Bloody Tea Leaves and Fuckin Coffee Beans

1.

They banned folks from toting teapots and kettles.

Classifying them as weapons of war.

Frank remembers clearly that day, the day dictator-in-chief declared a state of emergency. Remembers all the stooges and quislings who clapped. Remembers the collective liberal orgasm. And how the elites, academics and cultural icons collectively smirked.

Then came the run-of-the-mill anecdotes.

Soldiers whose scalded limbs had been or had to be amputated. Women whose lives had been altered because the long arm of the law couldn't prevent their partners from keeping tea leaves and coffee beans on their shelves, under pillows and in their pockets everywhere they went. Even children were paraded about, exploited as a major reason tea and coffee had to be abolished from both street corner and corner café.

Of course Starbox and Duncan’s went into a frenzy!

Their lobbyists and plants-in-pressrooms went to town. They were neither alone nor wrong.

Frank and other tea addicts and coffee fiends went into overdrive too.

Government officials armed to the teeth retaliated. Confiscating cups, teapots and everything construed as having the potential for making tea.

Even bloody spoons.

He fought back when they kicked his front door in.

He was made a prisoner under the law, but worse, under a presumptuous therapist.

2.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you? You think I'm all bonkers?"

“What makes you think I think that, Frank?”

“That. You just did it.”

“What did I do?”

“Tried to be clever. People like you —.”

“People like me?”

Yes, like you. Yes, like my wife. Educated. Yet GODLESS. People like me loathe people like you as much as you hate us.

She asked incessantly and prodded deeper; he eventually talked about war. About his role in the last one. And about man in general, and the eternal romance between him and war.

He licked his lips and rubbed his hands together as he spoke. “You wanna know why man keeps to war Miss Hatinna?”

She nodded.

“War don’t file for divorce.”

She choked on her own saliva. “We’ll come to your ex-wife later, let’s stick to the war for now.”

They talked about it briefly. A lukewarm room becoming . . . warmer.

“If you’ve never watched a friend’s head split in half you’ve no reason to sit there and tell me about this BPST nonsense. All this —.”

“PTSD.”

“Whatever the creature’s name is called. I saw real creatures. Fought real dragons. Death was both my enemy and soulmate.”

She sat there, and listened. And listened.

And listened!

With seven minutes on the clock remaining she finally cleared her throat.

“I don’t understand everything you went through Frank and I’ll never pretend to. My job is only to help.”

He nodded. She continued. “Because there’s some good place in your soul, Frank. I want you to lead me there; meanwhile, I’ll be interpreting the road signs as we encounter them, for you. Do you want me to come along?”

He smiled. The soldiers guarding his fort chose to lower both sword and spear. "I guess you the six-foot-something battle hardened soldier in the arena of the mind Miss Hatinna.”

“You're correct. But since we’ll be walking to a faraway place together I guess you can call me Rose.”

“Rumor had it I’d be talking to a Mrs. Something.”

She showed him the finger where a ring used to be.

And Frank . . . well . . . beamed.

3.

They banned them from toting teacups, spoons, sugar basins and so forth.

That’s why you won’t find them on Main Street anymore. Starbox was shut down, Duncan’s will follow soon. Unless they agree to sell frappes and ice-cream exclusively, beverages that don’t burn women and children.

Frank finds himself in a maze, zigzagging his way in the slippery alleyways of downtown KiwaGomma. To quench his craving for the hot stuff, a thirst he contracted on the frontlines. Dilapidated buildings cry through rusty gutters. Neon lights stutter like a car with insufficient dinosaur juice. A black cat meows and crosses in front of him, a dog howls at the thinnest slice of moon cosmically possible. A drunk slips, his bottle turns to powder in a muddy puddle.

Steam rises from a manhole . . . Dear steam. A whiff of it dances towards the moon like an apparition.

A shadow appears from around the corner and whistles at Frank.

He follows. Not long after, an iron door gaps its jaws open and swallows Frank and his guide. Men with steaming teapots and kettles on the verge of hissing surround him. The spouts are longer than Pinocchio’s nose after his girlfriend asks how she looks in some silly Halloween costume. Salt water germinates from his every pore and his bladder tightens as they frisk him.

Satisfied, they conceal their beverage brewers in their roomy jackets.

He's led up a staircase whose stairwells are carpeted by needles, broken bottles and used condoms. The air is damp and putrid.

Steam . . . rises.

Steam, steam, steam. He shivers from steam that refuses to be blown off. Steam that, left unchecked, will one day be sufficient to power a dystopian locomotive.

A CCTV camera buzzes. Feet are dragged towards the door. Crimson light radiates from a peephole before the deadbolt clinks.

“Come in,” says a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with a huge scar waiting to spring from under his long beard and show its fangs.

4.

In every session thereafter she helped him paint a picture.

He talked about war. Asked about university. She painted the experience in mostly positive terms.

“Loads of hookups?” he said. They were getting too cozy.

“Not enough,” she answered with pouted lips.

“I noticed a hickey on your neck the other day. Coupled with what you just told me, is that why you broke up? Cold intimacy? The lack thereof?”

“Frank, this is all I’m going to say about this: I was once upon a time a happily married woman, until I wasn’t.”

“Well, that makes two of us if it makes you feel better.”

“You see, I might not have fought a war but we’ve so much in common than you think.”

He beamed. “Do we now?”

“I believe all humans have.”

“What really happened Rose? I understand the power dynamic here. But even Mussolini dangled carrots.”

She laughed. “Okay then. We got lazy, grew tired and drifted apart. He blames me, and I blame him.”

“You’ve kids?”

“No, Frank, we don’t.”

“Do you date?”

She froze. And cursed herself for being sidetracked so easily. “Tell me about your upbringing, Frank.”

He talked about his childhood stammer. About his first crush. Then opened up about his father. “All my friends had their dads present growing up. They went fishing. Threw ball. Showed up at games. What did I have? An absent dad and absentminded mother whose descriptions of my pops when we had conversations about him were pretty ugly. Basically called him a brute. After which she’d tell me I was my father’s child whenever I did something.”

“Like what?”

“Hit someone in the head with a bat.”

She jotted something in her notebook. He started to realize on his own how the heat of life and circumstance has been bringing him to a boil ever since childhood.

No wonder he felt like exploding.

And powering steam engines while at it.

He talked about how he found himself in a vortex of alcohol, syringes and women with brown teeth and skimpy clothes as soon as he hit puberty.

“Why do you think you went there?” she said, sipping hot beverage he said he’d never been a fan of—truthfully.

“Bigger boys convinced us smaller ones that was what being a man was all about.”

“But you didn’t like it?”

“Well-you know-even hell has it’s moments I’d wager.”

She chuckled. “What changed?”

“An STI.”

She giggled some. He saw it. And chuckled wryly.

“I realized being a man doesn’t always mean you should die early. Or pointlessly. Like, if you gonna die early anyway, like I always felt I would, why not spend your short life in the defense of others?”

“You became a man!”

“Definitely. Served my country. Came back. Got married. Had a kid. Then she left with another man.”

A long pause in which all the sound heard was sipping and stirring of tea. But ironically the steam which rose to the ceiling and covered the room in a fog wasn’t from the beverage; it was from the purple reservoir of his emotions.

She'd to turn the air-conditioner on.

After his kettle stopped whistling she ventured. “How did that make you feel?”

“That I should’ve died in the war.”

“What about now?”

Sweaty. Hot. Fuming. Jealous. “I don’t know.”

“You’re lying to me Frank.”

Redness reappeared on Frank's face. “I feel like shit if you really want to know.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I’m here to understand, ain’t it?”

“I’m here to help—just.”

“It alternates between I screwed up, my wife screwed me over by screwing some screw-up or the screw-up who screwed my wife screwed me over. My mind ain’t sure what to hold on to.”

“Ex-wife now Frank. Remember, she’s water under the bridge now.”

A thick vein popped on the man’s forehead. “She was stolen from me.”

“She made a choice Frank.”

His voice brewed a purple storm. “They took the house. My fucking house.”

“By law Frank.”

Frank threw the notebook on his lap at the window. It sublimated into shards. He pushed the couch back violently. And wagged his fist at thin air. “They took my daughter from me. Is that the law too? No? Yes? Well, I’ll tell you what, the law is wrong for taking my daughter away from me. The law is bloody wrong.”

5.

The Dealer finishes a call before his attention turns to Frank.

Two ladies flank him on either side, gyrating slightly to the thumping of 808s coming from an adjoining room. There’s a bouncer on each of the four corners of the makeshift office space.

“My boy Frankie, when my boys told me ‘bout you, ain’t believed shit they said. Said you was a big man now. Told them every big man’s working for me since the ban.” He laughs. “But here you are. You done become bigger than a hippo. In good ways of course."

"Thanks Bobo."

"What if I make you offer? Huh? For old time's sake."

Frank fidgets excessively. "What offer?"

"Come work for me. There’s good money here. Big fat money to be made.”

An older lady brings whiskey in two glasses.

“With all due respect Bobo,” says Frank soon after the lady leaves, “ain’t looking for no job.”

The room goes taut. “So why’s you here Frankie?”

They take turns to sip the old man’s health.

Frank’s gaze darts about. “For . . . you know . . . the Thing?"

“Arrgh, Frankie. Don’t try to be clever with me. I know you here for the hot stuff, but why is what I ask you?”

“Because, Bobo, only you knows how to get things like that.”

Bobo smiles proudly. “What you want the hottie-hottie for?”

“Self-defense.”

“There’s an entire ministry of —.”

“I trust my own fingers than the entire ministry.”

Bobo laughs and claps his hands. “Perfect. Had to test you to see whether you bulk under pressure or not. I only deal with solid folk."

He regards Frank for a bit. The latter breathes heavily. Steam blows out of his ears and nose. Like a malfunctioning toy dragon. But he keeps still.

“I ain’t one to judge, but anger breeds nothing Frankie. Nothing. Forget that woman. You come work with me, there’s plenty of women to pass around here. See all this? Plenty.”

“Does the package you suggesting include my daughter?”

Bobo gestures for something to be brought into the room. He does the sign of the cross. “Anger burns you Frankie boy. You, not nobody else. God won’t say I didn’t warn y’alls.”

They bring the man his order. A collector’s wet dream, like one of those brewing pots grandpa used to keep and grandma used to pester him about.

“Why you don’t keep it as far away from reach as possible? You want your grandkids to be caught up in that life too?”

Grandpa had a well-known addiction for the stimulant. He’d a lot of scars to show for the burns he’d endured over the years. “Because any time’s tea time; that’s why.”

“Looks good alrighty Frankie?”

Frank nods. “Good. But where’s the coffee beans?”

“Where’s the what?”

“The . . . I’m sorry, I’m used to calling —.”

“Aha! Coffee beans. I think I know what coffee beans is. Gary, you get it too?" One of the bodyguards nods when The Dealer looks at him. He turns back to Frank. "You a clever bugger Frankie. Pity you don’t want work. We could use some creativity here. Martin, you brought this man a pot of steaming nothing, you see? Bring the man his bloody tea leaves and fuckin coffee beans.”

Money exchanges hands. So does a brown paper bag in the opposite direction. Frank starts to leave.

“Remember, don’t spill the beans ‘bout me Frankie. Or my men will spill something hot on your baby girl, and unlike you, I’m a very literal man.”

6.

They texted and laughed and looked each other in the eye.

When they looked each other in the eye long enough, the hands of her eyes pulled his face closer. Space between them crumbled. Their faces rammed into each other’s. Sparks flew. Passions exploded into groaning, screaming and orgasms. They met at the office to talk about demons, online to flirt and at her place to talk about the future.

She showed him a diary she kept when she was six. He noticed a particular motif. On every other page was a rough sketch of a girl carrying things like knives, razors, guns and catapults.

“You wanted to hurt someone?” Frank said after kissing her bare chest.

“Kill someone.”

“Well, did you succeed?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Who are all these people?”

“Everyone, I hated everyone. My sis was too pretty. My cousin was too liked. Hannah Montana was too popular.”

“She’s in here?”

“Flip a page.—Again.—There she is.”

“God, you were so twisted. What changed?”

She sighed. “A ballpoint pen and a teapot.”

“What?”

“We’d a bully at school. A boy who got away with everything. One time I snapped and sunk my Bic in his face.”

“God.”

“Yah. It was atrocious. Got me expelled. Mom thought I’d learnt my lesson. Grandma thought not. She boiled water in a kettle and called me over. Made me stretch my hands towards the pot.”

“Don’t tell me she poured hot water on your hands."

"Fingers."

"Yah, that's a lot better."

"She’s like, ‘Every time you let your anger boil over and think about hurting someone, think about this kettle. Today I’m the one pouring hot water on you, but one day it will be the world.’”

“I’m trying to understand her philosophy but what does that even mean?”

“Our anger hurts us as much as, or more than, it hurts the people we lash out at. When I’m angry I think about how much hot water I’m pouring on myself.”

“And it works?”

“All the time. Flip a page.—Again.—Again.—There you go.”

“That’s you, in a kitchen?”

“That’s me carrying the proverbial teapot. I substituted it for my weapons. Sketched it over a knife or a razor. You can do it too."

“I’m an army man, they recently banned my kind of weapon.”

"Well, I know you know where to get one if you really wanted it. Please think about my grandma's metaphor—and me—when you think about hurting anyone ever again. You will?"

"I will."

They kissed. His hand rested on a breast.

Someone opened the door, saw them digging gems out of each other and dropped the flower bouquet he carried. She leapt from Frank’s lap and rushed after him.

7.

Above all else, Frank hates liars.

The only person he hates more than he who generally lies is he who lies specifically to him.

And everyone seems to take advantage of his willingness to give the benefit of doubt.

Politicians lied about the war. About it's purpose. Now they're lying about the purpose of some laws. But politicians are known to lie. Who believes politicians anyway, in this day and age?

His father said he was going around the block, he never returned. Mother lied about why he chose to do that. To save face.

His wife . . . don't people take Till Death Do Us Part literally anymore?

Then there's Rose . . .

. . . no, she's The Therapist now.

She was cheating on her husband, with him no less. Making him no better than his wife's—"she's your ex-wife now"—lover.

YOU DON'T DO THAT.

And now she's trying to call, he's not picking that. What for? More bullshit?

He languishes in his car, busy brewing. Six teabags in a kettle, six coffee beans in a coffee machine. He turns the knobs to BOIL. Until the lid starts dancing and the spout sputtering.

A police sirene wails, the cabin turns icy; they pass, steam resumes.

He cocks them both . . . Oops, better stay with grandma's metaphor. But it's slipping. They banned these from ever finding their way into hands like his. Because of this.

He sees them. He sees her.

A hot spring blasts the crown of his head.

He's out. He's striding. They see him. Too late.

Kettle hisses, then regurgitates.

It starts raining on him too, torrential rainfall at two hundred and twelve degrees Fahrenheit.