One Morning in a Cafe in Byron Bay,
Jess stood looking at the road. She was bored, so bored she didn’t even play with her biro, lodged safely in her pinny. The lady and her son whom she had sat down a few minutes earlier were ready to order. Jess found this out as the lady started talking at her, even though she was far enough away for it to seem she was talking to herself. I’ll have poached eggs on toast. She looked at her brat of a son, who was of the age where he wouldn’t shut up at home, but now, in public, was barely able to string a sentence together, fiddling with the salt mill, desperately trying to break something. She looked at Jess, who by this time had moved closer to their table and had exaggerated her pose, which, if in a mime, would indicate she was about to write something down: order pad ever so slightly further from her body; pen on paper but motionless; mouth open, ready to anticipate, perhaps even encourage, a sound. And he will have a... she paused, pouted and turned proudly to her son, urging him to continue. Yes, thought Jess, and? What the fuck do you want? The boy turns his body towards his mother and mumbles something into her armpit Urgg, a, umm, babychino. His mother looked adoringly at her son and whispered Good boy. She looks back at Jess, as if, somehow, that was that. Clear as coffee. Jess turns on her heels and scribbles something on the pad. When you’ve worked as a waitress in a cafe for any length of time, you already half-suspect what the children will have. Ruminating on what other habits the child will eventually develop, thanks to Mummy, Jess rips the ticket and places it on the tab grabber. Fucking babychinos. Fucking kids.
A man totters up the step and sits down cautiously on the nearest seat. He was one of those guys you feel sorry for. The clothes he wore had faded past the point of being dirty, to the extent his clothes resembled his core. Everything in his look, manner, hygiene, every move his fragile skeleton made, said ‘tired’. His hands were trembling, reaching into his pocket to count his change. You couldn’t tell if he was an alcoholic or just miserly and scared to hand over any cash. Anywhere else, it was the former. But this is Byron, where millionaires rubbed linen-clad shoulders with the homeless. Either way, the truth was that you stare at his hands for long enough you just want to go over and grab them. Stop fucking shaking!
Jess walked over to the lady and the kid. How’s your eggs? She didn’t care, but it was her job. Not to really care, but to pretend to care just enough until she either tipped or didn’t. If she did leave a tip, Jess knew that all the pent up anger she felt towards the lady who had acted from the outset as self-entitled and superior, all of it would disappear, leaving her with a faint guilt and coins in her pocket. She retreated back to the position she was at when the lady had started to talk at her and played with her fingernails, silently whistling the tune that was playing from the speakers. She’d better fucking tip.
A lady walks in with her dog. She is wearing bracelets you find in those machines in arcades. They were probably expensive but they looked cheap. She had on a grey, eighties-style jacket: raised shoulders, short sleeves, disgusting. Her hair is big, wild, but more than likely ‘styled’. She paints a tragic picture, completely incongruous to the setting, and decade. She strolls in, her scared-shitless Jack Russell following behind her. Jess looks at the dog. Sorry, can you keep your dog outside please? The lady, still with her sunglasses on inside, explodes. Listen, there’s a gas attack outside and I’m not leaving him out there! Jess and the other waitress look at each other, unsure how to proceed. Byron has a habit of attracting the Very Strange. Placating, Jess starts to stroke the dog, before telling the lady once again it has to stay outside. It’s a cafe, we serve food. We’re not allowed dogs inside, she implores. Don’t you fucking touch my dog, she pushes Jess’ hand away from the dog’s head, I don’t care about you, I haven’t eaten in three days. I just want a coffee. We’re not in a movie here, just get me a coffee. The lady, who incidentally looked like she had just been pushed off set in an eighties drama, started to get more wound up. The waitresses looked at each other again, wondering whether they should call the owner for guidance and/or muscle. So extreme this little scene, so above and beyond the normal ‘extreme’, Jess was sure that men in white coats would soon come and remove this lady, who, like the stain from table four, didn’t look like she was going anywhere. The dog can’t stay in here. Don’t you touch my dog. It can’t stay in here. I don’t care about you. Excuse me? Just make me a coffee, please! Can you take the dog outside? We’re not in a movie here. No, we’re not. Take your dog outside. I don’t care about you. There’s a gas attack outside. What? Smell it. I can’t. Exactly, I’m not subjecting my dog to the gas. What gas? I can’t smell any gas. It’s all over Byron. It’s deadly. I think it’s time you left. I don’t care about you. Please leave. We’re not in a fucking movie. Please go. Stage left if you want. I don’t care. I’m a regular here. I haven’t eaten in three days.
And so the record kept playing. The men in white coats never came, but she left, eventually. The Jack Russell, who presumably had observed such insanity before, remained obedient, shivering, head down, tail between its legs, following its owner who wasn’t on this planet. It looked thin, sad, and was totally subservient to the lead. It would have been perfect for someone looking for love. Jess felt far more fondness toward the dog than its owner and quickly, fleetingly, wondered if she could, so to speak, give the dog a bone. If Medussa hadn’t eaten for three days, how long had the dog been without food?
In walks the Cunt. His name is Eric, but Cunt is a better name. He is a short man, much shorter than he would wish and speaks in a volume that no one can ignore. He comes up to the table of Lee, a girl waiting to start work and was sitting down reading the paper, and pushes his groin onto her knee. Oh, and I missed you too! He smiles pure cheese. Lee, the waitresses, indeed all the patrons on the cafe continue as if he didn’t exist. Realising that this conversation was dead on its feet, that he was, in fact, boring the world, he shouted over the restaurant, hey Gaudi, can I have a coffee? The desperation for people to know he ‘belonged’ was palpable. There was no answer from out back, so he cupped his hands together. Gaudi! Gaudi! Soy latte please. Wanker. He sits down and invites the girls to sit around him. He starts talking about -yawn- business and money. Yeah, I try to make 2k a day, sometimes I win, sometimes I lose, but, you know, there’s a real fine line between fear and intuition, and that’s what I love about it -I really have to dig deep. And because there’s a lot of money, I mean a real lot of money, and that’s what is fascinating – I don’t get passionate about much, but this I do. The thing is, yet another reason why he is such a cunt, yeah, did 60 trades yesterday, burnt through my account, lost a lot, is that whilst he is saturating the girls with this horseshit, he thinks he is being not only interesting, but charming. Brick subtle in letting them know how humble he is to admit to losing money and then not worrying about it; building himself back up, showing strength of character, yet everyone can feel a show. I just double my money, and see what I can do. He owns an Italian restaurant, which is going down the pan. It’s been in the paper for sale and the price keeps dropping. If the suppliers to his restaurant could hear him waffle on about trading, whilst they have been chasing him for a five-figure sum, going under themselves because of a bill he didn’t pay, they would want to kill him. Yep, 0421, 31, 76, 34. The fact he is selling his restaurant and not paying his suppliers, then trying to impress waitresses with talk of trading, when what they know about trading is about as much as I know about the moon, is a sickening indictment of the character of this cunt. Okay, so let’s organise something, shall we? The next few days might be difficult, but I’ll juggle some things around and see what I can do. He has a son who is seriously depressed. It makes you wonder why. The girls leave and he looks at his iphone, his world, and says for everyone to hear, this is a disaster. Like he wants everyone to know that he is playing the market whilst he sips a soy latte, whilst his restaurant goes under. What a twat. Now he starts to whistle. Tunelessly. Gaudi walks past, how are you? Fine Gaudi, how’s things with you? The cunt doesn’t look up from his phone. He makes a phone call. The volume increases. Yeah, what it is, he’s attention seeking. He’s a 21 year old boy acting like a 14 year old. He’s talking about his son. Everyone can hear. All he does is smoke pot and do nothing. He needs to grow up. I’ll have him fucking committed, he’s suicidal, well, he’s not suicidal but he’ll climb to the top of a cliff so that everyone can see him. If he just took the pills. He’s the father. Cunt. I think he’s being selfish, difficult. I’ve given up. He’s so defensive. Personally, he needs a kick up the arse. He’s just attention seeking. Yeah, where does he get that from? Not from you, Cunt, obviously. I’m basically waiting for him to try and kill himself, so I can get him fucking committed. Yeah, I’ve given him the responsibilities of the restaurant... yeah he’s earning more than me. He’s on 450 a week, which at the moment is more than me. What happened to the 2k a day? Cunt. If he was really trying to help by giving his son the responsibilities to a failing business, rather than complaining about his attention-seeking, selfish behaviour, he might start by being there for him, giving him the attention he needs. It might be the only sweet bite of an apple rotten to the core. The more I listen to this heartfelt conversation about his son, the one person who needs his father, the less I want to cave his face in and the more pity I feel for him.
Two guys sat down, each very much in love with themselves but worried people would think they were in love with each other. So they sat with tense ease, unable to relax, blocking off any proper contact by keeping on the mirrored aviators, looking around to see who was looking at them. The taller of the two, stretched back in his chair, invading the free space of the cafe and crossing his legs, confidently asked Jess, How’s work today? Fine, thank you. She was short and it shut him up. He straightened in his chair and they were both silent until their meals came out.
He hunches over his table, looking at his phone. He is short, wears a white shirt, tucked into his jeans no less and he is from New York. His eyes are intense and his hands gesticulate wildly, perhaps to make up for having no forehead. The man has a very small forehead, made smaller by the furrows created by his perpetual frown. When he concentrates, he looks – in the words of Jess – like a window-licker, a bit special. The guy oozes money. He holds a centurion AMEX card, shouts down his phone and has stomach ulcers and very few manners. He eats like a pig, or someone who has money on his mind. He gets on his phone, gets up from his table and starts walking out to the pavement, then into the road. He bends over double and screams into his phone. Oblivious to the traffic, he wanders into the road shouting. He’s back in NYC and angry. The stress of the city has not left him. Maybe he needs to move here, but it won’t do any good. His ulcers will still secrete acid; he’ll still flap his arms Can I have the check please, and a hug?
