Stating the Obvious

Monroe looked hard to his right, as if the hockey game on the slim television had sudden gained interest. But there was merely a commercial, and his rapid head turn seemed out of place. He had hoped no one would noticed.

"It helps if you actually have your computer on, dude," he heard from behind himself. His heart felt like it had gone over the first ledge of a rollercoaster. He smiled without thinking.

"Excuse me, huh?" He mentioend as his head turned back, "and thanks for getting that for me." He moved his chin towards the half eaten scone and the cold mocha. He did not have to lock eyes with the barista working solo this lone Monday afternoon. He knew exactly what the young man was wearing. A wool cap, even in summer, kept back a blond and red mohawk, that just made him look thinner. He knew that the barista, named Nick, was also wearing an extra small beater underneath his blue work polo and apron. It pulled the edges of his shape aside and made his chest and neck more defined because of it. The beard was meant to look shapeless, but Nick's manicuring of his personal fur was evident.

He saw him after the shower once at the Y and knew the man took care of himself. He even knew the tattoos on the young man's back.

The plates clacked and sighed as they were removed from Monroe's booth.

"Is that one of those new micro laptops?" The young man asked.

"Oh this?" Monroe rested the palm of his hand next to the rainbow sticker and tried to be as cool as possible. "Yeah, Ma gave it to me for graduation."

"College bound?"

"I am, I am," Monroe stated, again looking to the floor. "You?" He already knew the answer. The proximity to teh college and the barrage of hockey tshirts gave away the coffeemaker's secrets.

"Yeah, second year. Working here to make ends meet," Nick pointed out, greeting Monroe with another nod. The nod moved his lieft arm a bit and shifted the weight forward. After a brief swear, Monroe was out of his seat and holding the other side.

"That was close, here," Monroe removed the plate so that the others underneath could shift back into Nick's palm, "lemme help you."

They both saunterd over to the counter and clacked the plates down. "And, for the college fund," Monroe pulled out a dollar. He had wanted to finish his work and enjoy the view of the young man at work--but also call it early. This side track was not in the plans. He placed the money into the tip jar with a bit of flair, so Nick, now behind the counter, would know he put it there.

"Hey, hold up," Nick stated and walked into the back room. Monroe surveyed the room. It was clearing out for the evening. He doubted there was any free coffee left.

Nick held out his hand and a small piece of paper--just as his mobile vibrated audibly.

He answered, "WHAT?"

Monroe unfolded the paper.

In it was the phone's number.

"It's my cell," Nick stage whispered.

Monroe was a very, very bad liar.

Bert's Best Friend

"A bone fide coffeehouse," Bert looked around and upwards, as if the place was bigger then he expected.

Ronald did not take his eyes off his friend. Friend? He had no better word for their relationship. They had been apart for a few years, and bumming into each other was more chance then force. A moment in the dairy aisle, Bert buying more milk because his mother was too sick to do so, and Ronald getting a quick snack. He had, at first wanted to walk away. His last time with Bert did not go well.

They were in their senior year at Dornie High School and Bert had insisted on the two of them spending the night alone and getting drunk. Ronald really did not mind. But he had his family together; his sister was in town; his grandparents had just arrived. The late hour helped, but the feeling that he needed to be elsewhere was pervasive. Ronnie figured if he drank enough, the stresses of having of having so many family members together in honor of him might be reduced. Alas, since Bert still did not have a car, and they were both underage, he knew he'd have to drive and, therefore, stay sober.

But Bertie insisted. He couldn't resist. So that was their last night together.

It was a disaster. The only place they could find to drink was Memorial Park. It being Friday, the police would be located downtown, and this was the only place that Ronnie figured might work. He picked a darker picnic table, tagged from similar meetings from many teens. Apparently, this Friday, they must also be downtown.

The wind was dead. They could hear people coming from a mile away.

And the drinking began. For Bert.

Ronnie stayed on one beer, placing it behind him to keep it from Bert's notice.

"So? Shit, man, oh man...graduation on Monday. Who ever heard of that?"

"I don't know, Bertie, does seem kinda stupid."

"Stupid? Stupid?!" Bertie forced a laugh for some reason and slapped Ronnie's back hard enough to make him slide forward. He then moved the hand to Ronnie's shoulder, as if to apologize for.

"Dude, you got drunk before, didn't you?" Ronnie smiled.

"Yeah, yeah, my room's in the basement. Wasn't sure you'd show."

"Not sure, I'd show?"

"Yeah, you're the star, here, man, you're the one everyone's looking to. I mean, you don't think your principal is smiling you got a full ride?"

"I doubt he knows."

"He knows, he knows...."

"Yeah, maybe," Ronnie tried to relax.

to be continued.

Bert had a love for meatloaf, especially his mother's This night was no different. He could practically smell the wafting BBQ as he pulled up into the alleyway behind the house. His mother had told him that it was for dinner. Like himself, she was a glutton for schedules and menus did not escape her. She knew what she wanted to make before the days of the week began.

Bert's job at the factory also granted him straight lines in his schedule. His mother could always predict when he would arrive. This was a comfort for both of them.

Bert had a bad day, but that cleared out quickly when he got into the house. Mother had cleaned and readied everything, a visitor would half expect to see birthday baloons and brightly wrapped gifts heaved onto the counter when they entered.

Bert also paused. A clean house was to be expected. Since her retirement, his mother had kept herself busy by entering sweepstakes, cooking and, most of all cleaning. But this work was exceptional. Recent spots from tooth brushing in his basement apartment's bathroom mirror were even wiped.

He smiled larger and put on a decent shirt--the one he had lain out was subjected to cat fur. The little beast had pressed the door open and entered. He would have to remember that the next time around.

His mother was cutting the meat upon arrival into the kitchen. She wore an apron, but he remembered it was at the top of the laundry pile, when he had left for work.

Dinner was silent. Bert smiled through a large part of it, having two helpings of the fresh meal.

"Thank you, mother, it was delicious."

"Now you head out to the gym. It closes in two hours," she said, looking down at the plate.

"Mom, you know I am not going to the gym."

"You're not?" She was terrible at lying. Bert recalled once, in his childhood, how she tried to hide a surprise visit to a local mini-golf. An addiction, something kept at a distance with his inabilty to drive, that she would occasionally pacify.

"You know where I'm going, Mother."

"Sweety, it is just that, well, do you really know this girl?"

"Mom, we have been talking for several days, you'll be fine. Why don't you call one of your friends?"

She frowned. He knew she would, but would act like she would not.

"You are ungrateful. All this work I made for dinner. You should stay here and keep me company."

"Mother, I am not staying, okay?" He picked up his plate and made for the kitchen to avoid her expression. "I am going out on a date."

"But it is a school night," she pleaded.

"Mother, she teaches school, she doesn't go to one."

She pushed her plate away from herself and made a face. She misjudged her own strength and the plate toppled onto the floorboards. The clang was loud; but it did not break.

"MOTHER," he emphasized, "stop it."

She turned to face him.

"I didn't mean to do that, ya know."

"Well you did, and you almost break a plate."

"But I didn't."

He moved with striking distance to his mother. He bent over and picked up the food pieces with an old napkin. He walked out of the room careful to make no noise.

"You'll be fine, mother," he said to her, " you are starting to sound like Norman Bates own mother."

"Who's Norman Bates?"

He went back down to the basement to brush his teeth one last time.