by Jason Foster (bio after article)
She liked her lattés sweet, like her men. I could tell by the way she ordered. Such soft vowels. I know these things. It’s what I do. My name’s Mike. I’m a mug.
My coffee shop is the one on the corner of Broadway and Fourteenthâ€â€?least that’s what I hear. This is my district, my precinct.
We’d barely opened, when she walked in. She must have seen the sign: open six AM. Her blond hair was done up in a bun, and she wore one of those designer suits, with the kind of skirt that slipped to just above her knees: long enough to be professional, short enough to be sexy. She carried a briefcase. Leather. I knew she meant business.
“Medium latté,” she ordered. Those sultry vowels. “For here,” she added. My kind of customer.
I felt a bit groggy myself. I’d been up late with Coco. Our relationship had been growing serious. Oh, it’d started innocent enough: I met her for the first time at a meeting between two executives, a rather formal and perfunctory affair. The next time between two friends, a couple women. I chatted her up a bit, got to know her. But not until the third go-round did the sparks really fly. A young couple. The man ordered a strong coffee, kept it black. The lady, latté with almond in it. Delicious. Yum. It fit Coco like a cardboard sheath on a hot take-out coffee cup.
By then I knew I’d fallen for Coco like a mug off a shelf. She was the cat’s meow, a real shebaâ€â€?I mean she was steaming hot, really hot, and I’m not just saying that because her shape’s designed to insulate hot liquids. I’m talkin’ sex appeal. Coco had the kind of handle that made me thank god I was mug. And her curves… well, you’d think she was a C-cupâ€â€?but I’m not one to tell. We spent more and more time together. Everything copacetic. Soon we had the talkâ€â€?she moved in. I live midtown, second shelf to the right. Just above the steamer.
Anyway, this dame, the business woman, read the paper, had her latté, then left. But I knew she’d be back. People don’t know the influence we mugs have on the world. The dame was lonely, and I was going to help her out. So I began to plan, called a couple mugs who owed me a favor.
Thing is, I figured this’d be my only case, that it would be an easy day. Boy was I wrongâ€â€?my day was only just beginning.
~~~
It was about noon that I found myself washing up after my third customer, pondering my plan for the business dame�when I heard the crash. I dried off quick-like, got back to my shelf, and surveyed the scene.
Word on the counter was there’d been a mugging. But who’d do such a thing? Then I saw him, on the floor over by the window beneath one of the smaller tables. It was Pepéâ€â€?or at least what remained of Pepé. I stifled a gag reflex.
Pepé was a model mug. From somewhere south. A little quirky, only served Colombian roast, but he meant well. He’d come to our shop in hopes of a better life for him and his family. Sometimes I heard his kids playing on the shelf above me. What would they do now? How would they go on?
I studied the area. Cleanup was already on the scene. Thing is, something wasn’t right about this, something smelledâ€â€?well, it smelled like coffee…but there was something else. I might have thought the whole thing an accident, shrugged it off, if I hadn’t glanced up from the crime scene to the table top.
And there he was, I shoulda’ known. They called him Mugsy, but I knew him as a Bad Mug. There are two kinds of mugs in the world, I always say: Good Mugs and Bad Mugs. He was a number twoâ€â€?a BM. I don’t like BM’s. They stink, and I could smell him from my shelf. He was rotten. That’s when he saw me. There was no remorse written on that mug, only a smugness that dared me to do something. No one bumped off a mug and got away with it. Not on my turf.
~~~
So I kept an eye on him the rest of the day. Mugsy served a couple of regular Joe’sâ€â€?he was lying low after the Pepé incident. Besides, he saw I was on to him like foam on cappuccino. In fact, I’d gotten so involved in the Pepé incident that I completely forgot about my first case until late that afternoon when I was being filled with a strong Sumatra.
The aroma seemed to shake me from my stupor: I’d been fixating on Mugsy all dayâ€â€?I’d almost forgotten completely about the business dame from the morning.
The guy who’d ordered me was just who I’d been looking forâ€â€?a perfect match for that dame. He stirred in just the right amount of sugarâ€â€?the perfect blend of half’n half. Yeah, he was her match all right.
That’s when she walked into the shop again, all hotsy-totsyâ€â€?perfect timing, end of the workday. Except she was with some stiff. Clearly not her type at all, but they were together. Nuts.
My client had just picked me up, was taking me to a table when she ordered. He didn’t even see her.
“Latté.” He didn’t hear her either, but I did, those vowels wafting across the shop like the scent of espresso roast.
The stiff she was with didn’t impress me: “Whatever you’ve got,” he mumbled. Boy, was he a crumb-bum.
It just so happened that Coco was the dame’s mug. I’d been telling Coco about the dame, and so when I motioned to her, indicating my plan, she nodded and winked. What a swell chickâ€â€?Coco knew what she about. We made sure that they sat at tables next to each other.
My client situated himself and took a sipâ€â€?strong and confident. I could respect a man who knew how to drink his coffee. Then he started grading. Apparently he was a teacher-type. While he did that, I kept an open ear to the dame’s conversation with her date, which waned from the get go. The bum was dull, kept glancing around, seemed to be checking out the other broads in the place. What a cad. A real lounge lizard. The business dame tried to act interested, I could tell, but it wasn’t jibing for her. He kept feeding her some line about how he likes to “come here to just think.” Baloney! Bunch of applesauce! I’d never seen him before in my life. It wasn’t long before I’d figured out that they’d been set up by some mutual friend. Whoever this friend was, she wasn’t a very bright one.
Before I knew it, I was out of Sumatra. One of our bussers came by and picked me up, set me on a nearby table while she cleaned. And who d’ya think she set me next to? The BM. He looked flushed when he realized it was me. Just the two of us. He was half full, and I could tell he had his guard up. God, was he ugly, the kind of mug only a mother could love.
“You’re dirty,” I told him.
“Eh?” he mocked me, like he couldn’t hear or something.
“Dirty I tell ya! You’re scum. You’ll never get away with it.”
“Don’t be so sure, ya’ ratfink. You go ratting me out and you’ll be the one sleepin’ with the floor tiles,” then he got all cool acting. “Tell ya’what, I know you’re stuck on that hot mug you’re always rubbin’ handles withâ€â€?what’s her name, Coco? If you know what’s good for her, you’ll stay away from me pal. You never know when a mug might accidentally slip. Ya’ follow what I’m sayin’? Eh?”
I couldn’t control myself any longer, “Why you…” But just at that moment, the busser picked him up and moved him along to the next table, forgetting about me. Mugsy looked back with that self-satisfied look of his. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a smug mug.
Well, here’s when I used that influence I was telling you about before. Fortunately, at that moment there were two ladies working as bussers (we got a pretty big waitstaffâ€â€?not big like chunky, I’m talkin’ numbers). So I flagged the second one down. I need to get to that table, pronto, I told her…in my own way.
People don’t understand the awesome subliminal power that we mugs command. Some believe it’s the coffee, and I’d be lying if I said the coffee doesn’t play its part, but the real influence lies in the mug. Besides, coffee can’t think for itself.
Anyhow, I got this other busser to pick me up (she called to the other one: “Hey Sarah, what are you doing this weekend?”) and set me next to Mugsy.
“Just try and catch me,” his busser picked him up.
“Follow that mug,” I yelled. “And step on it!”
We moved from table to table, Mugsy always just out of my reach, giving me the run-around. He was going downtown for this and he knew it, and I was going to be there when they took his mug shot.
He took a right at the big four-person table, but I cut him off at the South Pacific Simoan Islands Rhythm CD Compilation display stand (the same music that’d been playin’all day). I would have had Mugsy too, if it weren’t for the group of middle-aged ladies and their bulky shopping bags. He backtracked. I followed.
Then the unthinkable happenedâ€â€?and all slow-motion like. Mugsy’s busser picked up Coco in the same hand that carried Mugsy. I shuddered. Meanwhile, the business dame’s date was about over. The guy she was with was quite a slimeball I realizedâ€â€?the whole time he’d been checking out some Dumb Dora sitting outside, and now he was giving the business dame some lame excuse.
Well, that’s about the time Mugsy glanced back at me with a look of utter contempt. I watched, helpless, as he hoisted up on the busser’s thumb, poised and ready, like a pendulum, to swing down with enough force to crack Coco. I yelled to her, but she was already ahead of me.
With the poise and grace of a woman, Coco urged the business dame to stand up all sudden-like, bumping into the busser, and Mugsy, already poised near the end of the thumb, just slipped right off. The contemptuous look on his face shifted to pure consternation as he fell, still half full. His keester landed right on the papers of the teacher-guy.
Coffee and porcelain went everywhere. Coco averted her eyes, but I gotta admit I watched with a strange mixture of disgust and relief. No mug should die like that, and yet at least I knew that Mugsy wouldn’t bother another mug.
“Oh my gosh,” I heard the business dame saying, “I’m so sorry.” At first she was talking to the busser, who’d already set Coco back down on the table, but then the dame saw the coffee all over the papers, and finally the guy grading them. And he saw her.
The rest, as they say, is history. He bought her a coffee, and she helped clean up the mess. They talked for over an hour and by the end of their conversation agreed to meet for coffee the following day.
As for me and Coco, we cleaned up and had a nice evening together. Most people don’t realize where the real power resides, why things happen like that do. I guess I don’t know either, not exactly, but I do know that I play a part in that world. Today might seem like an extraordinary day to some mugs, but for me, well, it’s all in a day’s work.
Copyright © 2003 + Jason Foster. All Rights Reserved.
About Jason Foster
I’ve enjoyed reading the stories CoffeeBeanShop publishes, which in turn has inspired my own take on a “coffee” story. I’m a high school teacher in the Denver area who loves to read and write. I also love coffee. Although usually my writing tends toward more serious tones, I couldn’t resist the punning and parody that a mug detective story offered. I hope you enjoy “A Mugging.”
