A series of exuberant greetings followed by bursts of cheerful laughter became increasingly audible as he wound through the cafe. Lindy was that barista who never seemed to have an off day.

“Good morning,” she said again and again without losing any warmth. “What would you like today?”

He turned the volume up. Shuffling forward, he watched the feet in front of him. Just two more now: a placid couple with matching hipster glasses. They took their time studying the menu and when they finally ordered they gave Lindy a clandestine nod as they handed her a small notecard containing dense but inscrutable details. She read the card with a smile but her cheeks flushed red. She hurried away to collect ingredients from the back.

“Good morning,” Lindy said once more, sliding back in front of the register. “What would you—“

“Just a small black coffee.” He removed one of his earbuds without looking up.

Lindy punched the register keys with her two pointer fingers. Sweat was starting to bead along her hairline. The hipsters had put her to work.

He waited with his credit card in hand while she rang him up.

“We’ll have it right out.” She smiled. “Good to see you again.”

But both earbuds were already back in. He shuffled along to the far end of the bar. A scalding beverage appeared moments later, plopped in front of him by a second barista.

Steaming coffee in tow, he retreated to the countertop along the front window overlooking Main. The only available seat had him sandwiched between strangers, but he didn’t mind. He liked the anonymity of a bustling cafe almost as much as the busy city streets outside.

He sipped his coffee and stared at his phone. What began as mindlessly flicking through photos of friends abruptly ended when he froze wide-eyed on an image of two boys, shoulder to shoulder, with the mountains behind them and their whole lives in front. He slammed his phone facedown.

By the time he slipped back onto the sidewalk the cafe line was spilling out the door. Bells without ceasing.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

“Not like that, man,” the old bartender said. “Like this.” He dug his toweled thumb into the glass with extra force on the last word.

Nodding, the trainee took the pint glass and vigorously wiped it with a bar towel. Visible smudges lingered.

“Good enough. Now trash. I got the bar covered.”

The trainee snapped on a pair of blue medical gloves. He proceeded to empty the smaller bins hidden behind the bar as the old bartender mixed and poured a line of brightly colored shots for the brightly colored bachelorettes filing in. The loud, sugary women were met with alternately annoyed and lascivious looks from the pod of regulars on the far side of the bar.

“Shots, shots, shots,” they chanted, jumping in place.

The trainee stumbled down the hallway to the back of the house, half dragging, half carrying the overloaded trash bin holding all the smaller bags he’d collected. The sounds of scraping ice and singing bachelorettes faded, only to be replaced by the violent noise of dinner-rush dishwashing.

The alley behind the bar smelled like the beer-soaked trash bags that lined it. He grabbed a cigarette with his lips and got it lit without letting it touch his gloves, a skill anyone who smoked while running trash had to learn. For a moment all he could smell was the tobacco swirling in his mouth.

He smiled at the scrawny waitress who crashed through the door of the bar next to his. She tossed a bag of trash onto a nearby pile with a cry of exasperation.

“Assholes,” she muttered, wiping the sweat from her forehead. Her hair was tied loosely, but every muscle in her face was tight.

“You good?” He studied her face with amusement.

“What?” The waitress noticed him for the first time.

“¿Todo bien?”

“This is Viña, dude. You can speak English.”

He took a drag and looked down, shifting uncomfortably. The undulating bass from the DJ inside blended with the roar of the revelers as more and more poured out of the bar patios onto the streets and into the plazas.

“It’s crazy tonight.”

She scoffed and narrowed her eyes. “Now I know you’re new. When you start?”

“Couple weeks ago. What gave me away?”

“You think this a crazy night.” She watched him turn red again. “Got one to spare?”

He shook the open pack until a couple looseys peeked out.

“Muchas gracias . . . señor.”

She gave a mock curtsy, cigarette clenched between her lips. He relaxed and started to laugh. He flicked his lighter with a thumb and held it out.

They smoked in silence as the shouts outside grew louder. Then — much closer — glass shattered.

“I gotta get back,” she said.

The waitress took a deep drag and dropped her half-smoked cigarette into one of the shallow puddles scattered across the alley. The hiss of its extinguishing was lost in the pulsing bass as she slipped back inside.

Another crash, followed by the sound of crunching cans, emerged from the far end of the alley. The old bartender stood in the doorway and squinted at the smoke-framed silhouette of his trainee. His stubbled face was twisted in frustration.

“Where the hell did you go, chico?” he said. “Ven . . . ¡ya!”

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

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Sludge oozes from the cracks where the low ceiling meets the thick stone walls. Moments of silence pockmarked with the groans of men. Death lingers in the stale air. The prisoners are immune to its stench, but involuntary shudders follow the worst of the cries. For there is a pain that even the most seasoned of sufferers cannot bear to hear. Only the callous and the cruel can, and they still need practice.

With a primal look in his eye, the old man unfolds the page still clenched between his tattered fingers. Looking down, he traces the words he was given the week before, gripping the well-worn parchment so tightly the edge begins to tear. The sound pulls him from his trance. Softening his hold with a sniff, he stands up slowly and surveys his companions for the first time in weeks.

Huddled together for warmth, dozens of prisoners line the single-room cage. One man scratches nervously at the wall, ignoring the trickle of blood coursing down his arm. Others gaze longingly at the sliver of light at the end of the long corridor. Another rocks back and forth, hyperventilating between sobs.

The old man gathers his resolve and approaches the condemned prisoner, whose eyes drift between vacant stare and frenzied dance as he continues to rock.

“Can I pray with you?”

[to be continued]

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He nearly flattened an old woman as he darted into The Beehive. The young man slipped inside just as the tempered glass door shut, careful not to let it catch his clothing. He was tall with hazy blue eyes half shaded by an intense brow topped with neatly kept hair. The woman glared at the back of his head severely enough to make the sternest Großmutter proud. Sniffing sharply he readjusted his AirPods and looked away.

Inside the cacophony of Main Street dulled. The cafe was teeming, but the scattered conversations were contained and subdued. It would have felt like a library were it not for the flail of bells sounding off each new arrival. The owners took pride in the atmosphere they had worked so hard to cultivate and were always there, polishing some surface or another.

Haphazardly hung posters dotted the walls, announcing shows and sales alike. The paint was chipped but the floors kept clean. A carefully arranged set of black-stained hardwood furniture filled every open inch of space. It was the kind of place that made chaos look stylish. People loved it for that fact and also for the fact that its coffee was actually good. It had become an escape for locals and, increasingly, a spectacle for outsiders, who had themselves become a spectacle for the locals.

The line wrapped from the register around one side of the cafe almost back to the door. When the man stretched his neck, he could count 9 patrons in front of him, and he knew a few more were hidden around the corner. He gnawed on his lip, shifting uncomfortably in place. 

“Freakin’ tourists,” a voice said behind him. It belonged to a college student he vaguely recognized as a regular. “Man, there’s more every summer.”

The man pretended not to hear, gaze pointedly buried in his phone. As he shuffled ahead, he listened to the student recite the same lines to the people behind him.  

[to be continued]

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