Alexander Orders A Coffee

This is all truth thus far. But if I were the one orchestrating things, this is how my day would have proceeded…

Some minutes later a cold wind blows through the Atrium, and on that wind rides Alexander The Not-So-Great. Despite the lack of television cameras, old habits die hard and Alex kisses two confused babies on the way to the cafe. My cafe.

The minders look about seriously, the light dims slightly.

Alexander (giggling): “Hee, an Adelaide latte thanks. Smashing.” (Adelaide latte: a very boring weak, skinny flat white.) Lucy: “Sure, that will be two dollars ninety.” Minders usher him back. Lucy writes a coffee-related intelligence ‘memo’ notifying me (Mr Barista) that funds have been paid into the correct account and coffee should be produced as per the order. The ‘memo’ passes from the frontline counter space to the coffee machine. I stand there.

Lucy, cognisant of her duties, reminds me verbally of the order. My balls would look good in fishnets. Yeah. Balls. This thought consumes me. The minutes tick by. What will it be like when I own the café? Me? Yes that’s right, me. My balls. Lucy reminds me once again the order is yet to be filled. I take the hard copy and scribble, “This concerns me, why hasn’t this order been done?” and hand it to the bin. I think on the horrible nature of public education, and consider eating the downtrodden.

Looking quite disjointed by his coffeelessness, Alexander approaches. My imagination has me astride the coffee machine (my coffee machine), balls resplendent in above-the-knee stockings.

Alexander (giggling): “Young chap, I say, my latte? Hee.” Me: “I’m happy to answer your questions.” Alexander: “Who’s got my Adelaide latte?” Me: “I’m not sure.” Alexander: “What-what old chap? Did you not receive the order?” Me: “I can’t recall.” Alexander: “What do you mean you can’t recall?” Me: “I don’t remember.” Alexander, flummoxed, looks for corroborating evidence. “Young lady, did you pass on my order?” Lucy: “Yes indeed, it’s my job to pass on coffee orders.” Alexander: “Well, did you or did you not get a piece of paper with a specific order detailing the explicit request for an Adelaide latte?” Me: “I have no specific recollection.” Alexander: “No recollection?” Me (giggling; like yawning, it’s contagious): “The piece of paper may indeed have come from cash register intelligence but I didn’t read it.” Alexander: “You didn’t read it?” Me (exasperated at having to detail such an obvious point): “Do you know how many pieces of cash register intelligence I get on a given day? I can’t possibly read every one.” Alexander: “Are you saying you did not get it, or you did not read it?” Me: “I can’t recall.” Alexander: “What about that girl over there, the one standing behind you with a lampshade on her head?” Me: “I’m completely satisfied with the work she has done.” Alexander: “But you say you never got the order.” Me: “No, just that I don’t recall getting it. I’ve a lot to think about.” (Balls.) Alexander: “But…” Me: “I don’t remember.”

And so, without coffee yet satisfied with the inquiry process, Alexander retreats tactfully. Lucy is sacked. Under WorkChoices she has the choice to accept it and The Boss has the choice to provide her two weeks notice or spank her immediately and send her out naked into Mean Street.

But alas, Alexander never came, and this perfect plan will live only as fantasy in my mind – that beautiful place where I am a full foot taller and bear a striking resemblance to Fabio – at least until I turn 58 and, liberated by the passage of time, I tell it as if it really did happen…