Broken
You approach an old brownish red brick tenement and turn to a shady back alley between it and another similar building. Against a wall there is an old man with a large, grey beard wearing a beanie lying on his side. He's gathered some cardboard and newspapers, apparently to cover himself. His eyes are open, but he isn't looking at anything. He's just lying there, dirty, colourless hands under his head, staring at the wall opposite to him. You can smell a strong, unwashed odour. He's so quiet, you wonder if he's alive at all. Even if he was, you doubt his mind would be. At the end of the alley there is an iron sign with a coffee cup and "Cafe Beauburg" in curvy letters. Under it, some stairs leading down to a basement. You set the safety off your colt and descend the steps.
At the bottom there is a dark, wooden door with a large, colourful glass in it. The smell of cigarettes and the sound of a slow blues song invade your senses as you open the door and go trough. Not many people inside. No surprise, there hardly ever is at the Beauburg. A few old fellas sipping on their coffee mugs or wine glasses while lazily browsing trough their newspapers. A clock hanging on a wall says it's five thirty. Half-an-hour till Don gets here. You go and sit down on a small, round corner table and order a coffee. No milk, no cream, no sugar, please.
You like this place. It's an underground cafeteria in its most fulfilling meaning. White and red checkerboard floor, a bit like the one in your apartment building. Old, worn out furniture. Old, worn out jukebox playing old, old music. Lowell Fulson picking on his guitar. Walls stained by smoke, beer, coffee, age. You get the New York Times and start reading it, but keeping an eye on the door at the same time. After a while a bald, thick man wearing an apron brings you your coffee. You nod to him in a thanking gesture. The first sip tastes bad.
At one minute to six 'o clock Don enters the place and hangs his long leather jacket on a coat stand by the door. He notices you, walks to your table and sits down. You suck on your cigarette and watch his sleek frame as he comes. Don has small, brown eyes and dark, straight hair, which is without exception always styled as carefully as he can. He's vain as hell. His clothes always perfectly pressed. The hair oil, The cologne. It's horrible. You don't know if it's just his meticulous looks, but his appearance and behaviour has always irritated you.
"What's up, Don?" you say, and blow some smoke from a cigarette you lighted a while ago.
"Dammit, Mikey. Don't call me like that. I've told you. And put that disgusting shit away. I can't stand it"
At the bottom there is a dark, wooden door with a large, colourful glass in it. The smell of cigarettes and the sound of a slow blues song invade your senses as you open the door and go trough. Not many people inside. No surprise, there hardly ever is at the Beauburg. A few old fellas sipping on their coffee mugs or wine glasses while lazily browsing trough their newspapers. A clock hanging on a wall says it's five thirty. Half-an-hour till Don gets here. You go and sit down on a small, round corner table and order a coffee. No milk, no cream, no sugar, please.
You like this place. It's an underground cafeteria in its most fulfilling meaning. White and red checkerboard floor, a bit like the one in your apartment building. Old, worn out furniture. Old, worn out jukebox playing old, old music. Lowell Fulson picking on his guitar. Walls stained by smoke, beer, coffee, age. You get the New York Times and start reading it, but keeping an eye on the door at the same time. After a while a bald, thick man wearing an apron brings you your coffee. You nod to him in a thanking gesture. The first sip tastes bad.
At one minute to six 'o clock Don enters the place and hangs his long leather jacket on a coat stand by the door. He notices you, walks to your table and sits down. You suck on your cigarette and watch his sleek frame as he comes. Don has small, brown eyes and dark, straight hair, which is without exception always styled as carefully as he can. He's vain as hell. His clothes always perfectly pressed. The hair oil, The cologne. It's horrible. You don't know if it's just his meticulous looks, but his appearance and behaviour has always irritated you.
"What's up, Don?" you say, and blow some smoke from a cigarette you lighted a while ago.
"Dammit, Mikey. Don't call me like that. I've told you. And put that disgusting shit away. I can't stand it"