, and left mystified by all that had happened, but happy nonetheless.
After leaving Erno’s I needed a coffee, but could hardly stay behind and indulge at my new work place. The thought occurred that my romance with coffee shops could fade due to my new occupation, but I shrugged it off and left for the bus stop.
I returned home to Moseley-supposedly the ‘cool’, bohemian part of Birmingham-and made my way up the two flights of stairs to my top floor flat which was one of seven dwellings within the mature, Victorian house. I walked into my kitchen, and turned left for the lounge. Long and thin in shape with one corner expanded and circular, having the appearance of a medieval turret from outside. I emptied my pockets, disposing of my thin wallet, and house keys on my coffee table, and made a coffee using my coffee maker for that fresh, shop taste. I sat down in front of the television, but opted for a relaxing CD of Norah Jones, for as I was once again a working man, I needed my downtime.
The night was no different to the last few months. I would open a bottle of red, watch Kerrang, or MTV, smoke to oblivion and swim around in my pool of self-pity. My partner and I had ended; my few friends were up the pub, or pursuing some other such banal pastime, and close friend and confidant, Ralph, had not spoken to me for ten months. My friend of fifteen years was prone to cutting himself away from our intense friendship. We were simply two joking, smoking, rock n’ rollers, who could barely get enough of each other, but who drove each other to the brink of insanity.
He was the same friend who had pulled away several times before for always, roughly ten months at a time, only for us to meet up for the next bout of strained friendship, and he was currently AWOL. Each time it happened I feared it would be for good, but something always happened. I didn’t know at that time that my long awaited re-union with him was fast approaching.
But for that night, the only glimmer of light was my new job, maybe new friends-which I never made easily and seldom wanted-and the hope of the odd free coffee. I flicked aimlessly from channel to channel, spoke briefly on the phone with old work mate Roscoe Adams, declined his offer of a few grapes at the Sunflower Lounge, opting instead for a relaxing evening of mindless drivel. I read briefly before retiring to bed, pausing en route for a scan of the streets below.
A sadder site you’d struggle find, such was its cold, lonely and depraved manifestation. No one walked these streets at night, no one sober at least, and an old carrier bag was the only occupant, blowing across the road in the breeze, hovering slightly over the centre lines, only to flip back and continue to the other side. For a split second I got excited, as I felt sure it was going to land itself in the litter bin. It teetered on the edge, before a passing car provided the required gust of wind to blow it clear of any such miracle entry into its purposeful home.
I turned from the window of my turret and felt real low over the way I got my kicks. It was one o’ clock in the morning, and I was to some extent drunk, willing a carrier bag into a bin on the streets below. What a thrill, it beat the pub, or lap dancing joint with a consistency that only resolute uniformity in self ideals can bring. The saddest realisation was that I agreed; it was true, I was happier alone, watching bags blow in the wind, for socialising simply wasn’t my suit. Going out made things complicated and I couldn’t be sure I would avoid a beating over a slither of kebab meat, or because I’d be there, doing nothing quietly.
I read briefly, with a jazz channel on in the background, but it was a night where my thoughts would fail to focus on the book, and instead chose to buzz with several topics other than the giant beast of Melville. My mind took me to times on a Saturday night where I would sit stoned, laughing with Ralph and my ex, giggling at anything on TV, filming ourselves with a cheap camcorder; parodies of documentaries about fat men, and whatever else we perceived as funny. Some nights our friend Smithy would come and join in the fun. He and Ralph would make prank calls and think it was hilarious, where as I would urge them not to because I got worried or something like that. If I could get those Saturday nights in our old house back again, I would in a shot.
Sundays I would write, paint or do anything, whilst the ex and Ralph would watch dumb criminal shows in the front room.
Those times were my happiest in recent years, but now they were departed for good. No sign of Ralph, Smithy always pissed, chasing the mystery of going out, and my ex…well she would be in her one bed flat down the road in Harborne, hopefully as miserable as me. I didn’t hate her, how could I? But if someone just doesn’t love you in a way you want them to, then it’s over. There is more than one type of love, it’s obvious, but when you are in love with another, they need to match, but alas they didn’t. Now we were both unhappy and unable to live with each other, we knew that, but also unable to settle with another, how could we? I wanted to phone her, but it got too hard, so had decided not to, and had lasted four months, and obviously, she also resisted the temptation to respond to her heart, and followed her head. In retrospect, I wondered whether I ever loved her at all, because if I did, surely I would be fighting for her.
Regardless, they were happy times, now gone forever. I lay awake just wanting to get them all together for a one off, just a Saturday night, one time only special, no strings. But how could we? Even if all agreed, too much had happened, too much water and so on, and we could no nearer be in the same room relaxed like nights of old, than we could all stand to be burnt alive. Too much tension, and for an emotional tightrope sort of chap like myself, it could prove to be catastrophic.
I eventually slept, but didn’t remember when, but I must of as I woke up, and you can’t wake up if you haven’t been asleep can you? Did I wake up with optimism and delight of another new day? Not quite, but with a little more vigour and zest than I had of late; cue old Erno, my new boss and life leader.
2
What can solitude do to a man? I think it can tear one apart, so Monday morning brought not the gloom of the accustomed (prison) suit to the office, and despite the fact that I didn’t exactly skip to the bus stop, I did boing with considerably more vim and vigour than months gone by.
I quickly settled into my new role, and by lunch on day one, I felt like I had been doing it for years. The staff at the coffee shop were nice enough. Grant was a student-I thought about the obvious pun, but let it pass me by-and Suzy, the young beauty from Friday, who talked of her rock band, proved to display a personality equally as delightful as her looks. Erno was a pleasure to work for, and showed none of the draconian traits I was accustomed to with call centre hierarchy.
By the third day I was fully conversant in the role, and enjoying it with great zeal. I was working a double shift and it was on that day that I remembered noticing some of the regulars for the first time, and that’s where it began. At seven in the morning when Erno opened the large glass doors, a tall, sullen man walked in (who I’d seen on the two previous days), dressed in a full length, black Mac and suit, and he was to be the first of many who quickly became my obsession. Erno served him a large coffee and chocolate muffin; his regular order. I had noticed how this chilling fellow was always first to arrive in the morning.
He would sit at a high table opposite the counter, and stare intently ahead at the glass doors fronting the shop. Wednesday was no different, and I became so intrigued by this behaviour, I decided to probe Erno.
“What’s with him?” I nudged Erno as I whispered.
“I don’t know and don’t care; he’s a good customer though.” Erno almost growled, and he turned to tidy a drop of spilt milk. It was then that I decided I wouldn’t ask Erno about any of his regulars, as he was neither bothered nor curious about them, other than their full payment for goods served.
“Don’t worry about him.” Suzy motioned toward Erno as he shuffled out the back. “I think that guy’s weird. His name is Matthew; I know that because he filled out a comments card a while back.”
“What was his comment?” I asked, needing to feed a sudden surge of curiosity.
“Good coffee.” She smiled as she said it, and cutely wrinkled her soft, rounded nose.
“Good coffee?” I uttered, as she nodded frantically.
“What a strange thing to put.” I murmured, eyeing him from the corner of my eye as I spoke, for fear of detection. Not that there was any chance of that, as he was still firmly eyeballing the glass, not through it, but at it; it’s hard to explain, but then so was Matthew, until Suzy eventually figured him out.
“He orders his coffee and muffin every morning and sits there, staring.” Suzy offered.
“Wow, every day?”
“Yep, without fail.” She kept smiling as she spoke, almost with relief. She had to tell someone her thoughts on this particularly strange regular, and Erno clearly wasn’t the man to converse with.
“Have you ever spoken to him?”
“Only good morning and goodbye.” Suzy’s grin dissolved suddenly, as sad reflection took centre stage across her perfect features.
“Oh well, I might have to try and get something out of him.” I mused, and tried a cool smile, which a thousand coffees and a million fags hindered the appearance of, not to mention the accompanying odour. Suzy smiled back and bent down to get some clean mugs from a low down shelf. I glanced down and caught sight of her white knickers, pleased she wasn’t wearing a skimpy thong like so many girls her age would, and then remembered I was 30 and she was 20 at the most. Not even my once large ego could pull that one off. I grinned to myself, and turned to greet a customer.
“Hello, what can I get you?”
“I’ll have a large skinny latte, and…….mmm.” The suited man turned to his female companion, a very attractive woman, and looked at her for an answer.”
“Just a bottle of coke and…” She looked at the man and seemed confused. “Do you want to share a ham and cheese toastie?” She seemed hopeful.
“Mmm…err.” Make your mind up whilst we’re all young, I though to myself. “Mmm, go on then.” Phew, that was close; this guy nearly committed his life to shares in a three pound sandwich. What would he be like if he had to deal with some real shit; but I liked him, due to a hunch I had, nothing more.
They collected their drinks and I told them I would bring the sandwich over when it was done. He was a scruffy, oddball kind of bloke, with his unshaven attempt at a beard, and tousled, straggly straw hair. He fiddled almost nervously with his sweet and low sachets, and then maniacally stirred his drink like a man possessed. They sat in the back room, where smoking was thankfully permitted and sparked-up, awaiting their sandwich.
When ready, I took their toasted treat over to their table. The man quickly extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray and looked expectantly at the offering, but upon viewing his snack, looked less than impressed. They both went for the plate at the same time, and this made me unsure of when it would be safe to release my grip. As I thought it was safe to do so, the girl took her hands away and confused the man, and the toastie nearly ended up on the floor. Thankfully I managed to recover in time to save it.
“Sorry about that.” I said apologetically.
“No, no, it was my fault mate.” Said the man.
“Ooh, Joe.” Said the women, as she shook her head, smiling.
“Alright, it was you as well.” He spun round on her. I walked away quietly, and left them to gently tell each other whose fault it was.
“They seem nice.” I said to Suzy, when I got back behind the counter.
“They are, but sometimes he can be a bit grumpy and moody. But she’s nice.” Suzy obliged my inquisitive nature.
“Are they married?”
“Yep, and they work together according to their work passes.” A customer then took Suzy’s attention elsewhere. I stood there, thinking about the lives of these people, and was finding out at this early stage what a fascinating job this could turn out to be.
Throughout the day I noticed how the shop had its rushes and lulls, yet whatever time it was, there was usually a solem ambience hanging over the place. The disjointed music coupled with the perculiar breed that the shop gave way to, ensured strange, but interesting times ahead.
By nine o clock I was exhausted, and Erno slapped my back and gave me a fiver.
“Get a taxi toinight; you shouldn’t be on a bus after that long day.” He smiled.
“Thanks Erno, are you sure?” Of course he was, and his steady nod and rhythmic wink told me so. I raced out the door and headed towards the taxi rank nearby, and when I got home I actually felt good about the day at work. It’s the little touches that people just don’t get right anymore, but that Wednesday night, Erno got it exactly right, and it meant a lot to me.
The next day introduced me to others of interest. Matthew and the married couple had come and gone, and it was mid-morning when a man in his early thirties, with full beard and long, wavy black hair ordered a coffee, an orange juice and a breakfast ciabatta. I served and observed, as he positioned himself with drinks, in the smoking area, and delved into his bag. He pulled out a stack of papers and quickly perused his work. As I took his Italian/English breakfast hybrid over to him, I noticed he was reading what looked like pages of typed writing. As I placed the sandwich down on the table, he knew I was looking as he shot me a glance, and thanked me. He looked embarrassed and quickly went about his reading. I meandered back to my station behind the counter, and watched him from a distance. He was furiously crossing words out in red ink, and writing comments on the edge, or over the top of his scribbles.
After a while he vanished to the toilet, so I meandered over to clear his table of the plate that briefly housed his sandwich. I looked down as I cleaned slowly, and read what was in front of me.
Behind them are the ‘of their time’ brigade, the now crew, the very ones who decide what they shall wear after watching ‘Hollyoaks’. They know they are comfortably fashionable, never ahead of fashion, no way, that would be too daring, but never out of date. Oh my God, perish the thought that someone, somewhere hasn’t got a mullet, jeans aren’t died, facial hair not cultivated like the idiots they worship.
That’s what I remembered, and although it’s crude paraphrasing, and a touch inaccurate, it was something along that theme. An angry rant, I liked it. I had moved away by the time he returned, and was annoyed that I had more time than I would have wagered. I stood behind the counter and watched him intently. He interested me, a writer, an author, hard at his task in a coffee shop in the middle of Birmingham.
“His name is Fitz I think.” Suzy offered.
“Okay.”
“Yep, he comes in most days with his stuff, and just reads and scribbles all day.” She nodded, as if to back up her own story; adding the validity that wasn’t required with me.
“Awesome, what’s he like?” I asked.
“Don’t know, he never says a lot.” She shrugged and walked away, as she often did when a conversation had reached her perceived limit of interest.
Fitz stayed for a couple of hours following on with his work and ordering two more coffees and an oat and raisin flapjack. I worked tirelessly during this time, but eventually got a chance to sit in the smoking area for fifteen minutes with a cigarette and a coffee.
“How’s it going?” Erno enquired as he entered my reverie.
“Pretty good, pretty neat.” A phrase I often used, stolen from Jim Morrison.
“You’re doing well, you’re on time and you work hard.” He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. “How about working until nine again tonight?”
“Okay, I’ve got nothing else on.” I said, pleased at the prospect of hanging around a place that stimulated more than my flat cared to.
“That’s that then.” Erno stood, turned, and sailed his way to the office out the back.
Life was good, I felt great, Carol King vocalised ‘Beautiful’ in the background, and I was full of everything that made life good. I smoked another cigarette, and watched the day go by outside the glass frontage.
People were smiling, the sun was helping everybody out, and I loved Birmingham. I was proud of where I lived and the people who inhabited the big blue, and not even San Francisco or New York could have offered more at that moment; not even in the fifties. After my moment of unadulterated pleasure, I stood up and went behind the counter to serve the next customer.
“Can I get a Large Latte and a lemon and white chocolate muffin please?” Said Joe, the married man, on his own.
“Sure, not with skimmed milk this time.” I offered, remembering his earlier request.
“Erm…go on then, I got this size by refusing too many times before.” He chuckled himself.
“Ha ha, okay then.” I turned to get his order, but stopped as he called me.
“Sorry, can I change my muffin to a blueberry one please, got to think of, err…” He patted his belly and smiled, embarrassed by his bulging gut.
“Yeah, that’s fine.” The blueberry muffin was below five percent fat, and the healthiest of all the muffins. I knew this, as my own stomach was taking up too much room in my tops and jeans of late.
“Thanks, ooh, can you stamp my loyalty card please?”
“Okay,” and for no reason that I’m aware off, I stamped it twice, and winked at him.
“Wow, thanks!” He said excitedly, and turned to get his sweet and lows at the end of the counter where he remained awaiting collection of low fat treats.
He sat down with his order, and immediately pulled out a cigarette. He lit it, put it in the ashtray, and leant down to pull out a book from his holdall. I was fascinated to see what his preferred reading matter was, so I jettisoned the safety of the counter and had myself a little research mission, masked cleverly in the guise of a table cleaning operation
I managed to observe that he was reading ‘Town and the City’ by Jack Kerouac. I was impressed that he was, and a tad surprised. I knew the works of Kerouac myself, and knew that anyone could stroll around with ‘On the Road’ for show, but to pick out Kerouac’s, Wolfe influenced first novel which contradicted his following work was something else. I also saw that he was nearing completion of it’s near five hundred pages, and wanted to go over and ask him what he thought of it, but Erno walked out from the office, and I had to continue cleaning for his sake.
“Hey Suzy doesn’t feel well and she’s going home, so you’ll be on your own after six, and I got to go as well so I’ll give you the spare set of keys and show you how to lock up, okay?” Erno had supplied a lot of information in a short space of time.
“Yeah, okay.” I nodded dumbly and went behind the counter for the next guests.
“Alright Jack.” Stood before me was the painfully thin figure of Frank, a guy in a band Ralph and I used to hang around with.
“Hello Frank.” I smiled pleasantly, but nothing more than pleasant.
“I didn’t know you worked here.” He asked.
“Yeah, just started.”
“I heard you’d split up with your misses?”
“Yeah I have, got myself a little one bed flat in Mosley.” I answered, assuming Frank would be interested, which he rarely was in matters of no concern to himself.
“Well we’re on at the Jug on Friday if you fancy coming down.” He was referring to The Jug of Ale, Moseley’s premier music venue; small pub with pound a pint nights on a Wednesday, accompanying great local bands thrashing it out in the upstairs room.
“Tomorrow, err… yeah I might do.” I wanted to ask if Ralph would be there, or if he’d seen him around, but resisted the temptation.
“Alright sound then, err, can I have a Large Cappuccino and a Kit Kat then.”
I served him and the other two members of his band, who I recognised, but didn’t know as well, and they sat down with their guitar cases taking up room, but no one really cared.
I was surprised to notice that Joe, the married man, seemed to know them quite well, and he put his beat novel down to converse familiarly with Frank, and the others, Scott and Mike.
I heard them talking about a guy called Pete, and it sounded like Joe had been in a band with him. I knew that Frank used to be in a band with him as well, but not with Joe. I was thrilled, I think because it’s always nice to see people talking who you never realised knew each other, I don’t know why, but think about it, it just is. After a couple of minutes Joe got back to his book and the band settled down.
Joe left first, and we exchanged a goodbye, and a cheers mate. The band left half an hour after, and I told Frank I would see him Friday, but was unsure whether I would. It would mean turning up on my own, and without Ralph. And if he was there, which I doubted, but if he was, it would just be too uncomfortable. I had options though. I could call Steve Watts and Roscoe Adams from my old work place and we could pop along. Or I could ask Smithy, as it would be good to get together again, and if Ralph was there, Smithy could act as go-between.
The afternoon went by, and I was increasingly puzzled by what had gone on. The more I thought about it, the more I swayed toward phoning Smithy. Erno left at six o clock, I was on my own until nine, and incidents transpired from interesting to down right bizarre.