Coffee With Carl

Two roommates with years of tension. One tries to overcome his writer's block.

A blank screen. The plain white page. El Diablo Blanco, you torture me every night. Every day. Every single goddamn fruitless morning wasted at my Starbucks. I sip coffee after coffee after red eye until my hands are shaking so hard I wouldn’t even be able to type if I had anything worth saying.

I’m funny, aren’t I? People always tell me I am. Well, they did in high school and college.

If that’s the case, then why am I nearing the end of my bottle with nothing to show for it?

“Carl, why is it so fucking hard to write something funny?” I asked him.

“Well, have you tried being… uhmm… how do I put this? Funnier?” came the reply. I was none too amused.

“Oh, that’s so easy for you to say,” I snapped back. “Why don’t you try coming up with something for once?”

I had him there.

“Get off it. I’m the looks, you’re the brains. We both know that’s our dynamic”

He had me there.

For someone who claimed not to be the humorous sort, Carl always seemed to have a quick comeback. And he was right, he was the looks. My hair has been falling out for about five years now. I started to put on a little more weight than I would have ever imagined when I was in my twenties.

I’m single. I’m borderline broke. And my only friend in the world is this glassy eyed bastard with perfect hair.

“Okay, okay, how about this:” I began. “’Wow, not the best lookin’ crowd I’ve ever seen.’ Pause. ‘And ladies, don’t be offended, I’m referring to the guys too. ‘ Pause. ‘Sorry, fellas’”.

“So you’re insulting the audience right off the bat. A masterful plan” Carl replied. Didn’t take him too long to think it over much.

“Yeah, I thought we could go for something a little more raunchy this time”

“Raunchy isn’t you. It isn’t us. Keep trying”

He was right. He always seemed to be right. If there was one thing I hated most about Carl, it was the fact that he seemingly always knew the answer to everything.

“Screw it, I’m done for the night” I told him. “I’ll just polish off the bottle and we can start fresh in the morning”

“Seems to be quite the trend with you lately”

“Oh, fuck off. Get down off your high horse once in a while and do something productive”. I headed for my bedroom, clutching my fifth of vodka in one hand, and my notebook in the other. The odorless liquid sloshed inside the bottle as I made deliberate thumps with my feet to ensure Carl knew he had upset me.

“Sure, take it out on me” he remarked. “I’m just a big dummy while you’re the comedic genius. I was mistaken for crossing you”

I shut the door behind me with a little extra force for the sarcasm he had shot down the eggshell white hallway, and one of the pictures of us sitting on a corner became crooked under the force.

* * *

The next morning, everything was back to normal. I made scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, and wheat toast for myself while Carl just sat behind his cup of coffee. I turned on ESPN to passively listen to Sports Center while I ate.

“I’m sure you can get something going today,” he told me. I was less optimistic. It has been months since I’ve written anything worthy of the public’s eye. Even though my old routine can still work some magic with the occasional passerby, I can’t help but feeling that the clouds are closing in.

“Thanks” I said uninterestedly. I was paying more attention to the hair in my ketchup than the words coming from Carl. Seems to me that I’m just another day older. Another day closer to the grave.

“Cheer up, bud” Carl told me. It was like he read my sorrowful mind. I guess that happens when you live with someone for eight years. Or maybe my face had given me away. The scar on my left cheek always elongates when my face relaxes. I assume Carl sees it turn into an exclamation point.

“Maybe you ought to try that new coffee place that opened up across from your beloved Starbucks a couple months ago” he suggested.

I kept poking at my eggs as I let out a soft grunt.

“Come on” he implored, “shaking up your routine might help get you out of this funk”

The eggs needed another few pokes, so I obliged.

“Ever since that barista at Starbucks left, you’ve been off. What was her—“

“Allie”

“Right, Allie” he said. He knew her name was Allie. He was dangling the name in front of me. “That girl Allie was like your muse. You wrote all your best material when she was working, didn’t you?”

“Probably a coincidence”

“A coincidence!” he scoffed. “A coincidence is bumping into a friend at the grocery store. Being the difference between success and failure ain’t no coincidence, bud!”

It was at this that I slapped the table, spilling some of Carl’s coffee onto it. “Just let it go! There’s more to success and failure than an employee where I do some of my work”

He perked up at that. I looked across the table to see this smug look he was giving me. He hadn’t paid any mind to the spilt coffee in front of him, yet began prodding me again. “So you admit failure? Right here, right now, at this very table?” And so it started. “You’re going to take the napkin from your lap and throw in the proverbial towel? You’re just going to give up because what’s-her-face stopped smiling for tips every day?”

I wanted to scream at him to shut up, but that’s exactly what he wanted. The more he egged me on, and the more riled up he got me, the more enjoyment he seemed to get out of it. Always did have a sick sense of humor this one.

“Fine” I said.

“Excuse me, what was that?”

“I said fine. Fine. I’ll try the new café”

I regretted the words before they crossed my lips. It seemed to me that the only thing Carl enjoyed more than getting me going was being right. And he always was. The bastard.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, partner!” I directed my eyes towards my plate as he continued. “You should really shake things up today! Get a cappuccino. That’s what writers drink right? I mean real writers. Or do they drink espresso now? It’s been so long since I’ve been around a talented writer that I can barely remember!”

I was done with this breakfast. I was done with this whole exchange. It was probably the stray hair that ruined it.

* * *

I walked the four and a half blocks from my third floor apartment on Cross Street to the new café up on 8th. It only took eight minutes, but that was two minutes more than the walk to my Starbucks. I hated Carl for all hundred twenty seconds.

The building could have been anything from the outside. It had a brick face that was exactly like the architecture of the rest of the block. There was a single table with a couple unoccupied chairs, and that was the only sign that there was a coffee establishment somewhere nearby. That is, until I saw the sign marking the building on the corner as my destination.

I stepped up to the second of three steps and paused before reaching for the handle. I shut my eyes and let out a breath, as if I were ending a chapter in a riveting book and needed a moment before turning the page. But this wasn’t a riveting anything. This was coffee.

The aroma of freshly ground beans and various pastries shook me back into myself when I opened the door. A long diner-styled countertop was positioned to my right as tables were surrounded by large comfortable chairs and a few street-facing stools on another counter to my left. Next to the cash register was a glass dome filled with muffins and danishes. Behind it was a young man in a plain black shirt and short messy blonde hair. He caught my gaze from behind his large framed glasses and flashed a quick smile before returning to the customer at hand.

I saw The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Wall Street Journal and other miscellaneous reading material scattered around the counters and tables. A couple individuals had also brought their laptops and were spread out in their own space. I noticed a young girl with a tattoo running down her arm sipping out of a large green ceramic mug. The skinny-jeaned gentleman to the left—facing the street, but mainly his computer—had a tall yellow mug. The more I scanned the crowd, I realized that everybody had a different mug. There was no conformity. This could truly be a great place for creative inspiration.

“Could I get a medium coffee, black?” I asked the barista.

“No problem man” he replied jovially. “$1.99”

Now that’s a price I could get used to.

“Will that be for here or to go?”

“For here” I quickly said. And looking at the chalkboard menu splattered with pictures, I added “definitely”.

I selected a chair in the corner next to an outlet for my laptop charger. The damn thing never keeps a charge anymore, so I’m lost without it. I picked out a brown suede armchair that was positioned right in front of a short, dark blue coffee table. The table had an out-of-date Rolling Stone sitting on it, which I respectfully pushed back to lay out my computer and notebook. I sat there for a while listening to the tranquil electronic music that was filing the air amongst sounds of clinking mugs and wrappers. I am more of a jazz and classical fan when it comes to my writing, but this wasn’t half bad. I felt invigorated by more than just the coffee.

One cup became two. Two became three. And still I sat there absorbing this new scene. I watched the hip young crowd interact with their phones and their mugs and their friends. I eavesdropped on some conversations when it was opportune. I periodically looked out the window and watched an ongoing children’s’ soccer match.

Nothing hit me. Nothing stuck. But I could feel something building. I knew I would be back tomorrow.

* * *

“Well, was I right or what?” he purred as I opened the door. “How much did you get done?”

“I didn’t get anything done, Carl”

“What?! I was sure that you would be coming back with something for us today”

“Not today” I said as I put down my paper bag on the counter.

“Well how was it at least?” he continued as I turned my back to him in search of a glass for my first drink of the day.

“It was…” I started. I didn’t want to be too open about how much I like it, lest he hold it over me. I couldn’t be too dismissive because I had to go back. God forbid I tell him I hated it and he caught me going there. I’d never live it down. “…Nice”

“Ah-ha! I knew it” he gloated, as I turned the bottle nearly horizontally. “Thanks to me, you have a new office. What do you have to say to your best friend Carl?”

“Thanks” I muttered. It was barely under my breath, but that didn’t matter.

“’Thanks’ is right! Things are going to be looking up for us, buddy. And it’s all thanks to me!” This is his favorite part. “Forget Starbucks, we’re moving up in the world!”

I took a long sip before turning to face him. His glossy eyes just kind of stared past me, as if they were lost in his own thoughts of superiority and prosperity. I turned my attention back to my glass as I joined him on the couch and gave my scalp a little scratch. When I sat down next to him, I noticed two strands of hair had collected on my shirt. After looking from my imminent future to the television screen, I saw ESPN was on again. Between highlights of the MLB postseason, I snuck a glance at Carl’s impeccable hairline.

I skipped dinner. I opted for a second and third glass to satisfy myself, and then broke out my notebook. I had made some casual observations of the younger crowd and their habits, but nothing really seemed funny. I could barely tell if they would think anything was funny. My puns have been used, my observations seem like a Seinfeld rip-off, and—as Carl pointed out to me last night—I’m not raunchy.

What am I? The question lingered from the café to staring blankly at my useless notes to my pillow at around 2:30AM. My hope was similar to what it is most nights: that something good will happen tomorrow.

* * *

The next morning, I decided to bring Carl with me to the coffee place. He ought to see it first hand after pushing me to check it out. But today, Carl was in rare form.

Before we even walked into the door, he was complaining about how the whole neighborhood smelled like hipsters. I told him to pipe down and be respectful, to which he agreed. It didn’t last long. We opened the door, and I was hit with the same sense of vitality that had struck me the day before. I saw that the chair I had occupied yesterday was open again. Carl saw that there was a guy with an old film camera dressed in tight black clothes and had Ray Ban prescription glasses on.

I went up to the barista—the same guy as the day prior—and ordered two medium coffees. That’s when I heard it.

“Hey chief! Are those even prescription?”

Ohh God, Carl. Not now. I thought.

“Excuse me?” the unassuming guy replied.

“You heard me. I bet those glasses aren’t even real! You’re just trying to look all sophisticated and edgy”

“Carl!” I snapped.

“What? I’m just messing with him”

“Here’s your coffees” the barista said. He had a tone of either confusion or standoffishness. It was hard to tell which. Either way, he was eyeing up Carl and me pretty intently. So was Carl’s victim. So was everyone in the café.

“Ohh, what are you looking at? Hop on your ‘fixie’ bikes and go drink some PBR’s if you got a problem!”

“Hey man, relax” the barista said, trying to intervene.

“I won’t relax, man,” Carl said, tilting his head and leaning forward he said ‘man’. “I’m just here trying to enjoy the goddamned weekend, and these trendy assholes are sucking all of the originality out of here!”

Carl just verbally attacked the main demographic of the café. At least two thirds of which I wouldn’t necessarily classify as hipsters. It was time to get him out of there, so I left a $5 tip on the $4 bill (which we didn’t even get to enjoy since I ordered them to be drank there) and pulled him out with me.

* * *

I didn’t talk to him for the rest of the day. He seemed proud enough at sabotaging my attempts to write us something good for the upcoming week. I once again reached for the bottle of vodka, but brought it into my room this time. I told him I didn’t want to be disturbed because I wanted to do some work.

“Well you probably wouldn’t have been able to do much there anyways” he superficially consoled. “Too many wannabe writers in there as is”

I rolled my eyes as I kept trudging down the hallway. I passed the picture of us and left it crooked. I finished the bottle without touching a single one of my notes. The laptop remained in my leather bag, but was probably dead by now. I drank myself into slumber yet again.

* * *

When the sun came up, I went through the motions. I showered, dressed, made breakfast and coffee. Made sure Carl was ready to go to work, then we headed out.

I sat down on our usual corner—right between a strip of upscale shopping and a university—on my working stool. I fixed my tie, then Carl’s. When we looked proper, I propped him onto my knee and slid my hand into his backside. I laid out his box on the sidewalk in front of us and began.

“Good morning, Carl”

“Ehh, I wouldn’t say that”

“What’s wrong buddy? Did you sleep okay?”

“No, I slept terribly. I had a pipe dream”

“Uhm, a pipe dream?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said”

“Carl, that’s an idiom…”

“You’re an idiom”

“No Carl, an idiom is something with a figurative meaning,” I explained. “Like when someone is ‘on the rebound’”

“What do you mean?”

“Well Carl, they’re getting out of a relationship. They’re not literally bouncing off anything”

“Ohh, I don’t know about that,” came the response as his hand slid up and down his thigh.

An old man dressed in plaid stopped for about four minutes before dropping a few pennies and nickels into Carl’s case. A couple students from the university watched a few of our jokes and took some pictures of us, but kept walking. We sat in front of the brick-faced building and went through our whole routine. On the walk home, I stopped into the liquor store. I took our limited earnings and bought a bottle with quarters and crumpled bills. Carl said nothing.