On a non-descript corner in a city, nestled among the towers of mirrored glass, designer boutiques and neon open signs lies a quaint little coffee house. The Drip as it’s been lovely named, fits right into its surrounding – it’s modern minimalistic design, black and red Asian themed décor and sleek facing were meant to entice the business men and woman working above and around it through its doors. But by some strange twist of fate, the universe had decided that a more bohemian, excitable, fringe style of patron would haunt The Drip. The owner, a mild mannered older British gentleman the patrons lovely refer to as London, had no issues with how things had turned out. After a few years he became gratefully that such an interesting mix of people came and went through his doors.
Thou The Drip belongs to London, this is not his story, this is the story of a baristas he has employed over the years, Salina. Salina enjoys labeling herself a post-modern consumerist, when asked what that means she points to a button on her shirt that reads “everything has been bought already.” In her spare time she enjoys standing in the malls with a clipboard, and asking people if they have purchased a specific item such as a Tooth brush, pink shirt and so forth. She does this for no apparent reason other than she enjoys looking at the tallies, and comparing the different malls in her lovely little city. Salina also enjoys working at the coffee house, as it gives her the opportunity to overhear the stories the patrons tell each other. At the end of each shift she writes the most memorable ones into her dou-tang notebook which she cherishes deeply.
One day while preparing a caramel chia-latte with soy, for an executive that enjoyed stopping in once a week and, attempting to get phone numbers from the hippie girls sitting alone with their mac books. Salina began to overhear what she would soon come to know as the most beautiful story she had ever heard. The story was being told by a young man she believed she had seen many times before but who never really stuck in her memory, she couldn’t even remember what he ordered thou it was always the same thing. Compared to many of the other patrons he seemed to be in Salinas’s words a “Mr.Blend In” a term she pickup from a favorite childhood book. As she continued to serve customers and listen to the story the man was spinning to his friend, she felt taken away by it, so much so that she no longer noticed the orders she was taken, nor the customers she was speaking with; they seemed a dream to her.
When the story ended, the young man glanced at his watch, said bye to his friend commenting on being behind schedule and promptly left. Salina still transfixed by the story grew impatient for her shift to end so she could capture this amazing story. Impatient she grabbed her notebook told London she needed to go to the bathroom. Sitting in the stall Salina started to franticly write down the young man’s story. After getting the first few paragraphs down she read it back to herself, only to find that what she had written was nothing but gibberish. Knowing that she remembered the story in full detail Salina attempted again to write the story, slowly this time concentrating on each word. When she had completed the first paragraph she smiled as she began to read it over, by the last word a tear had rolled down her cheek. Again the text she had written was nothing but nonsense. Salina wiped the tear off her cheek and returned to work feeling slightly defeated.
For the rest of her shift, Salina couldn’t seem to focus on what any of the patrons where talking about. Only his story, as she now thought of it, seemed to be all she could think about. London seemed to notice her distraction, and plied her with questions. When that failed, he resorted to telling her some of his old football stories which always brought a smile to her face, but that brought achieved no response as well. London finally gave up his attempts to reach Salina, and they continued on working their shift with only the required amount of communication to get the job done.
At the end of her shift Salina went home to her quaint little apartment determined to add his story to her notebook. She worked all night in the hope that the story she had heard could be committed to paper but, each attempt was a failure, each a torrent of random thoughts and non coherent ramblings. As the sun was starting to peek above the horizon Salina fell asleep at her table surrounded by crumpled balls of paper, her face pressed against her notebook. She was then woken by her alarm a few hours later. Standing abruptly at the shock of the alarm with her last attempt to write the story pasted to her face Salina attempted to recall the story, fearful that it had been lost during her troubled sleep. Satisfied after a few moments that she could still recall his story Salina began to prepare for work, hopeful that he would return again today to tell another tale……To Be Continued??