CoffeeBeanShop

Hum

by Matthew Blake (bio at end of story)

A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray atop the impeccable green felt. Smoke lingered and expanded just above the table; it, like Saul, could not seem to decide if it wanted to be at one with present events or if it should float upwards - simply rise above all the immediacy. Next to the ashtray was placed an inert dichotomy, all glazed white ceramic and calm exterior resting ever-so-delicately on a white cocktail napkin while it held liquid ebony energy; the steaming opaque kinetics whispering promises with a different kind of smolder. In brief conspiracy the smoke and the steam would meet in the void above the table, entwine and grope for something and then, as if not being able to recognize the other, continue on in their separate dissipation.

The cigarette and the cup of coffee were each just another in a long procession of the same over the last sixteen hours, stimulants brought on Saul's request by scantily-clad servants. It takes time, Saul knew, to become immersed in the immediacy; to become one with and within this world of suspended anti-reality. He knew that any good trance requires a meditation. He disrupted the smolders of his area, taking a sip of the coffee and a drag off his cigarette. He had not yet found his center and was sure that it had something to do with third base. Seated in the first position himself, Saul and she were directly across from one another. She sat - wispy, flirty - and played the game. Poorly.

Saul was glad that the table was winning but he knew that it had absolutely nothing to do with the way this woman was making decisions. The other players were getting antsy, some had left, but Saul continued playing and trying to meditate. A fresh cup of coffee was placed on a new cocktail napkin, a clean ashtray replaced the used, a red chip was given by Saul to the cocktail waitress' forced smile. He lit a cigarette, sipped his coffee, and glanced again at third base. She, too, smiled, but did so naturally and invitingly.

Perhaps that's the problem, thought Saul. She's too real. This is no place for a person that actually and truly smiles. There's a flow here that leaves no room for genuine emotion. School teachers. Nebraska. "Mary" of all names. Innocent and damn attractive but disruptive. Please stop looking at me like that.

Earlier, Saul had toyed with the idea of a cliché: "If there had been teachers like you when I was in school..." or some such nonsense. It was only out of courtesy for the dealer and perhaps even a little respect for himself that he did not voice such drivel. Saul also knew that such noise would merely have added to the buzzing meaninglessness of human interaction in this place- a factor of the ongoing cacophony that Saul had termed "the buzz."

The buzz as defined by Saul was the constant ringing of bells at unmanned slots, the vacuum cleaners at 5:30am, the incessant piezo chirrups of unseen electronic crickets; the white noise wafting towards the impossible ceiling without meaning anything to anyone. The buzz, in Saul's opinion, should not receive conscious contribution; but even while he kept to his self-imposed rule, his meditation was not working. His trance was not coming. He was seriously considering quitting the game because Mary was such a conflicting stimulus. "Tell me, Mister Coffee," she said rather suddenly; "everyone else playing has seemed pretty peeved at me. The last guy that left actually said he was going to the gift shop to buy me a clue. So tell me, why are you still here?" She asked the question with more than a little confidence about what the answer should have been.

Realizing that his name was now Mr. Coffee and that his answer could impede his meditation efforts he said; "Because, fair Mary..." he paused and took a drag from his cigarette for emphasis as her eyes widened a fraction with anticipation, " I love..." he exhaled and crushed-out the butt, "this game." Her response, which Saul was expecting, was a brief but sexy mock pout. She recovered with another brilliant smile.

It's energy flow, thought Saul. Simple energy flow that her smile keeps interrupting. It's binary. Hit. Stay. One, zero. No emotion. On, off. The table is just an integrated circuit and we're its little transmitters. Hit. Stay. One. Zero. On. Off. Dig it. Transmit the energy. Each table around each pit is doing the same thing and we are just a giant scale model printed circuit board. Energy is brought to us and we hit. We stay. We flirt. We don't mean it. We don't smile like that. Our energy flow makes the buzz; it's a byproduct of our crazy stimulation. And when the energy flows as it's meant to flow, when the stimulation's just right and when the meditation leads to the trance - that's when the buzz ceases and the hum begins. So please, please stop smiling at me like that.

It was "the hum," another term of Saul's coinage, that was important to Saul and it was the goal of his meditation. To him it was the meaning beyond the buzz; it was part of the buzz and yet also far above it. The hum was the sounds of import, the music of meaning. He wanted to experience the hum and so he continued his quest and his stimulation exercises while Mary split another pair of queens against a ten. He was having serious second thoughts. She winked.

The hum, thought Saul, oh how I want to hear that singing clanketty-clank of silver dollars against crazy stainless steel bins, the shouts of joy from hep cats at the craps tables, the dingity-ding-ding-da-diggy-ding of mad bells and whistles above machines. I want those whoops and wails of the most faithful, the syncopated slap of the clapper against the nails that poke out of the Wheel of Fortune. I need that crazy, can-you-dig-it improvisational solo of "let it ride, daddy-o" with a clink of ice on glass for high-hat emphasis before the big bass drum roll and the enthusiastic applause from first here and later there and yes it will all be a part of the performance. It'll be audience participation taken to a new level: there will be no audience. Every cat in the house will be in the show, everybody contributing to the buzz - then to the hum - and a-one and a-two and awaaay we go, I said GO Cat, GO. Each person with his or her own tune, individual rhythms, each with his own instrument of choice and later, with little warning, it will begin: a sustained crescendo when all the improv has stopped and every sound has stepped into line and started a crazy chorus of the beatest song ever imagined.

That's what happens when our giant circuit functions as it should. There's energy flow in that hit, stay, one, zero beat because everybody is, oh yes, every single person is electrical, and you can dig this because everyone is another of those bell-ringing , whistle-blowing, straight gone, clanketty-clank machines. Everyone's in the hum because everyone makes the hum; everyone simply is the hum. Everyone's just juice and crazy current and to bump the flow there must be stimulation; hit that big bass drum behind the ribs, pick up the beat, bring the caffeine, bring the nicotine, and dig that wild tempo. Let it flow, feel the energy, feel the beat. Now be the beat, be that flow, and, yes my crazy gone electro-magic hipster: be - the - energy. But just stop being so real.

A fresh napkin, a fresh cup, another lost red chip to another forced smile. Lighting-up Saul looked passed the cigarette, beyond his hands and match and again at third base. His eyes met the pair that had already been beholding him through the sulfurous wisp of smoke that preceded his match's ignition. Through the shimmering of heated oxygen Saul fell into the vacuum of Mary's gaze and there was, within that meeting, a meaning that superseded any he had been preparing for over the last sixteen hours. Her face took on a redder hue- as if the match burning in his fingers, no - as if he himself was the sun and her skin far to fair for him; his ultraviolet emissions being propelled towards her across space and time above a vast green field. She smiled again with the same invitation as before and brushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. In that instant it happened - the power went out. Everything simply stopped. No sight, no sound. Some unseen giant had just up and pulled the plug. "Well Mister Coffee," Mary's voice floated across the table in a sexy hushed tone, "I guess now we'll just have to find something else to love."

© Matthew Blake. All Rights Reserved.

Finalist - Hum by Matthew Blake

Matthew lives in Oakland, CA and loves writing for the fact that it allows him to look productive while he's drinking coffee.

Editor's Note: "Hum" was chosen for the first round for the following reasons: The title IS the story. We fell into this wonderland of surreal imagery, energy flow, zip-zap phrasing and general great beat to the story. If the title is the story, the story is the time and the place. Great ending, excellent writing, correct punctuation, no spelling errors. Interesting twist to the theme, as well as to the everyday guy meets gal routine. "It was 'the hum,' another term of Saul's coinage, that was important to Saul and it was the goal of his meditation." That about sums it up. Maybe. Maybe not...

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