by Charles Holdefer.
It should have been easy to leave the coffee shop. Sylvia finished her cup and headed to the cash register with its golden-lit display case of muffins as big as calf hearts. She looked around. Wasn’t this the way she’d come in?
She tried going the other way, passing patrons who chatted over flat whites or fingered their phones. She discovered a small elevated stage and a pierced young man with a stand-up bass. He tested a string. Plonk. He smiled at her and shimmied his shoulders. Plonk! Plonk! Sylvia moved on.
Next to a potted ficus, a young mother tried to calm a fussy toddler who quivered in his stroller as if he was on fire. Sylvia stepped around them and came to an area where the lighting was lower and group of young men with shaved heads and nail-studded bracelets shook sugar packets and debated about the best software for writing screenplays. Slowly, she backed away.
A woman in a green sweater stood up from her table, slung her purse over her shoulder and strode away purposefully. Sylvia decided to follow her. But the woman covered only a short distance before she entered a restroom.
Sylvia realized that she needed to go to the toilet, too, in no small part because of an encroaching anxiousness. She pressed into the restroom in time to see the door of the last stall closing. Sylvia chose the nearest stall and quickly sat down, telling herself: This is silly. As she peed, she gazed at the graffiti, a cartoon of stick people contorting in air, falling. Like a cave painting by a Cro-Magnon with a Sharpie. She didn’t dawdle and after leaving the stall, she washed her hands and watched in the mirror. The last stall opened, the woman in green emerged. Sylvia lowered her eyes as she reached for a paper towel. She stole another glance: the woman was staring at her, her mouth slightly open as if out of breath.
“Excuse me,” the woman said. “May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
The woman busied herself at the tap. “It’s frustrating,” she continued, “but I came here this morning and, well, hard to explain, but maybe you can help me? I’ve been here a while and I need to leave. But somehow—” she shook her hands over the sink—“I can’t seem to find the exit.”
Sylvia laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, without mirth.
“I’m having the same problem.”
“Oh.” The woman gave a little sniff, reaching for a towel. “Well, this can’t be all there is. Right? Maybe we can look together. I’m Angela.”
Sylvia introduced herself and they left the restroom, passing a free-standing Art Deco lamp and an overstuffed chair where a white-haired man with half-moon reading glasses slowly turned the page of a newspaper, chuckling. Nearby, a couple bent over their cups and stuck their tongues into each other’s mouth.
“What about that way?” Angela said.
Beyond the lovers, they came upon a group of middle-aged women in pastel gym suits and bright leggings who consumed large lattes and cranberry scones while conversing about Pilates and dog obedience and carbs.
“Maybe over there?”
Sylvia pointed to a gap between piles of burlap bags of coffee beans. They slipped through and Angela remarked, “This looks familiar.”
Sylvia observed the brick walls and also had the impression that she’d been here before. She became aware of a deep vibration, touching the base of her spine. It happened again, followed by a higher, plaintive note, a choked human voice.
“All those English schoolchildren
eating porridge out of skulls
believed that history was
THEIRS, pink on the map,
whole!”
They came around a corner and Sylvia recognized the raised stage, the young man with the stand-up bass. He bobbed his head and grasped at strings while a young woman in a black jumpsuit performed poetry.
“Today
a baby bursts!”
Sylvia grabbed Angela’s arm and pulled her away, weaving between tables. Plonk! Plonk! They accelerated and dodged to the left, and then diagonally to the right, until they came to a carpeted space and Angela halted. “Wait—over there.”
On the wall, next to a framed Amish quilt, Sylvia saw a blue door. It wasn’t marked as a restroom or fire exit. She went straight to it and tested the knob.
“It’s not locked.”
The door opened onto a narrow staircase, leading down.
“Come on!”
A thumping descent down wooden steps. At the bottom they found another door of gray metal with a large, horn-like handle. It wasn’t locked, either, but it was heavy. Together they pushed and the door swung inward.
A scorching wave of air belched over them and they beheld a massive roaster that shivered and gleamed while a circle of sweating laborers shovelled beans into a slowly turning pan, the orbs of their caffeinated eyes bulging out of their streaked faces. In the distance, a mighty grinder roared. The atmosphere was dense with torrefaction, the air itself felt molten, viscous. Along the walls, an outer circle of workers frantically slathered pesto onto whole-grain bread.
Sylvia and Angela seized the handle and pulled the door closed. They ran back upstairs, a heavy aroma still clinging to their clothes.
“This way!”
“No, this way!”
They surged through an alcove and for a moment Sylvia’s hopes soared, then she stopped short. It was the serving counter and cash register. The display case of muffins, bathed in golden light. A kid in an apron stood behind the register.
“Can I help you?” he asked. “Today, order one extra shot, get the second one free!”
“I don’t want anything,” Sylvia said. “Where’s the exit, please?”
“Oh, that’s not here. Would you like to place an order?”
Angela knelt in front of the display case. “I can see light on the other side.” She tapped on the glass and tested the corners with her fingernails.
“Please,” said the kid. “Don’t serve yourself. We can help you.”
“Will you answer my question?” Sylvia asked.
The glass slid to the floor with a crash.
“Dammit!” said Angela. “Sorry.”
The kid was aghast. “I’m gonna call the manager.”
Angela threw down her purse and started to climb into the case of muffins. A flush rose up Sylvia’s neck, a spontaneous discomfort at an unimagined possibility. “Hey!” She knelt and reached after Angela. “Don’t do that.”
Angela rolled away and began kicking at the other side. There was another crash. “Yes!” she cried. “Yes! Come on.”
A gust of cool air licked at Sylvia’s face. She was aware of shouts behind her as she leaned forward to see. There wasn’t really time to think when Angela grabbed her wrist and pulled.
“Just roll!” Angela shouted. “Roll!”
Moments later, she was falling.
She landed on a patch of dirt. She hit hard, though broken muffins helped to cushion her fall.
“You OK?” said Angela.
Sylvia nodded and tried to get up. Clay stuck to her knees, weeds poked at her hands. Angela steadied her till she found her feet.
The air was briny and chill. A grey sky hinted at rain. There was a sound of a siren, coming closer.
Without a word they moved on, hurrying on a dirt path littered with broken shells. They passed a circle of children who kicked at a smudged ball, or maybe it was a stunned furry animal. A child paused for a moment to watch them, his mouth crooked, then he looked down and resumed his play.
They came to a field of cabbages, increasing their speed among the round, silent heads, and Sylvia wiped her hand across her chin and laughed, loving her deliverance but wondering how long it would last.
(Excerpted from
Agitprop for Bedtime
Polemic, Story Problems, Kulturporn and Humdingers)