Untitled

Written by: Transmetal

Stan sat down on the wet bench, thoroughly depressed. The rain fell from the sky in a strange foreign rhythm. The trees surrounding the path gave little protection to those seeking shelter; neither did the tattered umbrella he held. He shook his head in distaste at the cheap umbrella, and threw it to the ground. Night was quickly approaching, causing the air to cool even more than it already had. It caused a shiver to run down Stan’s spine, both physically and mentally. It was then he made a decision that would change the course of his life. That is, he decided to get a coffee at the local café.

It was beginning to thunder, as Stan ran down the flooded downtown walkway. Lighting flashes briefly, illuminating the black sky. In the distance, he could see his destination, made clear by the ugly neon sign above the doorway. “The Hawaiian Shirt Café: Cheap Wine & Fine Beer” was what the sign read, alongside the picture of a scantily clad woman. For years, the townsfolk had debated having the Air-Force bomb the place, vaporizing every trace of what they considered a large ugly blotch on their pristine reputation. They had tried every method short of that, including burglary, boycotts, and arson. One of Stan’s favorites was when some obscure right-wing group had organized a speech by the mayor to take place in front of the bar, in order to convince people to avoid the spot. However, this group somehow had never learned of the Mayor’s frequent visits to the café, and that he often times provided “entertainment” for the female patrons of the group. The event quickly collapsed, and the Mayor was never re-elected to office.

Contrary to their efforts and expectations, the event did not diminish the steady flow of customers entering the café. Instead, the incidental publicity introduced waves of new customers. A good 2/3 of the town had at least visited the place once, although when asked, they probably would not admit it. Stan had been a regular there for most of his adult life, and he was not afraid to admit it. It was a place of refuge from a world that constantly demanded him to responsible, respectful, and all other things he despised. It was there he could go over to the bar, relax, and ponder on why he was so amused by women who walk on stage and take off pieces of clothing. His ex-girlfriend said it had something to do with male hormones, but he was other women enjoying the same entertainment, so it could not be that.

It was continuing to rain hard as Stan opened the door to the café. With the rhythmic pounding of the rain shut out, there was an eerie silence. The silence was enough to give him pause. Stan looked down at the watch and shook it in disbelief. It could not possibly be 7pm, he thought to himself. This was supposed to be the busiest time of day, but the entire café was empty. While typically, he would mock this sort of situation as some high school student’s cliché attempt at writing a decent story, coffee was his mission. He had come here to drink some of the province’s finest coffee, freshly brewed on order. Stan had never understood his own love for the black drink. All things considered, especially his upbringing, he should have been a tea drinker. His entire family drank tea, every one of the last five generations. As a child, he was taught some weird Japanese tea ceremony, that he couldn’t quite remember the name of. In the end, however, this feeling of order and tradition present in the ceremony went completely against his nature. In a way the coffee, like the café itself, was his attempt to escape living life the way others thought he should live.

Stan quickly shook himself out of his self-imposed daydream and sat down. Sitting in his usual spot, he was situated in a viewpoint where he could see almost everyone and everything, except for the door. He hated the door. To him the door represented an entrance back into a world full of dull misery. Besides, he once got his hand stuck in it. A rather painful experience by all accounts, and one he would prefer not to remember.

Looking up at the menu, Stan could see that little had changed since his last visit. Coffee was 99¢ for a small, $1.20 for a medium, and $1.70 for a large. The soft clinking of metal in his pocket told him he could easily afford a large, but he would have to pay in change. He knew that the bartender preferred bills, but money was money.

Predictably, the bartender looked up with some disgust as the coins dropped into his hands. It was with some regret that he deposited the money into the register, and went over to make the coffee. Stan continued to feel some faint unease. Perhaps it was the weather. On the other hand, maybe it was the complete lack of life in the city, he thought. Where was everybody? Well, the bartender was still here. Would he know what was going on?

The bartender in question has just finished making Stan’s coffee, and was walking back from the kitchen. Stan found this to be an appropriate time to begin a conversation. Attempting to speak, he found he had trouble making his vocal chords... do anything. For some odd reason, it took him a great deal of concentration to talk.

“Slow day, isn’t it?”

The bartender scowled at Stan, as if he had offended him with a question so stupid, it required a scaling back of IQ. He leaned stealthily towards Stan, as if to tell him a long forgotten secret of grave importance.

“No shit.”

Lighting flashed in the window as he turned around to clean some long neglected liquor glasses. Stan merely sat there, watching him. Thunder rolled across the sky, causing the glass cups to rattle. Suddenly, the bartender relaxed, letting out a forlorn sigh. He began to speak.

“How many people do you think lived in this town Stan?”

Stan swallowed hard, the coffee was stale. Looking into the black liquid, he thought of how crowded this city was during the day... during the day... Stan swung around in his chair and looked out the window. He glanced back at his watch, then back to the window. It was pitch black.

“Stan?”

What was going on? He wondered. Was there some sort of eclipse? Damn, you really lose track of the world when you spend your day playing videogames. Especially that one with the Italian Plumber. He looked back down at the coffee, thinking of how much of this same liquid he had consumed attempting to beat that game.

“Dammit Stan, you have the attention span of a goldfish!”

“Huh?”

The bartender had become quite irritated, but he quickly relaxed into his soothing, monotonous voice. He began again, so as to not let Stan fall into some day dream about goldfish.

“How many?

“Well... A lot.” Stan was confused. Where was this going?

“What are you feeling like right now?”

“Well, no better or worse than usual.”

“You don’t feel bothered by the lack of people?”

“I drink alone, you know that!”

“You feel no hole, no void in your life?”

“Well, no! Why would...”

“If so, then what was there to begin with?”

“What are you tal...”

“There was nothing!”

It was Stan’s turn to become irritated. His face was flushed red with frustration. What the hell was wrong with this guy?! His questions annoyed and bothered Stan, although he didn’t know why. The bartender, however, was not quite finished.

“Don’t you understand yet?”

Stan stayed silent, staring at the bartender. Lighting flashed again in the window. The power flicked on and off for several seconds. Thunder rolled in response. The bartender suddenly begins to laugh.

“You ARE an ignorant one, aren’t you? I figured this would be fun, most people at least make an effort to figure out what’s going on. You, on the other hand, seem to need some assistance.”

“With what?!”

“What do you define life by? For some it’s the things they own, for others it’s the things they accomplish. Some define it by the people they know. Some define by the people they... don’t know. The question is, what do you have that defines your life Stan?”

An uncomfortable silence pervades, interrupted only by the slurping of Stan’s coffee.

“To put it bluntly, nothing. As you say, you drink alone. You’re unemployed, and you’re about to get kicked out of your apartment.”

Stan’s coffee erupts out of his mouth as he begins to cough. The damn coffee is stale, he thinks to himself.

“You have nothing to define your life by. So the question now becomes, how do you define death?”

“While I try to understand why you’re asking me all these philosophical questions, could you get me some fresh coffee? The stuff you gave me went stale.”

Frustrated at being interrupted, the bartender angrily snatches the coffee away, and heads towards the kitchen. Stan sighs, thankful for the bartender’s absence. Looking out the small window to his right, he could see the storm was only getting worse. He could no longer see across the street, as the rain was so dense.

“Now, where was I?”

Stan looked back to see the bartender with coffee in hand Curses...

“Defining death?”

“Oh right. Think of it in mathematical terms. Life is positive. Death is negative.”

Stan sips at his coffee, then choked. It was still stale.

“Tastes stale, doesn’t it? Stale, as in lack of life. It illustrates your point in reality well, doesn’t it? How do you know if you’re alive or dead? You don’t. You can’t. There is no defining factor except one, your perception of reality. Tell me now, what do you perceive your reality as right now Stan?”

Stan’s stomach feels sick. He begins to clutch his abdomen in pain. He stares down in to the coffee, the stale coffee. The realization suddenly creeps up on him, a violent feeling of loss and despair. It’s over. There’s nothing left.

“You’re dead.”