After being a coffee-aholic for a long time, making recurrent trips to Starbucks, Peet's and Coffee Bean I wondered what it would be like to have a mental condition, induced by tremendous amounts of coffee and sugar. This is the result.
A Dangerous Place
By
David Orloff
I have a problem with these people around me and I am not sure they know about it, unless there is someone secretly observing me from a camera hidden in my apartment, or from that spy satellite above my house, or from an infrared scope in that van across the street. I don’t use a phone anymore. Too dangerous. I can’t see facial expressions. They could be lying or rolling their eyes or making a sandwich while they pretend to talk to me. No one knows about my episodes of instability and I hide it pretty good, though I nearly screamed out loud during a dinner at a crowded restaurant eleven months ago because I was on the edge and I couldn’t pretend anymore. I don’t want to pretend anymore. I can’t keep it up.
Ronald might have figured me out yesterday. He was pretending to be preoccupied with his pastry and notebook, but he was observing me, analyzing me, and developing a strategy to get me busted. I don’t like him anymore. I think I saw him at our house before, talking with my mom. I ran into him at the park one time and I saw him sitting across the street from the deli at the bus stop. But he never got on any of the buses. He just kept looking towards me or his notebook. It is like he is following me or keeping tabs on me, like a poorly trained babysitter.
I used to like him a lot. He’s not like the other people that come in here. He’s gets just coffee. No cream. No sugar. He just stirs it twenty to thirty times, then drinks it. If you want coffee, have coffee. If you want milk froth, eat milk froth. If you want sugar, eat a sugar packet. Don’t destroy the coffee. That’s why he is a respectable American. But now, I don’t want him to be within a hundred feet of me. I definitely don’t want him in the coffee shop.
I think he figured me out yesterday when I was thinking about how black coffee contrasts the white cup. Why don’t they serve coffee in black cups, so it all looks the same? Less tension. A smile came to my face when I thought that all human conflict can be reduced down to coffee and the cup it is served in. I considered milk’s insidious role in the metaphor. When the thought came back to me three minutes later, I smirked. When it came the sixth time, I laughed out loud. I knew, at that point, that since I was not talking directly to any humans, or reading anything, or doing anything where laughing could be seen as a normal response, that the laugh could be a sign that I was unstable. I am not unstable. I am normal. I want to make sure people know that.
No one perceived the first laugh, or so I thought. The baristas’ heads did not move. Laptop Guy had rowdy music pumping into his ears, but he could have perceived me over his music, because I also had a physical reaction. He should have seen my body move and shake and looked up to see what the fuss was. I would have looked. The kids in the corner were oblivious. The man with the newspaper did not stir even though I was obviously in direct range of his peripheral vision.
The second time I audibly laughed, no one noticed. On the third laugh, Ronald looked directly at me. Not with the expression of, “Oh. Somebody laughed. I should try to perceive what the comedy is about so that I can enjoy it”, but with inquisition. Evil hellfire, daggers and darts, chop-up-the-bodies medieval inquisition. In that one blink, his eyes burned and I had to look elsewhere. I would rather stare at the sun and go blind.
I am a master at averting my eyes. I’ve practiced numerous ways to make it look like I wasn’t distracted by the thing that distracted me. So, I immediately coaxed the table as if I had spilled some coffee and looked intently at the invisible spill. Then I transferred my attention to my stack of notebooks. He knew better. Most people don’t pay attention. Cleaning up a spill is a great distraction. People think I am industrious and accountable. Ronald knew. I hate him even more now. Why is he always in my coffee shop? It is best when people don’t notice me or at least look away when they do.
Ronald came into the coffee shop today eighteen minutes after I got there and just before my first refill. He is always here. He gets here before me or he arrives shortly after. I needed to get out of there, but some great thoughts were coming to me at the time and I usually like to spend the day here writing them all down. I don’t know if it is the vibrant and varied colors on the walls, or the subliminal, propaganda-filled classical music, or the Pixie dust they mix in with the coffee grounds, but I always have great thoughts come to me at that coffee shop.
Ronald needs to go. I tried other coffee shops, Lasko’s Deli, Bonham Park, the movie theater, the police station. I don’t like the thoughts that come to me in my apartment. No Pixie Dust. This is my place. I don’t want to terminate him. I am still too sane to try something like that. I would prefer to throw my hot coffee at him. It would be to punish him for busting me, but also just to get him to go away. But then I would need another cup of coffee, and I might be arrested. Any one of those things might alert these people and they would find out about me.
I think that kid knows. Kids know all kinds of things. You can’t fool them. At least I can’t. You can fool adults because they are always in a hurry. But kids are never in a hurry. They want to do whatever it is they are presently doing. But they cry a lot too. They make messes and don’t clean them up. Their parents sometimes clean up their messes. But parents are getting lazier too. This lady is a lazy parent. She isn’t even watching her kid. Her back is to him and she’s more worried about her hungover friend with the dark glasses. I can’t see her eyes, so I don’t know if she is watching me. The mom is talking non-stop and Hangover is slouching and looking at her phone every 45 seconds.
The kid keeps kicking that straw and trying to pick it up. He needs some hand sanitizer. I’ve seen people spit and vomit on this floor. I’ve seen food crumbs in the corners that were still there the next day. In the last eight months of coming here every day, I have only seen one cockroach, which is one cockroach too many. That kid kept playing with that bacterial trap of a straw. The mom wasn’t even paying attention. No one was. That kid could have put salmonella or smallpox into his mouth. It was on his hands. He didn’t know how dangerous his actions were. I would have kept facing him, but I didn’t want anyone to see a strange 45-year old crazy man watching a three-year old play with a dirty straw. The mom was oblivious. I could have just grabbed the kid and walked out of here and she would never have known. Hangover wouldn’t know, or better yet, probably doesn’t care. What’s worse than that, is the kid put his left hand into his mouth and sucked his fingers like a lollipop. A warm, fleshy, smallpox-flavored lollipop.
I thought I was the only one who was observing the kid. But turns out, Ronald was watching him too. So, I couldn’t kidnap the kid, even if I wanted to. But why would I want to kidnap a kid? They are messy and I would have to feed him and change his diaper. Ronald looked at the kid and looked at the mom and then said something to her. The mom looked at him, but kept talking. He looked back at the kid, looked at the mom and got back to his notepad. Just then his phone rang and he answered, “This is Mike.” Mike? Yeah right. What a liar. His name is Ronald. His friend said it on the phone three months ago, “I’m with Ronald”. And Ronald didn’t correct him and say his name was Mike. He’s obviously even paid some of the baristas here to call him Mike. I know his name is Ronald. It is too much. No one names their kid Mike. Maybe Michael or Michelangelo, but not Mike.
When Ronald is here he always gets a phone call and then looks between his notebook and me during the conversation. It is really peculiar. I think he needs to see a psychologist or at least get a job. I mean, really, who hangs out in a coffee shop all day. I could have sworn that I heard his voice talking with my mother at our house. That was eight months ago. After that is when Ronald started coming to the coffee shop to sit here all day, just like me. I also heard my mom talking with a guy named Mike about taking care of me. I thought she was going to put me in a hospital. I am glad she didn’t. Eight months ago, she stopped hiring babysitters for me. I am not a baby. I don’t need anyone watching out for me. They are easy to get rid of. Biting chases the rookies away. If that doesn’t work, then soiling myself and asking them to clean it up is pretty effective. But that didn’t work for the last babysitter. She was tough. And mean. So I started undressing, staring at her the whole time while singing a song with all those people around. Bye bye babysitter. After that, I had to find a new coffee shop.
My brother told me that I need some help and I need to get a therapist and I need to help mom with her gardening and that I should help him with his gardening. They said I might hurt someone. But I don’t want to hurt anybody. I don’t hate anybody. “You might hurt yourself.” But I don’t want to hurt myself. What is wrong with everyone? My brother also told me that I should stop drinking coffee and eating sugar packets. My mom had the exact same words. They might be conspiring against me.
They keep telling me I need a shrink, and I know what a shrink is, but I don’t know why them call them shrinks. It is a bad name. Therapist is much better. It makes sense. Therapy. Therapist. Many people have told me to get some help. Some in nice ways. Some in mean ways. Some have done it with a look on their face that I do not like. I don’t like it at all. It is too serious. I would rather it be angry. This way, they can get out their anger and be on their way. The serious people keep trying, even after I start throwing things. I needed to get outside for some fresh air and to clear my head after seeing that kid put his filthy hand in his filthy mouth.
I went outside, leaving my bag behind. No one would want a bag full of notebooks and pens anyway. And as for someone taking my coffee, I have a hundred empty cups in my bag and can use those to get my free refills. I stood outside for a while and there was a guy out there taking a breather as well. I guess I am not the only person having it rough. He kept looking over at me and then looking away. The first couple of times he did this, I turned and looked him in the eye for a blink. He kept turning his head toward me and I could see him in my peripheral vision, but I just kept looking ahead at the Toys ‘R’ Us and pretended to be interested in the cars passing by. I even pretended to look into some of the cars as if I was waiting to be picked up. But he didn’t get the hint. As I was ready to go back inside, he approached me. Why would he do that? He smelled like urine and marijuana and had on a lot of clothes. He said that if I needed some help, that he could help me. He said he could get what the doctor ordered. But I told him I don’t need a prescription. I am fine.
I went back in and my coffee and bag were still there. I ate two more sugar packets. Ronald looked at me eating them and then wrote something down in his notebook. He’s crazy and needs a doctor. I mean who keeps track of the sugar habits of a stranger?
A barista came by and she asked if I was done with the dish of sugar packets. I had already finished all the pink ones and the yellow ones and I was saving the sugar ones for last, like I always do. She went to grab them, but I put my hand over them and then looked down at the floor. She crooked her neck to get me to look at her. Like I was going to fall for that. I slowly began pulling the sugars back to me. I could tell she was getting upset. She looked at Ronald. Ronald looked back to his notebook. She gave me the austere face of a bitter nun. That’s the most common expression they give me: The serious face. I hate it. I prefer the nicey nice face.
But these serious-faced people have to lighten up. One of these days, I am going to do something about it. I think it is great that they care about me and want to help me, but they don’t know how to let it go. Fine. Tell me once and be on your way. Thank you for the lovely advice. Now you can go away. Bye-bye. Bye-bye. Bye-bye. But they keep trying to look me in the eyes, crooking their necks to get a better view. Those serious people need to take the prescription from that guy in the street. Some of them try to walk with me as I try to get away from them.
My mom keeps saying, “I love you,” as if that is going to get rid of my problem. I wouldn’t mind seeing a therapist, as long as I didn’t have to look him in the eye or have to talk about anything, or let him give me any advice. I already have all the advice I need.
But a therapist could be good. I might need one. It could help if I got the right one. I don’t know of any and don’t know how to find one, but I am sure they are in the phone book. You can’t trust anyone in there though. The ones with the big advertisements paid extra, which means they have to charge more for the same service. The ones with witty names or catchy slogans are trying too hard and once you are their loyal customer, they will stop trying hard. You definitely can’t trust the ones with stupid names, or whose company name is also their last name, because they have never been to business school and never learned that to be successful and become a regional or national brand, you should never use a family name, unless your name is Wendy or McDonald. And you definitely can’t trust anyone in a phone book who has typos or errors in their ad.
I tried finding a therapist. After eliminating all those buffoons and charlatans, I had to narrow it down to a few and then choose at random. I don’t like random. I don’t do random. It is too dangerous. The only way I choose something out of the phone book is if after I go through the buffoons and charlatans, there is only one option left. If there are two, then I close the book. But if there is one, then it is meant to be. Me and him. I did this with therapists. After the eliminations, there were still 22 names left. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. So, no therapist for me, unless someone I can trust refers me to one. Mom gave me a list of three therapists. I can sometimes trust her, but I can’t trust random. “Just try one. Or try all three and see which one is best,” she said. Thanks Mom. I got it from here. I am Okay anyway. I don’t need a therapist.
I finished one more sugar packet and had to go to the bathroom. After ten cups of coffee, I had better urinate at least once. I always wait until the baristas clean it. I hate using a dirty toilet, even if I never touch the toilet. The barista came out of the bathroom with a cleaning supplies bucket and filthy rag in hand and continued on to clean the front door. He propped it open. I hate when they do that. It lets in flies and smog and street noise. When I got back, that kid was standing near my table. I shooed him away and he went to his mom for a minute then went directly for the barista and the open door. He watched the barista finish cleaning the glass door, who then tugged on it to close. But he was not successful, so the door stayed open. He seemed rushed and just left it. The boy stood at the door for a minute looking outside and then went back to his mom. He went back to the door and put his hand in the gap created between the door and the doorjamb and played some invisible game. He looked out at the traffic passing by and did not notice the guy outside. But that guy noticed him. The mom was still chatting away with Hangover. Ronald was busy watching me and writing. The boy walked out to the curb. He went straight to where the cars would smash him like a cantaloupe. He would be dead and that dumb mom wouldn’t even know.
I said “hey” to the mom a couple times. Ronald looked at me and I looked away. A barista whirred a machine again and the mom couldn’t hear me when I tried again. The outside traffic contributed to the noise. I said “hey” to the boy to get him to come back, but he stepped off the curb. For every step that I took toward the boy, he took one toward the street, so I had to burst into a full run. I must have looked like a madman to all those people in there. I grabbed him from behind as he was about to step into the first lane. Luckily, there was a red light and no cars were in the street. It was still stupid. I lifted him up and turned around.
Ronald was at the door and had a strange look on his face. I walked right past him and took the boy to his mom. I pushed him into her lap. “What the hell are you doing? Your kid has smallpox and almost ran into the street. Why don’t you pay attention? He could have gotten hurt.” She looked at me as if she hadn’t understood a word that I said. Hangover gasped and asked the boy if he was Okay. “Oh. Mikey. Mikey. You can’t go outside. You have to stay here with Mommy.” She adjusted his position on her lap and started to talk. I interrupted. “Even a nut like me knows better. You should get your head checked. And all that coffee and sugar will make you crazy”. I sat back down and grabbed the last sugar packet. Ronald closed the door and sat back down. He replayed the scene in his head and looked back and forth at me and the kid. He looked at the faux grain in his plastic table and nodded his head several times. Then, he looked at me with a very different look. I had not seen that look in a long time.
Ronald is still here. The dirty straw is still on the floor. The kid keeps looking at me but is now clinging to his mother. I should get a medal for saving that kid’s life. But they don’t give medals to unstable people. They don’t even give them to legitimate heroes anymore.
I decided to meet a therapist, and we agreed it would be good to meet someplace I was comfortable, so I told him to meet me today in front of the coffeehouse. He said I have a lot of problems but if I had a plan and kept to it, then all my problems would go away. He also prescribed me some medicine and gave me a sample to try. Not sure I’m going take it. It will probably work. I would like to get over this someday. But I am not sure I want to take a prescription from a therapist that smells like urine and marijuana and wears dirty clothes. He asked for payment and I gave it to him. Just some spare change.
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