Do not even talk to me without my coffee.
It was earliest morning and the sun was still sleeping in behind the very last and longest of the hills. Everything looked like ink blots, especially the eyes of the few shambling zombies that roamed the streets, grunting and moaning and gurgling at the just-lost moon.
“Caffeine,” they whined. “Caffeeeeeeine.” And their feet took them down the worn grooves in the sidewalk that their bodies had walked ten thousand times before, never once with the brain in charge, never once with a soul to guide them, to Long Noodle John’s Cigar and Coffee Shack.
***
Don’t even talk to me without my coffee.
Long Noodle John didn’t sell cigars, but it had been called that since Short Noodle Hoover had set up the place a century back and he didn’t want to push his luck. You messed with the rituals and omens of the decaffeinated at grave peril, of both your business and of your person.
So you kept the name of the business and changed your own to match it, and you kept the specials on the menu, and you gave everyone the same damned thing they’d asked for the first day you met them, and you never stopped smiling, and behind the counter you kept that ancient creaking sign that said:
Don’t even talk to me without my coffee.
And you followed its advice as you served them one and all.
The long, slouching man with a welder’s fingers: red hot black coffee, with no napkin to keep his fingers from burning.
The single father with eyes buried in many-folded-flesh-flaps in his face: tea, three bags, no sugar, no milk, a squirt of lemon juice from the bright yellow bottle.
The ragged college person with the thrice-crushed nose: the cheapest, coldest coffee legally saleable.
The woman in the suit: a triple-quadruple with a stale cookie from the stale cookie box that had, fifty years ago, held cigars.
The three teenagers with their three backpacks and their three bad haircuts: two coffees and a tea, all of them with one milk and one sugar and honey in the tea. The tea went to the second-worst haircut.
And Long Noodle John did it all without a word, without a cleared through, or a cough, or an acknowledging ‘hmm!’ or a ‘have a good one’ or having to say ‘workin’ hard or hardly workin’??!’ or anything. Because of the sign.
Good money came from this, since you were dealing with people that weren’t actually awake or even really alive. You took bills and coins and cards and cheques and small polished bird skulls and shark-tooth necklaces and car keys and land deeds and stocks and bonds and gift certificates and in one case a complete set of flawless dentures made from real ivory, only barely used and still warm from the old man’s first sip of coffee.
It made good money at the pawn shops and the banks and the so ons and so forths, legal or not. Ten more years of this and Long Noodle John would be free to spend the rest of his life without seeing a single bean.
If they didn’t get him first.
***
Don’t even talk to me without my coffee.
The first rays of gold breached the treeline, crawled down the sides of the buildings. Long Noodle John’s customers hissed and recoiled and snarled at the sun, eyes averted into the safety of their own shadows as they scurried to him like rats boarding a ship sinking straight into hell. They tripped, they crawled, they ran to him with trembling hands and buckling backs, limping and wheezing as the awful truth of the morning began to beat down on them in full.
Chamomiles and chamomiles of leaves and grounds and cups, disposable and indispensable.
Long Noodle John smiled, and poured, and gave no change.
Orange Peckle, double-steeped.
It was almost time for the rush to be over. Almost time for the relaxing part of his day, where he could start counting his gains and thinking about what island he’d spend his retirement on and whether he should live on martinis or margaritas. He would smile for real, and laugh, and talk with his voice, using words. And until the next morning he wouldn’t have to think about caffeine.
English Breakfest with two sugars.
Unlike most of his customer base, Long Noodle John believed in early to bed, early to rise, and so he woke up with working eyes, an uncreased face, and a healthy, regular appetite. He had never revealed this to anyone, for fear of death.
Early Grey with milk.
And that.
Dark roast
Was.
Mocha
That.
And a latte.
Done.
“Oh man, one more thing!”
But not actually.
***
Don’t even talk to me without my coffee.
It was a new customer, and this one was wearing clothing, real clothing, that a person might wear, not whatever cloth could be placed on a barely-animate scarecrow. It was wide-eyed. It was bright-eyed. It was bushy of tail and mint of breath and it was striding up to the counter and putting down exact change and asking for a herbal blend WITH ITS MOUTH and Long Noodle John couldn’t close his mouth or believe his eyes or stop the horrible droning sound of rushing blood from filling his ears.
“Well gosh I didn’t know that this place was here hahahaha joke’s on me well now there I was jogging and good thing I’ve got this wallet on me and hey no rush now man yeah can’t go too fast in the morning you know or else well you know it’s no fun at all, gotta ease into it, y’know?”
Long Noodle John nodded mutely. He felt the weight of a great and powerful embarrassment on his neck, trying to snap it. His fingers moved without guidance and put bags and water and heat together, hoping this would save him.
“Here y’go!”
He took the change.
“So, working hard or hardly workin’?” inquired the stranger, voice loud and happy and echoing from one side of the street to another.
Long Noodle John shrugged and almost lost a shoulderblade.
“I bet you get LOTS of traffic this time of day!”
His smile was cracking.
“Well, see you tomorrow! I’ll bring photos of my cat, you can have them as a tip!”
Nod. Smile. Cry inside.
“G’bye!” said the stranger. “And really you should stop selling cigars, y’know? Bad for you!”
“It’s historical,” said Long Noodle John.
Every eye turned to him, sunken and cold and dead over their warm beverages.
“Oh shit.”
***
Don’t even talk to me without my coffee.
That’s what it says on the sign of Medium Noodle Davy’s Cigar and Coffee Shack. He got it embossed for good measure.
And just to be safe, he works with his jaw wired shut.