Mini Stories and One Shots

K.R. McCray (1): Coffee for Them

Maxxon Blues, your assignment is to successfully recall a time in your life. You need to make me feel something. Can you do that?

Get recalling, Maxxy.

– Kelsie R. McCray.

His name was Morgan. Tyler Morgan.

Coffee is one of my favourite drinks. You love it, or you hate it. You drink too much, or you drink too little. I’m one of the caffeine-addicts you hear about on TV. I’m nineteen years old, and I’m drinking six mugs of coffee a day just to keep on my feet. Five hours of sleep a night, six mugs of coffee. It’s bad, isn’t it? Well, so are drugs, but people still take them. Bill Hicks takes them. He’s a major stoner. I don’t care, though. I love him to pieces. He’s clever. We’re lacking clever people in this world.

I was walking down the street. It was raining. I had my brolly up. My hat was on, my scarf was wrapped round my neck, and my gloves covered my hands. I had two pairs of tights on underneath my jeans. I was still bloody freezing. And then I saw three teenage girls with tops that were cut in a weird sort of way, shorts on, one pair of tights with a ripped design. There were boys beside them that were whispering things that were making them giggle. And there I was with my sweater that had a great bit reindeer on it—I must have looked like a stupid fool with no money. Well, that wouldn’t be untrue. But at least I wasn’t stupid.

I didn’t stop and watch them; I carried on walking down the street, my hand gripping the handle of my laptop case, my other gripping my brolly. It was quite uncomfortable, actually. Que pouvez-vous faire? What can you do?

I was making my way to the coffee shop that had free internet access. I didn’t have broadband in my apartment. Too much money.

The rain was getting heavier, and I couldn’t help but damn those people in the cars that whizzed by. “Fuck you!” I felt like screaming to the world, but I didn’t. What would that look like? I was already odd enough. I didn’t need more things to make me different. Is different good? Hell no.

The little bell chimed when I entered the threshold. The Access Code for the computers was on a poster to my left, but I paid no heed to that. I already had it memorised. I’d been coming to this same place on ChesterCole Street for years.

“Coffee, Blues? Three sugars?”

I looked up at Margaret; saw her washing the tables with that damp little rag of hers. She liked me, she did. She’d known me for years.

“Yeah, go on then. Extra milk.”

She ignored me—she already knew what I wanted. “How’s Pete?”

“Still dead.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that, love.”

Pete was my little brother. Seven years old, and he died of cancer. What was I supposed to fucking do? “Que pouvez-vous faire?” I asked, shrugging.

“Rien,” she answered. Nothing. Typical.

I walked over to my corner, tossed my still-wet umbrella to the side and sat down. When I was comfortable, I threw my head back and closed my eyes. My hat was still on my head, my gloves still covering my hands, my scarf still wrapped around my neck. But I didn’t care.  I just needed to breathe, to take yet another day in. Where were the days going?

“So your name is Maxxon. Maxxon Blues.”

My eyes opened, and I stared at the boy in front of me. His chestnut hair was damp, bags under his eyes, a notebook in his hand. Was he like me? “Yep,” I replied, pulling my hat off, not caring if it messed up my hair.