Cafe' (A Short Story) (554 hits)
Category: Quotes & StoriesRating: 1.75 on 7 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by someone (View user info) at 2005-01-18 15:55:57 EST
Cafe'
A Short Story
Me and brother, every day around 2 o'clock in the afternoon, would sit in the old cafe' across from the goddamm Mobil Superstation that glowed blue and red and white in the evening, and would likely ruin the view and hurt the gentle atmosphere of the old cafe', but it was daytime, and we weren't old enough to stay up for the late-night poetry readings and book recitals, sometimes they had old jazz bands and indy rock and a bunch of other fancy intellectual stuff, but I would find out about that sometime later, for now we just sat by that big picture window and did our best to ignore that Mobil Station. Every day, like I said, I like to repeat myself when I try to tale a tale, sorry, they say its all in the details, me and brother, brother and I, would walk in through that old glass door covered in brochures, some read: Jazz band looking for a bassist, drummer, trumpet player, depended on the time I guess, others said End War, and still others would advertise book stores and piano lessons, and other stuff I'm sure, but that's all I remember now, and in we walked, greeted by the door bells jinglin' at our arrival, and old Pari' the weathered french lady with coffee running through her blood, me and brother we discussed this often, would say in her broken English, Hiii boyys, and we would say, Hi Pari', and our best french accents, terrible now looking back. We would sit in our window side tables and wait for our beverages. Old Pari' was so used of us now she knew exactly what to bring us, so we would sit and wait and stare at the window, we needed copious amounts of caffeine to began our long-winded and asinine conversations, yes I was a caffeine addict at the tender age of twelve, brother was fifteen, but looking back again caffeine was the least harmful thing I was into, I wish I could still say the same.
The Mobil Station always used to enthrall me before we gots to talking, I would watch the black, gray, white, sea-green and cherry red cars, all makes and models, and watch those old folks jump out and run into the store clutching their jackets and scarfs in the winter, sunglasses in the summer, and grab lotto tickets, smokes, coffee, but old Pari's was better, dammit, I used to always complain to brother about that, but he paid no attention, and run back to the cars doing the same clutching and grabbing, hoping perhaps for a big lotto break, or maybe looking forward to nicotine, caffeine, I don't really know, I can't read minds, but back then I used to pretend I could. I would point to and laugh while my brother sat quiet and watched me amused, Look, look at her, hoping that ticket can buy her a new car maybe, or a new life, or maybe a new outfit, or Brother, Look at him! Clutching his cigarettes and coffee, why not come over here and give good ole' Pari' the business, and brother would always say, after putting up with me for about ten minutes, until the coffee came, old Pari' always moved slow and jittery but with a rapid scuttling of feet, I can't describe it really, you'd have to meet the old girl to really know what I'm talking about, so any way's once the coffee came, brother would say, Ok Jack, the coffee is here, plus I told you its not nice to talk about other people, you're gonna be like that someday, now come on, lets ignore those old bastards and talk.
Brother was quite mature for his age, even now looking back, I was amazed at his maturity, shouldn't a happy fifteen year old be out skateboarding and vandalizing houses, but brother was not happy, and neither was I, I just didn't realize that yet at the tender age of twelve, where every thing was a funny experience, and I felt so grown-up and happy drinking that coffee with old brother, laughing and giggling and feeling that caffeine hit the young bloodstream, until I began to shake and talk a mileaminute.
Brother was very humble and quiet, and thought hard and talked slow every conversation, but his little bit of pride and happiness was in bringing up me up right, he felt education and art and music and old cafe' shops with Pari' sitting behind the counter, brewing some of her extra strong expresso's and americano's and bunch's of other stuff, well that was the only thing important. Plus Dad was never around, always on business trips traveling around the world on dinner meetings, stock market discussions, and when he did return he would smile and hug me and say Hey Jack, then be off to the office, on the phone, the computer, reading the Wall Street Journal, never talking to mom or brother in the least bit, I always thought his life was so sad, so pointless, even at my young life, but I see it even more now. Mom, mom would rarely leave her room, and if she did she was on the couch watching the tube, always had some drink that would smell a lot like the rubbing alcohol brother would put on my cuts when I fell and got hurt. It was, of course, vodka, but I couldn't figure out the pieces then, even at the age of twelve, because even though I was well read, artistically skilled, excelled in school, I missed some of the fairly obvious things in life, drug talks, sex talks, I had no parents to teach me, and my private school scoffed at the idea of sexual education. So my parent was brother, he would wake me up, make sure I was properly dressed for school in my blue sport coat and oxford shirt, blue-red striped tie and blue slacks, then drive me and himself into our big old school yard, even though he wasn't old enough and didn't have a license, he drove me every day in our big shiny Cadillac, mother never said a word, never said a word to anyone. Each afternoon, we would go to our coffee shop, talk, then off home where we would either order food in or go out to dinner, brother taught me how to eat with the right forks for the proper courses of meal, drink a wine, but only a little bit because I was still to young, and drink tea and of course coffee, then off home where we would shower, then do homework and if time, look over paintings and brush up on our awful French, but we wanted to impress Pari' and got a good laugh trying any ways. Before bed brother would get out our books, discuss them for a while, then we would read silently before going off to bed. This would happen almost every day, brother never had friends, never talked to anyone at school, he dedicated his whole life to my upbringing.
I think this is why when I graduated, neither parent was there but he was, dressed in a suit in tie, skipped his big meeting to be there, he cried and hugged and kissed me and told me how proud he was, and even though he was now twenty-one and me eighteen, I wasn't embarrassed or ashamed, just happy for his approval, he was the father and mother I never had.
I've spent the last three years without brother, studying film at the New York University, when I got in he told me how proud he was, then that night after dinner, we went to Pari's old cafe and sat and watched jazz, and on the way home, told me that his job was complete, and even then, four hours before he killed himself, shot himself right in front of mother, who didn't even flinch, I didn't even have a clue, didn't even understand, eighteen fucking years old without a clue.
I was just happy to love, and be loved.
User Reviews
Submitted by someone (user info) at 2005-01-19 00:21:02 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Umbilical_Cord (user info) at 2005-01-18 21:52:00 (#)
Ranking: 1
Read it. Good for English class, bad for an anomonous community of bored students and office workers seeking instant gratification
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Thanks man, thats what I'm beginning to realize.
Submitted by Umbilical_Cord (user info) at 2005-01-18 21:52:00 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Read it. Good for English class, bad for an anomonous community of bored students and office workers seeking instant gratification.
Submitted by ruthless (user info) at 2005-01-18 18:55:56 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by someone (user info) at 2005-01-18 17:05:43 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by TigerLilly (user info) at 2005-01-18 17:03:11 (#)
Ranking: 2
Needs more paragraphs.
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I was thinking that as well, but its tough because the character is using stream-of-conscious style writing, kinda like how one does when thinking back to to the past. You shoulda seen it before, the whole thing was in comma's and I knew it would be difficult as fuck to read. Can you think of any more breaks, where more paragraphs would be suitable?
Submitted by TigerLilly (user info) at 2005-01-18 17:03:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Needs more paragraphs.
Submitted by someone (user info) at 2005-01-18 16:59:19 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Come on people what the fuck! REVIEW THIS!!
Submitted by AnotherStupidUsername (user info) at 2005-01-18 16:57:54 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment