Crovax The Cursed (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} evincar) wrote,@ 2009-02-01 20:28:00 |
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take my wife! please?
holey snowstormey, you guys. there's been like 4 snow storms in the last week and a half, i guess? the people who pick it up haven't even had time to clear the snow from 2 storms ago and they're all overworked as fuck right now. it's pretty sweet. i hope people get the message and don't use their cars so much. kinda hard to imagine montreal without the smog. or any city this size, i guess.
erm, i'm still poor, so that's fun. the habs are on a losing streak, 5 losses out of their last 6 games... good times...
hey, i wrote a short story. i'm not sure if it's finished yet, seems like it's missing something to make it different or original. i'm sure i've heard this basic story line before. maybe tell me what you think?
=====================================
After work I walked home by a different route. I noticed a new café had opened on a street near my house, where a boutique used to be. I stepped inside and found a man standing behind a counter, smiling. In front of him, on one side of the counter, was a small cup and saucer, and on the other side, a candy bar. The room was not very large, but seemed so because it was empty.
“Hi,” I said, walking up to the counter.
“Hello sir,” answered the clerk. “What can I do for you today?”
“What is this place?” I asked.
“A café and dépanneur, sir,” he answered.
I could see now that the cup was full of what must have been coffee.
“Your selection is rather limited,” I remarked.
“Well, yes,” he conceded, “but our goods are of the highest quality. Also, as long as we serve coffee and sell candy, we fit the description for café and dépanneur.”
“How can you even say you’re a coffee shop if there's nowhere to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee? Or the cup, as it were.”
He pointed to a space behind me and upon inspection I noticed a chair, and a small table. They were in the shop window, behind a blurry part on the bottom. That explained how I could miss them before.
“How much for the lot?” I asked.
The price was exorbitant, even considering his claim they were fine in quality. But by that time my curiosity had been piqued. I purchased the candy bar and the coffee. It would have been enough money for a fancy meal anywhere else. I walked to the chair, feeling the clerk's eyes on my back. I sat, feeling ridiculous.
I decided to make the most of it, since I had spent so much. I did not bite the candy bar straight out of the wrapper as you normally would. I opened the wrapper without damaging it, using that folded flap of paper on the back to tear it in a straight line, and spread it out like a napkin, the naked bar in the middle.
It was, I now could see, not what you would call candy. It looked rather like a fancy bar of dark chocolate, consisting of only four medium-sized squares. I picked it up gingerly, with my pinkie sticking out. I took an exaggeratedly small nibble, the way I imagined prim Victorian ladies would bite a scone.
The taste caught me by surprise, and I suddenly lost all feeling in my entire body but my mouth. I could not see, I could not hear. Pure ecstasy traversed my spine from top to bottom in an electrical jolt. I lost sense of time and space. When I came to, it took me a few seconds to remember where I was. I think I must have been moaning. I looked at the clerk, still standing behind his counter. He was smiling at me, like he knew what was going on.
Then I remembered about the coffee. How could a cup of coffee, probably tepid from sitting on a counter so long, be good enough to compare to that chocolate? There was no packet of sugar, no tiny milk portion to flavour it with. That was fine, since I liked it black, but he could not have known that. I picked up the cup, no longer bothering with silly affectations. It felt hot, like it was freshly poured. I took a tentative sip.
The rich and textured flavour hit me like a slap in both cheeks. My teeth, along with my whole face, were numb and tingling. I could feel a chill running across my scalp, and my toes involuntarily curl. The drink was piping hot, perfect in bitter taste and rich enough that it could very well dilute into a whole gallon of water and still make acceptable coffee.
I opened my eyes--they had closed at some point, though I could not tell you when. I looked around at the empty room, the counter, the still-smirking clerk. I turned again to the items resting on my table. Could it have been a mistake? Some kind of trick? I took another, unequivocal, bite of the chocolate. As before, I spaced out while enjoying every moment until I swallowed. I took another sip of coffee. It was as hot as before, and just as perfect.
I could not believe my luck at finding this place, and of getting here before anyone else so I could have this perfect food. I ate slowly, deliberately, taking care not to lose a speck of chocolate in the wrapper or a drop of coffee on the bottom of the cup. Never before had I been so satisfied from a mere snack, or, indeed, from a full meal.
I stood, and addressed the clerk.
“Thank you for … this. You weren’t lying about the quality.”
I reflected there was hardly a need to tell him how good his own stock was. I shook his hand and left a handsome tip. I told him I would be back tomorrow, although I wondered to myself how I could afford this luxury every day. I had to, anyhow. I would go without any other food if it became necessary. I walked out into the cold of the street, the aroma and warmth of the coffee staying with me all the way home.
The next day I hurried out of the office, almost running down the sidewalks to get to my new favourite café. When I arrived at the proper block, I could not find it. A boutique selling clothes had replaced it; indeed, the same boutique that had been there for years, which I figured had been closed when I saw the café in its stead. I looked around in a panic. Maybe I remembered the wrong address? The wrong side of the street? That coffee could have had that effect on me, after all. It was no use. I paced frantically around ten city blocks, but found nothing.
I was miserable. How had this café suddenly blinked in and then out of existence, only selling one cup of coffee and one single chocolate bar? I remembered the funny look the clerk had given me when I said I would be back the next day. Not quite mockery, but jest nonetheless. That treacherous villain! He had known all along, of course. Had he even been real? Had I dreamed up the entire experience?
I plunged my hand into my coat pocket, where I had saved the chocolate's wrapper, in case I ever found that brand anywhere else. There it was, proof that I had not dreamed it up myself. At least, if the café had vanished, I would still be able to find some more of that chocolate. I ran home.
I figured there would be some mention of the chocolate makers on the internet, and ran a search for the name on the wrapper. The search engine found various mentions and deformed versions of the name, but none of them referred to a chocolate maker. I looked at the wrapper for more information. An address, a "Made in ..." country name, anything. No such information was printed. I was truly lost.
Many years have passed since I lost my café. I often stalk the streets of the city, hoping to find the plain display and the empty room, my heart jumping when I pass a new store still empty of goods, waiting to open. Coffee and chocolate taste so bland to me, no matter how strong, and I can barely bring myself to have any. Sometimes I curse the day I found that blasted café, but I would rather have tasted ambrosia once, never to find it again, than have remained oblivious such a thing could exist.
===========================
i don't know, i think maybe it's sort of boring? no title yet, and needs a new angle. really i was planning on writing this as a play, i think it would work better, and i could explore the interaction between the customer and the clerk more deeply. i felt that was where the interesting stuff would be. just dump the whole "disappearing café" thing and explore the surrealist angle of having a place with only a single cup of joe and a single candy bar.
oh, and "dépanneur" means convenience store. you know, one of those small shops on street corners that have a limited selection of groceries, and also candy, cigarettes and booze (in quebec they're allowed to sell booze). seems like every region has a different name for this type of establishment.
going back to sherbrooke next thursday, for the slam thing. i didn't end up going to the anglo montreal one. i forget why. next month i'll make an effort.
do you guys know Tim Minchin? he's pretty cool. look him up~
holey snowstormey, you guys. there's been like 4 snow storms in the last week and a half, i guess? the people who pick it up haven't even had time to clear the snow from 2 storms ago and they're all overworked as fuck right now. it's pretty sweet. i hope people get the message and don't use their cars so much. kinda hard to imagine montreal without the smog. or any city this size, i guess.
erm, i'm still poor, so that's fun. the habs are on a losing streak, 5 losses out of their last 6 games... good times...
hey, i wrote a short story. i'm not sure if it's finished yet, seems like it's missing something to make it different or original. i'm sure i've heard this basic story line before. maybe tell me what you think?
=====================================
After work I walked home by a different route. I noticed a new café had opened on a street near my house, where a boutique used to be. I stepped inside and found a man standing behind a counter, smiling. In front of him, on one side of the counter, was a small cup and saucer, and on the other side, a candy bar. The room was not very large, but seemed so because it was empty.
“Hi,” I said, walking up to the counter.
“Hello sir,” answered the clerk. “What can I do for you today?”
“What is this place?” I asked.
“A café and dépanneur, sir,” he answered.
I could see now that the cup was full of what must have been coffee.
“Your selection is rather limited,” I remarked.
“Well, yes,” he conceded, “but our goods are of the highest quality. Also, as long as we serve coffee and sell candy, we fit the description for café and dépanneur.”
“How can you even say you’re a coffee shop if there's nowhere to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee? Or the cup, as it were.”
He pointed to a space behind me and upon inspection I noticed a chair, and a small table. They were in the shop window, behind a blurry part on the bottom. That explained how I could miss them before.
“How much for the lot?” I asked.
The price was exorbitant, even considering his claim they were fine in quality. But by that time my curiosity had been piqued. I purchased the candy bar and the coffee. It would have been enough money for a fancy meal anywhere else. I walked to the chair, feeling the clerk's eyes on my back. I sat, feeling ridiculous.
I decided to make the most of it, since I had spent so much. I did not bite the candy bar straight out of the wrapper as you normally would. I opened the wrapper without damaging it, using that folded flap of paper on the back to tear it in a straight line, and spread it out like a napkin, the naked bar in the middle.
It was, I now could see, not what you would call candy. It looked rather like a fancy bar of dark chocolate, consisting of only four medium-sized squares. I picked it up gingerly, with my pinkie sticking out. I took an exaggeratedly small nibble, the way I imagined prim Victorian ladies would bite a scone.
The taste caught me by surprise, and I suddenly lost all feeling in my entire body but my mouth. I could not see, I could not hear. Pure ecstasy traversed my spine from top to bottom in an electrical jolt. I lost sense of time and space. When I came to, it took me a few seconds to remember where I was. I think I must have been moaning. I looked at the clerk, still standing behind his counter. He was smiling at me, like he knew what was going on.
Then I remembered about the coffee. How could a cup of coffee, probably tepid from sitting on a counter so long, be good enough to compare to that chocolate? There was no packet of sugar, no tiny milk portion to flavour it with. That was fine, since I liked it black, but he could not have known that. I picked up the cup, no longer bothering with silly affectations. It felt hot, like it was freshly poured. I took a tentative sip.
The rich and textured flavour hit me like a slap in both cheeks. My teeth, along with my whole face, were numb and tingling. I could feel a chill running across my scalp, and my toes involuntarily curl. The drink was piping hot, perfect in bitter taste and rich enough that it could very well dilute into a whole gallon of water and still make acceptable coffee.
I opened my eyes--they had closed at some point, though I could not tell you when. I looked around at the empty room, the counter, the still-smirking clerk. I turned again to the items resting on my table. Could it have been a mistake? Some kind of trick? I took another, unequivocal, bite of the chocolate. As before, I spaced out while enjoying every moment until I swallowed. I took another sip of coffee. It was as hot as before, and just as perfect.
I could not believe my luck at finding this place, and of getting here before anyone else so I could have this perfect food. I ate slowly, deliberately, taking care not to lose a speck of chocolate in the wrapper or a drop of coffee on the bottom of the cup. Never before had I been so satisfied from a mere snack, or, indeed, from a full meal.
I stood, and addressed the clerk.
“Thank you for … this. You weren’t lying about the quality.”
I reflected there was hardly a need to tell him how good his own stock was. I shook his hand and left a handsome tip. I told him I would be back tomorrow, although I wondered to myself how I could afford this luxury every day. I had to, anyhow. I would go without any other food if it became necessary. I walked out into the cold of the street, the aroma and warmth of the coffee staying with me all the way home.
The next day I hurried out of the office, almost running down the sidewalks to get to my new favourite café. When I arrived at the proper block, I could not find it. A boutique selling clothes had replaced it; indeed, the same boutique that had been there for years, which I figured had been closed when I saw the café in its stead. I looked around in a panic. Maybe I remembered the wrong address? The wrong side of the street? That coffee could have had that effect on me, after all. It was no use. I paced frantically around ten city blocks, but found nothing.
I was miserable. How had this café suddenly blinked in and then out of existence, only selling one cup of coffee and one single chocolate bar? I remembered the funny look the clerk had given me when I said I would be back the next day. Not quite mockery, but jest nonetheless. That treacherous villain! He had known all along, of course. Had he even been real? Had I dreamed up the entire experience?
I plunged my hand into my coat pocket, where I had saved the chocolate's wrapper, in case I ever found that brand anywhere else. There it was, proof that I had not dreamed it up myself. At least, if the café had vanished, I would still be able to find some more of that chocolate. I ran home.
I figured there would be some mention of the chocolate makers on the internet, and ran a search for the name on the wrapper. The search engine found various mentions and deformed versions of the name, but none of them referred to a chocolate maker. I looked at the wrapper for more information. An address, a "Made in ..." country name, anything. No such information was printed. I was truly lost.
Many years have passed since I lost my café. I often stalk the streets of the city, hoping to find the plain display and the empty room, my heart jumping when I pass a new store still empty of goods, waiting to open. Coffee and chocolate taste so bland to me, no matter how strong, and I can barely bring myself to have any. Sometimes I curse the day I found that blasted café, but I would rather have tasted ambrosia once, never to find it again, than have remained oblivious such a thing could exist.
===========================
i don't know, i think maybe it's sort of boring? no title yet, and needs a new angle. really i was planning on writing this as a play, i think it would work better, and i could explore the interaction between the customer and the clerk more deeply. i felt that was where the interesting stuff would be. just dump the whole "disappearing café" thing and explore the surrealist angle of having a place with only a single cup of joe and a single candy bar.
oh, and "dépanneur" means convenience store. you know, one of those small shops on street corners that have a limited selection of groceries, and also candy, cigarettes and booze (in quebec they're allowed to sell booze). seems like every region has a different name for this type of establishment.
going back to sherbrooke next thursday, for the slam thing. i didn't end up going to the anglo montreal one. i forget why. next month i'll make an effort.
do you guys know Tim Minchin? he's pretty cool. look him up~
