The tall blonde girl explained to me that hot chocolate with espresso and steamed oat milk was actually called a Mocha Oat Latte. I thanked her for hepping me to the vernacular and waited to become ungrumpy.
She smiled and went to make my beverage.
The morning thus far, while uneventful, had been chock full of texts from psychotic computer programmers at the non profit where I consulted. That and massive amounts of no-caffeine, as I had neglected to purchase coffee for the crib for the umpteenth time. So, high as a kite, yo, it was off to Cafe Grumpy I go; my bout of no-caffeine triaged for a remedy; stat.
Real knows real & Grumpy knows grumpy.
It was a record high in Brooklyn for the ides of March and I was dressed accordingly. Cargo shorts, Brooklyn vs. Everybody tee, Nike slip on sneakers topped off with a Humphrey Bogart fedora. I was everything the aging software consultant who worked from home should be. And I was high as a helicopter on the Lush sativa pen and didn’t care who knew it.
I heard the door jingle bell open and in lumbered a very, very large man who appeared to be of indeterminate origin. He had a shock of wild black curly hair and a sparse beard and moustache that only partially concealed a deeply tanned set of mostly missing teeth. His feet were in duct taped sneakers whose fronts had been removed. His feet and toes were swollen and filthy; the skin tone best described as a blackish green like when mold oxidizes on a lead water pipe. His toenails looked ready to be donated to science.
The fat man’s stench preceded him, and except for a large burlap blanket swaddling his amazing girth, which I imagined to be somewhere in the neighborhood of close to 400lbs, there was nothing else to clothe him.
The fat man was at least six feet and upon his wild eyed face sat a pair of black rimmed Buddy Holly, coke bottle glasses chaotically held together by silver duct tape. The man was making high pitched unintelligible noises in no one’s general direction. That went on for a few interminably long and ear-splittingly, painful seconds. It was like a cross between The Elephant Man and Donald Trump.
I kept my eyes open but held my breath. I finally surmised the fat man was wanting to be fed as the noises seemed to coalesce into real words. Words that spoke of his homelessness and hunger. The three GenZs behind the counter seemed fascinated by the espresso machine in the back behind the bar.
A woman with a double baby stroller deftly maneuvered around the man and jingle belled out of Cafe Grumpy. I took a step back as a smell so hideous as to be straight from the devil’s rectum strained my olfactory glands to the point of incredulity.
Then two things happened I had less control over than an old alcoholic has over their bladder.
I put the bill on the counter, near the coffee lids and syrup bottles and said, “For the f$(#%&!?!* love of God just f$(#%&!?!*ing take the #@ f$(#%&!?!*ing MONEY$ and GO!”
The man said, “I’m OSWALDO! You said a bad word! Yes. You. DID.”
I felt the room start to spin and felt myself grow lightheaded. I summoned up a righteous indignation and heard myself bellow, “I said, ‘TAKE THE F)@#)*$*#@ MONEY$$ AND GET THE F@#)$)_@#!$ AWAY FROM ME, OSWALDO! PLEASE BROTHER! PLEASE!! YOU’RE KILLING ME!!!”
Then Oswaldo Buddy Holly said my name out loud.
*“<My name?>
Our eyes met. I felt shock welcome me in. Oswaldo Buddy Holly seemed to hear something in the distance that I could not. He did a fast double take that showed marked signs of intelligence. He looked like a filthy Pavarotti. Then, Oswaldo Buddy Holly nodded, as if to confirm something to himself. He then took the twenty and left the cafe.
The bell jingled and I breathed into my fedora like an N95.
“Here’s your Mocha Oat Latte,” the blonde girl said sardonically, offering me a white paper cup with a grumpy face on it, There was an oatmilk leaf slowly discorporating upon its surface and the girl seemed not to notice the now fading fatal funk. Maybe she should switch to oat milk.
I thanked her. Cup in hand I went to the syrup station to put a lid on it. The door bell jingle belled and two men dressed in identical, navy blue banker suits, strode in purposefully, like they were somebody.
They appeared intent on walking right up to me. As I watched this unsettling scene unfold in real-time, I turned from the lids to greet them with a forced smile. And while the bankers looked particularly unfriendly, to their credit they did let in some fresh air with them, and they did not smell like dumpster juice; so there was that.
“Why’d you say that?” one of the bankers asked, referring to me by name.
I felt a chill scramble down my spine. My smile slowly went Grumpy sour.
I took a step back and studied the bankers. They both appeared to be in their late 30s. The banker on the left had curly hair and wore mirrored aviator sunglasses. His face looked expressive as a Buckingham palace guard and there seemed to be a bulge under his sport coat near his left armpit.
There were three things that immediately bothered me about these guys besides the dude trying to roll up on me sporting a bulge.
Things that immediately bothered me:
The other banker had a buzz cut like he was military. He softened his features into an expression I supposed was intended to exude compassion. Good banker, bad banker?
It’s best in times like these to take matters into your own hands. Looking down at my own southpaw, I raised it to my face. Cup to lips. Eyes on the bankers’ suits.
I took a long slurp/gulp of mocha latte, rinsing and repeating until we had all been standing there there a cool half minute watching whilst I caffeinated. The sugary chocolate caffeine beverage talked to me like spinach to Popeye the Sailor Man. Bah-boppa-bah-bah-bah-BAH!
The Popeye voice said, “I’d rather be a hammer than a nail. Let’s bail.”
That’s when the silent banker began to flinch, as if he was going to move his arm. I drew my Cafe Grumpy coffee cup quick; right back to my mouth. I readjusted so my elbow was triangulated between myself and the blue bankers. The GenZs seemed unusually busy on their phones.
Two women in their 20s walked by Cafe Grumpy northbound, up 7th avenue. They were having an animated conversation, moving their collective hands in the early morning sunshine as one acted out a happy story while the other reacted gushingly.
Then, once again, as if cursed by own mother, I saw the filthy, fat man in the burlap blanket come lumbering towards them. He had a large baguette in his left hand and a wedge of what looked like brie in his other filthy paw. He still wore the crazy look on his face. Once again his stench preceded him and the two women’s expressions of pasta primavera optimism for humanity immediately and audaciously turned to fright night.
Putting their heads down, the pair gave the fat man a wide berth as he ambled off, blanket wrapped tight, in the opposite direction, south. Toward my part of town. Swell. I thought I’d follow. Full of caffeine I walked around the bankers. One said, “Hey,” and put his hand out as if to touch me.
I stepped back and gave them the malochi.
“Follow me and I’ll put you in Methodist hospital,” I heard myself growl. A voice in my head said, in an admiring, almost fawning voice say, ‘F$#(% Grumpy mocha latte don’t play!’.
The banker who asked me, “Why I said, ‘that’?”, started to move his mouth. His dead, black eyes feinted a double take at his partner. His apparently mute partner seemed to be experiencing some kind of body tremors.
Coffee in hand I jingle belled out of Cafe Grumpy, keeping an eye over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t followed.
Back on the street I went north, in the opposite direction of the Blob and figured I would get some supplies for the crib before going back to work.
As I walked down 7th Avenue listening to Sam Cooke’s, That’s It. I Quit. I’m Moving On. I found myself pondering the dubious circumstances of his death. Three pigeons dive bombed my head and then pulled crazy pigeon maneuvers to perch above the air conditioner wedged beneath the awning and over the front door of The Community Bookstore. I felt the eyes of Laura Mars upon me.
Mothers with strollers gave me a wide birth. I took a quick sniff of my person. Nothing but Tom’s natural and Aqua Gio. I was sweet smelling, my teeth clean, freshly shaved and full of caffeine, fat and sugar; the three food groups best to start one’s day.
Then a mother and her school age daughter came out of the community bookshop walking quickly. I watched the pigeons droppings land on the Mom’s brunette coiffe.
I slowed my roll to give them space to pass when the daughter’s eyes met my own. Her brown eyes shone with worried compassion. My blue eyes puzzled out a look of truth. Was someone was going off-script?
“They’re coming for you,” she said and referred to me by name. I stood straighter as if I had stepped on an electrified manhole cover. And then her mother slapped her so fast and hard across her face it made the pigeon shit fly.
I involuntarily let out a gasp. Then the girl’s mother grabbed her arm angry-hard, pulling her away and down the street without another word to be heard from either.
As I regained my composure, a middle-aged woman coming down the street with a golden retriever caught my eye. At first my own eyes did a double take as she appeared to be naked from the waist down; only wearing a denim jacket and some kind of wife beater.
She held a rolled-up yoga mat and then I realized they were flesh toned workout bottoms. I shook my head slightly and smiled softly as our eyes met.
She spoke. To me. By name.
“Ask them no questions. For they can tell no lies.”
And then, as if a spell had been broken, she gave me a seriously arrogant look, as if, ‘how dare you gaze upon my attractive self, you inferior bald, aging prole,” before she disappeared in the direction of the fat man; south.
“What the actual F#@($&ing F$#(%ity F@#$&@~!!?” I thought to myself before contemplating the wisdom of another coffee and a pre-roll. I did, after all, have to go to the ATM machine and might as well go with the flow. Happy Friday and all that good shite.
In front of the Chase bank the man who always greeted me and asked for money simply said, “You said a bad word, son. Don’t do it again.”
I went in an withdrew some cash. I put some sanitizer on my hands and rubbed them together. I used my hip to push open the door and the man in front said in his normal voice, “Can you help me get a meal?” I smiled sadly, nodded no, and walked south to the weed shop.
Inside the weed shop I got my usual pre-roll. This time though, instead of the usual warm greeting Isiah acted as if I were a total stranger. I paid for the weed and asked to borrow his lighter.
Isiah gave me a stern look. He handed me a lighter and said, “Keep it. Don’t speak. Go home. If you got a door lock it. Turn off all your devices. Don’t do a F$#(%ing thing until tomorrow. Now get the F$#(% out of here.”
I was going to say something but his eyes were like two lasers boring down on me. Just boring into me like punctuation that went on with no end. I nodded my thanks and left the shop. A man pushing a lady in a wheelchair went past me. The lady in the wheelchair looked up at me.
I was lighting the pre-roll and our eyes met. She said, “Is that the man who said the bad word?” to the man pushing her. He put his head down, then shot a quick sideways glance like a swimmer coming up for air, then pushed her past like I smelled bad as a big & tall man’s burlap homeless blanket.
I felt my stomach grumble. It had been a while since something had been in it. I found myself in front of the register of Starbucks at the Barnes & Noble on 6th Street across the street from Methodist Hospital.
I was planning to get a coffee but there was this young boy, maybe ten or eleven with his mother. He was touching everything on the display case like he had OCD or something. His mother kept saying, “James! James!! When we get home I will make you a smoothie. Mom will make you a smoothie! James! Are you listening to me?!!?!?”
James then said, “I want to say bad words, too, like
Then, as if the needle had stretched across the vinyl everything stopped. The mother grabbed the boy hard by the arm and shot me a nasty look. She was fat and had a hairy mole on her chin. She wore a button on an ill fitting denim jacket that read, “Ethical Slut,” around a peace sign.
She said, “You shouldn’t ever say that word again.”
She, too, knew my name. I was not famous. In fact, you could best describe my lifestyle as that of the poor and relatively unknown. How the F$#(% did she know my name? What word did I say? What the hell kind of day was I having.
Beware the ides of March
The fat middle aged lady in the green Starbucks shirt who was the manager and always anticipated my order acted as if I were a total stranger.
“What. Can. I. Get. You?”
Our eyes met. I looked down and spied chocolate covered espresso beans. I wanted out. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I pulled a five from my wallet and took the beans.
“That all you want?”
“Thanks. Keep the change.”
She looked at me with no expression and said, “Thank you and watch your mouth,” before turning her back on me to some Starbucks related things by some large boxes of liquid I couldn’t see well. For a second I thought the box read, “Prop Coffee,” but then a lady standing behind me and talking on her phone said, “Some people just don’t know when the F$#(% to shut their mouth, Hector?!?!!?” Our eyes met, and she said to Hector, “Some people should stop saying bad words and go home and think about whether they value the above ground life…”
A baby cried from a stroller by the tables and as I walked away from the lady talking to Hector towards the napkin station I felt the eyes of Laura Mars on me again. Through the window, out on Seventh Avenue everything seemed normal. But wherever I went it was not normal. Not at all. Perhaps, I should go home. I grabbed some recycled napkins and left Barnes & Noble.
At the convenience shop I bought and paid for a Powerball ticket. There too, the man behind the counter acted as if he did not know me. As I thanked him and turned to walk away he said, “You are not lucky, sir. Go home today. Take the day off.”
I spun around and he acted as if he said nothing, examining his cuticles. The door of the shop opened and some kids from John Jay high school blew past me blathering loudly about instagram. One girl in pajama bottoms gave me a quick look and said, “Go home,” using my first name.
Back on the street it was sunny. The air was fresh. The birds chirped. Delivery trucks, buses, cop cars, meter maids, pedestrians, hospital people in scrubs, teens in their spring training uniforms; everyone and everything invigorated by the unseasonably record warm day. But something was off. I apparently had said a bad word. And apparently, everyone knew my name.
My phone buzzed with a text from my 7 year-old grandson, Howard.
You said a bad word, grandpa. Don’t do it again.
I tore the plastic wrapper of my espresso beans to make a hole. I shook about six in my mouth and began to jaw them wondering just what the f$%(&* was up. The espresso beans’ bitter sweetness distracted me from my weird morning and I turned my thoughts to taking a walk in Prospect Park. Yes, that would help to clear my head. Or, maybe the Union Market. Nothing like fresh produce with spaghetti and hummus. Maybe it was the weed pen making me all ag? Maybe I was imagining all this meshuggeneh. Maybe they were all just wishing me a Happy Friday. Yeah, and maybe Danish ducks do calculus in their pajamas.
I swallowed the mostly chewed up espresso beans while I watched a jet fly across the sky. I noticed the moon was still out; a faint crescent in a sky so blue it looked like someone had just painted it.
Plane was probably headed to JFK. I wondered if they knew my name too. If they knew I had said a bad fucking word. What am I? Six years old? FFS?!
Some more high schoolers went by and one who was sporting miniature dreadlocks said to me, “If you blow it here one more time you don’t want to know what the next level has waiting for your hairy ass.” He then quickly walked on by as if he had said nothing. He too, addressed me by my first name.
I felt a bead of sweat slide down my butt crack. Someone came out of the juice shop, passed me and said, “Fucker.” and kept walking. Three people coming out of Pino’s pizza looked at me as I walked by and said, “Keep saying bad words. Watch. Watch what happens.”
I thought to myself, No, I’m dreaming. I will wake up in the memory foam and this will all be a dream. My phone vibrated. It was Nathalia. There was an issue at work. They were waiting for me in a Zoom. I checked the site on my phone. It was still up. I logged in. It was fine. I checked my Outlook for production errors. There were none but there was one email that caught my eye.
It read, “You said a bad word and now you’re going to be sorry,” and it too used my name. I went to open it and suddenly my phone screen turned black. The phone restarted showing the little Android.
Across the screen it read. Go home. Do not go to the Zoom meeting. Turn off this phone. You said a bad word. Management knows. Do not speak to anyone for 24 hours. 24 hours. 24-
And then I saw Snoopy. Then my familiar icons.
I went home. Fast as my feet could walk. On the streets everyone began to sing.
Karma, karma, karma, karma
Karma chameleon
You come and go, you come and go
It wasn’t loud like Christmas caroling. It was pointed. It was monotone.
Back in my apartment I turned on the laptop. There was an invitation. I went to Teams and asked Nathalia what was going on.
“You said a bad word. Management is not happy. We have a meeting. Can you come?”
I thought about it. Out on the corner of 6th Avenue and 15th Street I heard a woman’s voice yell, “F#($&(#@$& YOU! The light is RED. Are you F(#$@*(@#$ STUPID?!?!”
I took my hand and gently closed the laptop lid.
That was Friday.
It’s Sunday now and I am nervous about work tomorrow. I haven’t slept right. The lights are out. The blinds are drawn and every hit of weed from this Lush pen is making me paranoid.
Just. What. The. F@#($&*. Did. I. Say??