Get Out, While You Still Can

The craving for a mocha latte with extra mocha was pretty intense, and after dealing with the kids all day, I needed a little me-time. I decided to stop by my favorite coffee shop closest to my house and work on an outline for my next book while slurping down a delicious caffeinated liquid—or two. I just wanted peace and quiet, even though I could see the shop was more crowded than I liked; at least no one was screaming “mommy” every two seconds.

I stood in line, silently humming a song in my head, something I do to keep myself from becoming impatient when I have to wait somewhere. I looked around at the other customers: a few tables had people sitting, and some were standing. It’s buzzing with loud chatter, and I try not to listen to conversations nearest to me. I said try. I still did, but I made a small effort not to. Don’t judge me. I was pretty sure the couple next to me was breaking up, so I tuned out; if it escalated, I would see the result soon enough.

Finally, it was my turn, and I ordered my latte and gave them my name. There is a one-person table off to the right of the counter, and it’s empty. I hurriedly took the seat as if I were playing musical chairs. You do things quickly in my house, or nothing gets done. Eventually, learn to apply that to the outside world. My name gets called faster than I expected, and I jump up, grab my drink and fly back to my table. I see the odd stares from everyone, but I don’t really care; I’m used to people thinking I am weird. You learn to embrace things.

I’m reading my outline in my notebook, scribbling added notes, crossing out things for changes, checking character profiles and deciding who will live and who will not make it to the sequel. I am laughing to myself, and some of it sounds a bit evil.

They already think I am weird, I’m just confirming their suspicions at this point. I slurp down the latte and realize it is coming to its end as I hear the rattle at the bottom of my straw when I try to get more out of it. My head is tilted back, my cup pressed tightly against my mouth, and I bang on the cup bottom to smack more of the chocolate down my throat. I hear someone clear their throat next to me. My eyes shift sideways, and I am not losing this chocolate. Sorry. I see a figure standing next to me, wearing a green polo shirt and black pants. The person is too tall for me to see their face in my current position.

As I lower my cup, the figure steps back and joins the crowd coming in to line up.

I can feel the ring of chocolate over my lips and reach for a napkin.

I am not entirely barbaric, so I will try to clean myself up. Looking back at my table, I see a small folded piece of paper on my notebook. I look back at the front door. I’m not really expecting to see this person urging me to read it from afar, but it felt like something I should do. I pick up the note and unfold it; it reads: "Get out now. While you still can."

I frown, wondering if I should be offended. My clothes were clean and presentable. Usually, I went out full of food and puke stains, my hair looking like a frayed straw bun. If I didn’t leave now, would there be people with pitchforks and torches? Did I look that beastly? I wasn’t completely civilized while drinking my latte, and I did act a little manic while writing, but come on. What happened to just recording people and posting it on YouTube for a laugh? Did I really need a note?

I smoothed my hair, stood, gathered my things, and shamefully left the shop. As I headed to my car, I saw a familiar figure—the green polo person. I marched myself over to this person, who was standing by their vehicle. He is on his cell phone. He hangs up just as I get to him. He smiles at me. He’s very well-maintained for a human. All his clothes look like he folds them and puts them away right after being laundered.

I show him the note. “What is the meaning of this? What gives you the right to tell me to leave?”

He looked confused. “I’m sorry, Melissa. What do you mean?” I shoved the note in his chest, and he looked at me, horrified, just before he started laughing.

“Wait,” I said. “How do you know my name?”

He chuckled and handed me the note, which I took back while watching his amused expression. “I took your order. I always take your latte order when you come in. The whole staff knows who you are.”

My stomach dropped. “Huh?” I choked on my own saliva. It tastes like chocolate.

“You come in every Friday and sit by yourself. You laugh at yourself, write a bunch of stuff, order several lattes, and then leave. We all figured you were a writer; we get a lot of them, you know, since we are a coffee shop.” He winked and crossed his arms. “That note isn’t from me. It fell out of your notebook when you picked it up after you paid. We were busy, so I couldn’t return it to you immediately.”

I'm sure my whole face turned a new shade of crimson. It dawned on me then about the little notes I had shoved in the notebook during my haste to leave the house. Little bits of dialogue to be used in my work-in- progress.

I lowered my gaze briefly and sheepishly said, “Oops. I’m sorry.”

He laughed as he approached me and patted my shoulder. “I’m not. I just won twenty bucks.” I could feel my eyes start to bulge. He chuckled as he began to step back from me to head back toward the coffee shop. “I bet you wouldn’t remember it was yours and take it seriously. We had a writer last week who did the same thing.”

“He had a note that said to leave, too?” I was bewildered.

He shook his head. “No, his actually said: ‘The bomb is under your seat’.” My mouth dropped. “Yeah, poor guy was here until closing.”

©melissawillissell2017

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