Stories of the street - One

Deep in thought, deep space occupying enough of his mind to blot out people’s faces, he drifts across the street and into the café.

“Everything and black coffee!” is all he needs to call out to the grizzled smile framed by an ancient coffee machine, then he sits. Staring out into empty space at the very edge of the galaxy he opens his notebook and quickly scribbles. Waiting for the bacon, eggs, sausages, fried bread, mushrooms and baked beans he sips his coffee as the huge vessel condenses out of pure black before him. Unfeasibly large and threatening it sits, waiting, while the skeleton crew feel panic rising. One more note before eating is interrupted by a jostle to his table and a voice.

“Oi! I’m talking to you, arse!” and as a hand moves to snatch his notebook the images he has been struggling to keep fresh in his mind evaporates and he stabs resentfully at the intruder’s hand with his biro.

The jab is effective and before the incident can move any further forward the grizzled face from behind the counter is there, mounted on a rather bulky body struggling to be contained by a rather grimy looking white overall.

“What’s this! No trouble comes here! What you doin’ harassing my customers!”

The intruder is a young man in his late teens, quite tall but still a bit lanky rather than solid with a bad case of acne and a scowl enhanced by a grimace from the pain of being biro-stabbed. He snaps back at the café owner.

“This guy’s been watching us for days now, taking notes in that book of his.”

“What you think he is? The police? Special Branch? He’s my customer and a famous writer! He writes books for Christ sake … he doesn’t even see you!”

“Well I’m saying he better keep out of our business. We can watch him just as easily as he watches us! We’re ‘local residents’, too!”

As the owner pushes the young man out he says, “He’s not one of those newcomers. He was living here before you were born – ask your mother, she probably knew him then!” He closes the door before the young man can think the statement through and respond.

“Sorry about that John. He’s Mary Hegley’s boy. Him and his mates are not the real troublemakers around here but they get most of the flak so they react badly. You’re too much of a dreamer. Eat your breakfast.”

John, the writer sits looking at his pen, his pad and his breakfast. Damned interruptions. They always seem to hit when the flow starts. Eating automatically, he tries to build the images in his head. No good, he needs to get back and sit in front of his computer with some loud music and some of his preferred blend of coffee, so he skims his notes and looks out of the window at the small group of lads as they start to move away from their morning gathering point just a bit further down the road from the café.