I was surprised by the good quality of the coffee, which I only bought from that particular establishment because I was buying a brownie there, and I thought it rude to walk into the cafe next door with the brownie which is superior to the ones they serve there to buy the coffee which is superior to the one served next door.
The barista was older, wearing glasses. Tattooed, of course. This is Fitzroy, after all. He seemed to take me seriously, I think it's the trench coat. People always take me seriously when I wear it. I don't know if it's the trench coat, the fact that it's beige, or if it's because I only wear it when I want to be taken seriously. Whichever one it is I don't care. He knew, the barista, that I was serious about getting a good coffee and a large slice of brownie, and he looked me straight in the eyes, which I liked.
The two guys on the table nearest the till were deep in discussion about something which seemed important. One of them, the younger guy, was taking notes. There was a disk on the table, which I could see was a DVD of the movie "Mr Popper's Penguins", which I thought was odd, an odd choice for these two men to be discussing. If they were, in fact, discussing it. I'm not sure why else it would just be sitting there, on the table. I watched that movie recently. It was really pretty awful, and yet I find myself thinking about those damned CGI birds more often than I'd like. Damned precocious birds. And their propensity for pooping. Pooping penguins in Mr Popper's apartment.
I'm not thinking about the penguins as I walk up George St, brownie, long black, trench coat. I pass my car, parallel parked on the left hand side of the street, and I try not to look at it, but out of the corned of my eye I can see the scratch marks and the dents. I'd rather be thinking about the penguins, but I'm not, anymore, I'm thinking about the scratches, and willing myself to care a bit more. But I don't. I just don't care. If anything I'm relieved that's the extent of today's damage. It could have been worse, in the rain, with this degree of distraction, lines running through my head like a pooping penguin's excrement. Mr Popper isn't going to clean up this mess.
And neither am I.
I'm going to drink this coffee, finish the brownie and probably lick my fingers, who are you to judge me, with the day I've had, and it's not yet 11am.
Scratches, dents, pooping penguins. Push them all to the back of my mind and keep moving, moving, moving through the hours of the day hoping to care, at least a little bit. And to be taken seriously, with or without the trench coat. To be met, eyes to eyes. Yes. I sure am serious. If you think I'm still talking about coffee you've missed the point. But you're still reading, I've no idea why, the wine has really hit me now and I could keep going. But I won't. Don't worry. Don't worry.
I'm not worried. But I do care, I think.
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