11 August, 1987, Tuesday

It feels like 52 degrees Fahrenheit in the middle of a summer day in southern California, people down here have been committing suicide every hour for the several months, and it’s apparently my fault that we aren’t making sales at this coffee shop. Who the hell wants a latte when they don’t know if their loved ones are the next to kill themselves? If Laila didn’t look so miserable when I told her I was thinking about quitting, I really wouldn’t be here right now, but I’d never forgive myself if I left her crying like that. Rhea begged me to quit, but I’d also feel pretty scummy if I left the café and let her be the only one that pays the bills. Sure, being an audio engineer for a pretty renowned music studio is a sweet gig for her, but a couple of their clients- big ones, at that- cancelled due to, oh, you know, suicide. Yeah, a new wave band out of Australia called Love Omission was supposed to fly up here and get their third album recorded, but the lead singer/guitar player found a way to bleed himself out the first night in their hotel. I get it, I guess. He wasn’t the first to do it in this ‘suicide epidemic’ we’re in the middle of, but his death definitely caught wind around the world, and now everyone’s scared of someone they know dying at the hands of… well, themselves. Some people call it a disease, but the only symptom is your death, so ‘disease’ might not really be the word they’re looking for. They’re looking for a way to differentiate it from typical suicide. Whatever. I’m sure it’ll be over soon. It’s been a couple of months already, so it’s practically done. It has to be.

I’m in the middle of steaming milk when Laila tells me she’s going on a ten. She’s been organizing boxes in the back, and I’ve been pretty much the only one up front; not that it’s busy, of course. She’s probably walking around outside now. One single guy came in, and he asked for a hot latte, so that’s what I’m steaming milk for. He didn’t seem too good. His voice seemed hollow, almost like the vibrations from his voice actually went inward into his body and echoed out, and I was only hearing the echo. It was sort of like that. He had a sort of thousand-yard stare, too, and it looked like his lips were barely moving under his salt-and-pepper moustache. The air from the ‘h’ sound in the word ‘hot’ blew the hairs on it away from his face, and that’s how I knew the words were coming from him and not me just hearing voices. Maybe he’s practicing his ventriloquism or something. I just think it’s funny that he didn’t care to answer when I asked how his day was going, but mustered the courage to say ‘Hot latte,’ and only ‘Hot latte.’ Whatever. I put the drink on the counter and call it out, but the guy doesn't move. I repeat myself. Nothing. I sigh, and I’m like, whatever, let it get cold, then, I really don’t like to bring drinks to people after being ignored like that, and I’m sure as hell not gonna start for this guy.

He’s the only customer we’ve had all morning, and I’m pretty sure he knows that, so there’s really no reason to not come up and get the damn-

He throws up. Great.

No, I wanted to clean old guy puke, no worries. I start to get a little uneasy and start feeling the hair on my arm straighten out a little, though, because he starts crying. Still not a single sound from him aside from his shivering breaths. I suddenly feel really bad about all the stuff I was thinking, maybe he just lost someone. Maybe his visit to Loveview Café was his attempt for some kind of ‘normal’; among the midst of everything in his life going wrong. I start to wish I knew more, and against my will, I start hurting for him, and now I want to cry, too. So, I do. I kind of fucking hate that I do that, but I really can’t help it- honest. I walk to the back and just kind of lean against a wall and let it out, but not too much. Maybe it’s the stress of everything going on; being at work despite the city being in a semi-emergency state for a few months now, everyone’s speculations, not knowing when or if things are ever gonna go back to normal, the weird weather, and my first year of school’s starting soon after taking a year off after high school and I’m not sure I even want to study psychology. I’ve heard people say it’s a ‘fake science,’ and that’s a little stressful to hear when it’s the only thing I’m interested in that I have a chance at finding a decent job in. Sure, I love singing, but I’m not great at it. I was a killer cello player, but I didn’t love it. See my dilemma here? I kind of just learned it, got really good, then only ever had fun when I played covers of Stygian Stimulus tracks. I was also a great gymnast until my accident, which is all I’m gonna call it for now. Maybe I’m sick. I don’t know. I’m probably just upset because of all of that stuff, not this weird old guy that I never wanna see again, and the guilt I feel for all the hateful shit I said. I hope he’s gone. I really hope he’s gone. Just in case he isn’t, I’m gonna try to pull myself together real quick. I finally poke my head out, and I immediately want to revoke my wish, because now I’d give anything for the poor old guy to be what I was dealing with now.

If I could go back in time and talk to anyone- anyone in the world-  I’d travel to a couple of weeks ago, I’d talk to the Love Omission guy, and I’d ask him how he managed to successfully kill himself, because I really wish I’d never met this snobby, mousy-looking, snaggle-toothed Brit-brat of a person. I have no idea what his deal is, his voice sounds like the most hideous, unsure-of-itself shade of purple able to be seen by man, and he’s our only regular right now. He seems to not even know what’s going on around him. Like, how are you that clueless? Or is he too dense to notice? If he wasn’t staring at me with those big, freakish blue blobs on his face, I might try to make more eye contact with him and not that weird mole right under his left eye. I think he’s the only person in the world that makes long lashes look actively unattractive, they almost seem tangled together. Everything about him is just so weird and nasty and I hate that he’s been coming in every day since last month, and I’m gonna strangle the guy that told him about this place myself. I thought people from England were smarter because they sound a little fancier with their accents and stuff, but he manages to make such an elegant sound ugly with the shrill timbre of his voice. He’s about the height of a shriveling grandma and probably weighs half of one, too, judging by his weird, skinny hands, the only part of his body that isn’t covered by drab rags that are at least a couple sizes too big for him. I’m, like, 90% sure he’s hiding lice or some sort of infection under that droopy red beanie he has glued on his head, or at least the several days worth of oil sitting on his scalp. I bet if you wrung out his lifeless, black, Medusa-worthy hair over a salad, it could be a worthy substitute for a fancy, fermented salad dressing that only zany old barnies with too much money would eat. ‘Mmmm, it’s a delicacy from the south of France, aged for seventy years. Your taste buds are simply not mature enough for such fine cuisine.’ That’s what they would say, and it would cost six dollars an ounce - fuck you! Okay, calm down. I imagine he probably gets enough hate from his parents, and he doesn’t need me to add onto that.

About what I said about the time-travelling thing, I should apologize, because maybe I shouldn’t have been talking like I envy a victim of a mental health tragedy; it’s too soon. They were kind of rivalling against Stygian Stimulus, so I’m not really as attached as some of their most intense fans are. To be fair, if any of Stygian’s members died, I’d be pretty damn devastated, genuinely. I wouldn’t get over it for months, probably, maybe even longer, or never. Never? Probably. Anyway, back to Simon. Ew, even his name is gross. The way you have to position your mouth for the first syllable. There’s something, like, snarly about it. He’s looking at me now, and he looks way too excited- as usual.

“Ever!” Yeah, that’s me. His nasally voice cracks a little because of how high he said the first syllable. It’s as if a squeaky dog toy came to life and was hunting me specifically for blood. “You’re not usually here on Tuesdays!” Just my luck that I’m here today.

“Yeah,” I start, my voice not entirely finished recovering from my crying, “Lanie asked me to cover for her. What can I-”

“Oh, what’s wrong with Lanie? Is she ill?” Why are you asking? She’s here twice a week and you don’t say a single thing more than your order to her, why do you care?

“She’s sick,” I tell him.

“Poor thing.” Poor thing, indeed. Poor me!

“Can I get you some-”

“Oh, and where’s Miss Laila?”

“She’s-”

“I have something for her.” Bomb. It’s definitely a bomb. Or some weird ‘craft’ he’s made out of various insect body parts. I pause to make sure he’s done running his mouth.

“...She’s on her-”

“I found it today while I was out in Hawthorne. I think she’ll really like it!”

I sigh. It’s too much. The vomit still on the table, the now cold latte on the counter because I guess the old guy just got up and left the store while I was in the back, the fact I can’t get a sentence out, the smell of pennies that always seems to emanate from this spaz, that teetering purple sound that doesn’t know what it wants to be!

“...It’s 7:22. You were out in Hawthorne and brought something all the way back here just this morning?”

“Yes.”

“How long did that take you?”

He must have stroked out or something, because his eyes darted to his side for a second, like something was behind him or something. He shrugs.

“Well, what is it?”

“Can’t say, it’s top secret- classified!”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t think she wants it.”

“You don’t even know what it is!” He left absolutely no space between what I just said and his own sentence, a hand on his hip and his other pointing at me, charged with accusation.

“Simon-” I feel a little bad for raising my voice, but thank god, Laila opens the front door and comes back from her break. I’ll never understand that girl, mostly because her face lights up every time she sees him.

“Simon!” she exclaims, forgetting to close the door behind her and scurries up to him. It’s pretty on track for her to be excited when anything happens, so maybe she just doesn’t realize that Simon being here really doesn’t really call for so much joy. Maybe it’s just that everyone, including her, has been grasping at straws for something to be happy about. I’m tuned out by now, and Laila starts chatting with Simon while I watch the light from out the door outlining her strawberry blonde hair with a glow.

“Laila,” I called, then she had this surprised look on her face and held her fingertips up to her mouth for a moment before scurrying back and closing the door. It’s then that she notices the half-chunk, half-bile concoction from hell on the table right next to the entrance.

“Oh, my god, that is so, ew!” Even when she’s disgusted, her bright, merengue-y voice has a very bell-like quality. A smooth wash of limoncello. Rhea says she sounds like a sine wave, but I have no idea what she’s talking about. I trust her, though.

“I know,” I say as I start walking to the back to get some cleaning supplies and away from Simon, “some old guy came in and-”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Ev, I can handle it, I’m not gonna let the new guy clean this!”

I find myself smiling a little bit, then turn back around. “Uh, hello? I’ve been here for like, a year.”

“Yeah, try a year and a couple of days,” she interjects with that dramatically cocky voice she uses when she’s doing a bit like this as she cracks her knuckles for effect. “Maybe you’ll have enough experience by then.” Damn it, I can’t help but laugh just a little. I wish I had the power to chill someone out so easily. “Take his order while I take care of that, yeah, please?” Ah, then I remember the embodiment of gunk from a bathroom sink standing before me. Fine, for her, I guess. I’ll never say no to a ‘Yeah, please.’

“Oh, but Miss Laila!” Simon suddenly pops back into his body; I think he may have forgotten he was alive for a sec there. “I have something for you.” Laila was already behind the counter at this point, but she turned her head to look his way.

“Aw, you’re the sweetest! I’ll look in a moment, cool?”

Simon smiles with his weird, jagged teeth. “Cool.” He turns his attention to me again. I barely open my mouth to say anything, and he babbles again. “Ever, I must tell you about the most quaint encounter. You ever been to the lake at Echo Park?” Uh-huh. “I was walking there- walking’s good for your heart, you know- there was a dog there, nowt around his neck, but he looked domestic enough. Anyways, a goose-type thing decides to challenge him, and…”

I start to look out one of the windows to my right. I just wanted to see if anyone was walking outside, but now that I’m looking that way, the decor in here is pretty cute. It kind of feels like a little woodland cottage with the lattice double-window things. I kind of want to swing them open with a dramatic flourish of my arms and say, “Ah, another perfect day, don’t you think?” to an off-puttingly emotive rabbit while cardinals and blue jays fly past. Nothing but fir trees to read under, babbling brooks to wash my clothes in, and sweet, sweet isolation that you just can’t get in a place like this.

Okay, fine, I’m being a little dramatic. Loveview is one of the quietest, unassuming neighborhoods in the whole city. In fact, we haven’t even had a bank robbery here… Maybe that’s because the closest bank is technically in Highland Park, but if we did have a bank, I’m pretty sure it’d be pretty secure. Besides, I don’t actually wanna spend hours of my day hunched over a probably nematode-infested stream of water to wash my jeans in. Oh, yeah, Simon. He’s still going on.

“It’s a wonder, those sorts of things. Dogs obviously have sharper teeth and claws and they’re faster. That goose didn’t stand a chance and it still squabbled. How honorable, y’know?” I suddenly felt the weight of my eyelids. “Or you’re right, maybe it was a coyote…”

Gag me, dude. “Do you want coffee?” I finally ask.

Simon leans on the counter, and I reflexively take a step back. There’s just something really off-putting about his smile. “I understand that your question is rhetorical, Ever, but actually, I don’t.”

What? What? I throw my hands up and look at Simon dead in his eyes. “Great, why are you here, then?” I can’t help but question him, though it came out a little louder than I meant for it to.