Freshly Roasted by Luke Humphries

Life seems to move way too fast in here. I’m in that still drunk heading to hung-over state and I just need a coffee to try and dull the taste of ashtray in my mouth. It’s already too loud. I slowly make my way up to the counter, the speeding, blurred out fuzzy-faced people I see pass me are all flustered and somewhat in an oddly passionate state for a job they shouldn’t give a fuck about unless they own the joint. I’ve never seemed to be able to wrap my head around fake passion, I just don’t get it. Who can muster up enough energy day after day to work in a field that isn’t going to help you achieve anything? Call me a loony but I can’t see how this makes you a better person, give me a Centrelink bludger with a dream any day over someone whose dreams are slowly being crushed by society.

Due to the small dimensions of the cafe and the vast amount of people in it, I actually feel panic when I have to order my latte and acknowledge the lumbering tall blonde with what seems to be a mild form of fucked up neck syndrome, always looking around for something else to be doing because apparently looking someone in the eyes as I pay $4.50 for a coffee is just too hard. Everyone’s fidgety behind me, I can feel them breathing on me as I move at an actual reasonable pace for this time in the morning. Tt seems like everyone has somewhere to be or something to do. Then there’s me standing at the counter in silence waiting to be looked at.

‘Hi, what would you like?’
Cloud Head finally asks me but not in a normal way, in a rushed, all words joined together way. If the definition of annoying had a sound it would be this lurch-looking beast’s voice.
‘Latte no sugar, thanks’ I reply.
‘Okay, won’t be long just wait over there’.
Being told where to stand as an adult has never sat well with me, it just seems unnecessary. I can see where people are gathered like pigs in a pen and I will make my own decision if I want to join the sounder of swine or not.

I’m waiting for my latte cramped in the pen next to some guy who stinks like a cheap deodorant. I have my headphones in but with nothing playing so I can hear the people’s mindless conversations and try to humour myself with their boring lives, then suddenly guess who attempts to converse with me, good old Cheap Deodorant. Look, catch me at around 3 o’clock in the afternoon and I’ll be happy to converse with you but who the fuck talks to random people at 8am. I just try to speak as little as possible and nod to whatever he’s saying, I’m constantly having two conversations while people try to chat with me, there’s one with the other individual and the one inside my head. The one I’m having with Cheap Deodorant isn’t given any attention what so ever, it seems like my words fall out of my mouth without any actual thought, my brain goes into auto pilot and just says what the other person wants to hear so I can end this conversation as quickly as possible, I don’t care what you have to say and why should I? I only take in information that is weirdly painful to someone. The other stuff is just boring, nothing worse then a nothing to say happy person. Then there’s the winner of the two, my own thoughts, which at this time was more focused on the fact that there’s about five watering cans on the shelves in an attempt to give the decor a somewhat barn-like feel. Watering cans have their purpose, leave it alone. Do we have to attempt to make everything some kind of visual piece to admire? No, no we do not.

Finally my name is called, I reach out to the complete cliché Melbourne ‘barista’, you know the one, shirt up to the neck with an odd arrogance being projected by his voice. The dirty beard and badly designed tattoos that scream, ‘please let me fit into the image society has deemed as “cool” for this year!’ You can easily imagine having a conversation with him, every chance he had he’d throw in some useless fact about how the coffee beans he’s working with at the moment are made, and how you have to go see some local band that nobody knows or cares about but he shares a house with the drummer and they talk to him, so he feels somewhat loved in an otherwise depressing uninspired environment that he calls his life. I grab my coffee and he holds onto the cup for about two seconds too long, two seconds is a long time when you’re holding a little paper cup with another man. Congratulations sir, you made the last moments of this horrid experience even more uncomfortable.

If you want more of Luke Humphries, you can visit his website, Facebook or Twitter page.