So Many Tables But No Place To Sit

I was sitting in a café, sipping a frothy mocha whilst writing out an advert for a flat share. When I entered it was empty, but as I began to write, two blokes came in and spoiled my silence. Two longhaired, nose pierced, badly smelling men sat right behind me and began telling everyone in the café, which was me, them and the girl behind the counter, about their weekend. 
    On my only previous visit to the café I enjoyed a latte whilst reading Cock and Bull by Will Self. I drank the latte slowly whilst ruminating on what it would be like to be a hermaphrodite, imagining the contrasting sensations of having simultaneous orgasms in both my penis and vagina.  I recall Tracy Chapman's debut album playing in the background as well as something by Royksopp. The Retreat, as the café is named, is brightly decorated, the walls are painted pink and each table has a glass vase containing dried flowers as its focal point.  Soft ambient music plays and flyers for Reki healing, Indian head massage and Introductory Buddhist meetings lie neatly on a table that greet you on arrival. A large poster hangs from one wall advertising Friday Nights at the Temple, Reggae Music with real Jamaican Roots and a blackboard with a chalk menu hangs from the other wall, advertising such delicacies as Vegan Omelette and Goats cheese and pepper Salad.
  To generalize, The Retreat caters for the chilled out vegetarian, the braided or dread locked haired, socialist brigade. Alternative people as some like to call them. If I was to be categorized by others, they might well put me in the same group. I have long hair, I don't shave, ever, I hate capitalism, I think we should all live in communes and I hate materialism. However, sometimes, I hate everything and everyone.
 I hate Starbucks and Coffee Republic and all those corporate, pretentious places but I am equally beginning to detest these alternative ones. The people that frequent them are just as much up their own arses as everyone else. Their images are just as fashioned and cultivated as the high street monkeys. Don't get me wrong, I don't hate the cafes themselves, they serve good coffee at reasonable prices, I just don't like the people in them. There are women with vest tops on that show off their hairy armpits, with jeans so low that they reveal pierced potbellies and straggly pubes. Their hair looks like shit encrusted straw but has probably been nurtured for years to get to such a stage. The men have unkempt, wispy beards or at least a few days facial hair and wear jeans that allow everyone to see the shit stains on their Calvin Klein boxer shorts. They have on retro canvas trainers that look dirty and worn out but actually cost £75 the week before.
    I was trying to concentrate on what would look best on the advert, large single room or small double room, but all I could hear was this deep, wining voice in my ear.
    " Yeah man, I got really wasted this weekend."
I tried to block it out and the incessant sniffing of his friend, but I found it impossible. It seemed to get louder and soon it sounded as though his words were coming out of the speakers, his nasal tones backed up by the soft drum and bass of some Urban DJ.
" We were drinking vodka, neat, at like four in the afternoon man."
It was fascinating stuff, really, but it was putting me off my task. I took a sip of mocha and stared down at my piece of card. Because of this thrilling one-sided conversation, I had put large single vodka instead of large single room. I ripped the piece of card up and threw it to the ground. The voice actually stopped for a minute and his friend stopped sniffing as they probably wondered what my problem was.
As I took another piece of card out from my bag and began to write the first sentence, the voice and the sniffing started again.
    " I met this guy called Jez and he was real cool man. We had a smoke together and drank some vodka, he was a top man.”
I put the pen down and took a deep breath. I turned around and almost got a mouthful of unwashed, unkempt, dread locked hair. The guy that was doing all the sniffing had a big mop of what was traditionally the hair of Rastafarians, down to his arse. Something dropped from one of the twig like strands into my mouth. I spat what was probably once alive onto the ground.
   I moved my chair to the left so I could see the face behind the voice, instead of the crusty head of hair of his friend. He had a beard that seemed to have a ponytail and a pair of bushy sideburns.  His hair was a Mohawk with a mullet at the back.
I got to my feet and looked down at these two imbeciles. These two cretins that make the mainstream world think that all alternative people are drugged up, fucked up, 60’s flower power wannabes.
     I picked up my pen and stack of cards and put them into my record bag. I slung the bag over my shoulder and coughed. The smell of B.O that wafted in my direction had a hint of Lynx deodorant to it, which made it even worse.
I knew what I wanted to say to these two pretend beatniks, I wanted to say something intellectual that would make them look like inferior specimens, but what came out was not what I scripted.
     “Butt fuckers,” I mumbled, but loud enough for them to hear. They both looked at me like I was crazy. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the girl behind the counter, and she too was looking at me as though I was crazy.
They looked back at one another and the droning voice started up again.
.
I tried to compose myself and worked out in my head what I wanted to say to them.
  “Wankers,” I mumbled as I stumbled over the leg of my chair.
They looked at me and smiled. The girl behind the counter began laughing as she cut a small piece from a Lemon Cheesecake. The sniffing stopped and the fascinating tale of excess and debauchery came to a halt.
   I walked around their table and stopped, waiting for the right moment to deliver my final verbal assault.
        “You are a cunt and you fucking know it,” I said, looking at neither of them in particular.  I held my head up high, dodged two precariously placed chairs and headed for the door. I was proud; I managed to produce a volley of abuse without stumbling, mumbling or spitting grains of food everywhere. I left the cafe and began walking down the road in order to get away from the vermin. It was impossible.  Areoles were everywhere. Bastards that thought they were different, thought that by spending their money on organic food and wearing jeans with holes in them, that they were morally superior to the morons wearing Hackett t-shirts and baseball caps. Perhaps they were. I don’t know, I just hate them all. I hate people.
I took several deep breaths and tried to calm myself, the sun beating down on my greasy head. I saw a young boy glaring at me, dressed in baggy trousers and a hooded top that left only the peak of the baseball cap underneath it showing. I began to laugh at the absurdity of my anger and the stupidity of human beings.
I was almost calm again when a prancing University student with a yellow bib over a Che Guevara T-shirt pirouetted into my path.
“ Hello there, how are you today?"
I walked past without reply but could not dodge the next one.
    “ Hello sir, lovely day isn't it? A minute for Oxfam? Just a quick chat.”
I stopped and closed my eyes as the anger boiled up inside me. Five minutes later I had signed up to have £10 taken out of my bank account on the first day of every month. As I walked home in a depressed stupor, I rifled through my wallet looking at all the bankcards, credit cards and stupid membership cards that I paid out money for every month. I sat down on the steps leading up to my flat and began to cry.
    “ There you go mate," said a voice, and I looked up.
Beside my leg was a twenty pence piece, tossed in my direction by a snappily dressed estate agent with Ray Ban sunglasses perched on his head. I looked at him and he winked at me.

David Hemmings is 24 years old and lives in Brighton, England. He has always loved writing but has only started taking it more seriously recently. This piece is his first publication.

Email: David Hemmings

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