Starbanks

By E.S. Wynn
Posted Monday, December 26, 2011 at 9:18 PM

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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“I’ll take a Venti hot chocolate, raspberry scone and one of those new holiday cups,” said the man as he flirted with the beautiful girl behind the counter. The Latina barista took his money, winked and prepared his order. Meanwhile, the line was back out to the doorway, not uncommon at this time of the morning.

California coffee houses were a little different than those back east. Sure, they still have their share of serious bankers, lawyers and business professionals, but you can tell by the way they order. On Wall Street, it’s a lot of black coffee, maybe with a Danish. In D.C. it’s a croissant and latte and in Boston, it’s black tea and “that’s all thanks…I have my Dunkin Donut.”

    But the prices were still high. $3.25 for a hot drink, more if you wanted anything special. Not that any coffee shop is taking change anymore. More likely, people are scanning their debit card across a laser, totaling $11.25 or more. But it’s a new day. Coffee houses are as important as showers for the fortunate few and almost as much for the 99%. Thank goodness for debit cards.

    Fortified with coffee and a superior scone, they go off to conquer the world, knowing that the working Joe can’t compete with his home brew and store bought donut. The right breakfast separates the haves and the have-nots and creates confidence. If you’re sitting down to a $39 breakfast buffet, you’ve already impressed your potential client. He/She will go along (thanks to expense accounts), ignoring the cost, demonstrating that they are as comfortable in this venue as the mechanic getting his meal at McDonalds.

    That’s why this latest trend will catch on. It’s a natural marriage, the combination of all that is required in today’s society with the convenience of starting the day off right.

    The Latina barista took off her apron and walked over to the man she had served. “Well, it’s almost 9:00am, time I got to my day job.” She kissed her husband, coming on for the day shift at the cafe and walked across the floor to take her place behind the bulletproof glass. An older woman with a cane walked up to her, handed her a paper and smiled. “Dear, can you put this social security check in my savings account?” The Latina looked as beautiful behind the teller counter as she did at the café inside the bank. “Certainly, Mrs. Wilson. When you’re finished, you should try the Italian roast today. It’s very good.”

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Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of literary magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His first collection of twenty-six critically acclaimed stories, Cafe Stories, was released in October, 2011. It is available as a paperback on amazon.com and as an e-book on kindle.

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Coffin Stop

By E.S. Wynn
at 12:00 AM

Contributor: Samuel Cole

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Tires crush gravel beneath me until brakes squeal and a muffler vibrates wildly. Power windows buzz down, up, down, up, down; soulful whispers of acknowledgment pierce my well-polished ears and mended face, permanently smiling at a giant rose blooming before my marble-threatened eyes.

Hands clutched across my heart as if hovering for surprise, the clock inside my head ticks on and on and on. I can’t see my fingernails, but I trust they’re not painted bright red like some third rate whore, but French-tip-pink like a woman of good-standing means.

Somewhere my daughter is biting the corners of her fingernails; my cousins, damn moochers, likely licking their chops; my two sisters shaking their hands and heads complaining, oh, it’s so hot out, oh, that boring service, oh how long, how very very long; my grandson sticking his fingers between his armpits making that funny whoopee cushion noise; my granddaughter waving her hand over her nose, no doubt scowling at the farm yard smells of this eerie calm place called Reflections II. Believe it or not, even I can smell it. Reflections I, across the street, my first choice, filled up six year ago. Reflections III, beside the pond, begins construction next April, but I couldn’t wait that long.

Suddenly, my mother’s auburn-flip-style-hairdo and see-through-me-eyes find me in the dark, her pucker skin floating above me like a shadowy screen, her bile index finger pointing deep into my chest until my heart implodes. She pokes fun at my weakness, as she knows I have nowhere else to run and hide.

--Where have you been? she screams, judging me, like before, like now, like forever.

But I can’t close my eyes or dream her away.

--I have been here waiting, she screams even louder. --I have kept my word, my promise, my end of the bargain.

I hear men breathing, marching toward my cold, marble slab. The wind shifts me to the right, left, hands down, spectacles falling between my nose and upper lip. My back is breaking, but I can’t resist one final stretch.

--I’m right here. I yell. --I am lying right here. I lose a finger; two toes; the end of my tongue.

She seems pleased. Like a smile before gutting an enemy.

Oh, how her darkness admires me now, to bully, allot, damn, razor.

I am hers.

Hers.

Her.

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Samuel Cole lives in Woodbury, MN. He loves to run, STEP, photograph bowls, hang with friends, boo bad movies, and of course, write.

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