Revision. (The Re-Up)

Chapter One: ii

      ii

I was brought back to life and resumed reality by the calling of my name, once, then twice, and then finally: "Order for James!" It was a delightfully enchanting voice, the one of the barista at the coffee shop. She knew exactly who I was.

She came over to my table, walking theatrically, like if from a 90's sitcom. "James, c'mon, I have other orders too you know."

I looked up and admired her mocha colored skin. "I'm sorry, Mia, I got lost in thought."

Mia gave a petite smile and placed a bag containing a jelly doughnut on my table, then went back to work. She whipped around before going back behind the counter and shouted to me: "And James–!"

"Yeah?"

"Stop bringing outside coffee in here, you know ours is better!"

I smiled and said nothing. I then glanced down to my coffee cup, not realizing I had brought it to the shop with me in the first place. I took a sip, and chuckled to myself. Their coffee really was better. The brown paper bag my doughnut was sitting in had a simplistic version of the shop's logo printed on the front, and stains of jelly on the bottom four corners.

I sighed and returned to the paper that had been left behind. I reread the words of the headline. Not again, I thought, referring to my slipping from reality and the headline equally. "Obstructing justice," I murmured and shook my head, while taking another distasteful drink of my coffee. My coffee cup was a pearly white, with a purple rim, and on the inside it had a motivational quote. Something you would never remember throughout the day if things came down to it, but each and every day I looked at the quote once I had finished my coffee, though I could never say I lived my life by what it said.

"New day, New you!" The quote was fading and stained a light brown, serving the real purpose of unimportance.

My senses felt eroded after my trip into memory, and all I could feel was the powdery newspaper in my hands. So, I stood up, left enough money on the table to pay for my doughnut and give a decent tip, and left with the paper under my arm. I leapt out onto the sidewalk (the coffee shop had at least a foot and a half drop from their front door) and I strolled down the street. The smell of coffee started to leave my nose and was replaced by exhaust, vomit and the putrid smell of trash scattered about. I was walking through a residential area with apartment buildings towering over the inner city streets, encasing them like a grand wall.

The coffee shop in comparison to my apartment was around six and a half blocks away, so it was an easy enough walk for most days. My job stood perfectly in between the two. So, each morning, I would get up early enough to visit the coffee shop and snag some breakfast–even if I was not in the mood to have any–then I would head to work. After work I would sometimes make a pit stop back to the coffee shop depending on how I was feeling. My job, where I used to work I should say, was a humongous building. As soon as you entered the building, you would smell a thick and savory smell of paper and ink, and hear a constant beeping of someone's phone or one of the many printers in the building.

It was laid out so that the busiest floor (my floor) was on the ground level, then the lesser levels were ascending nearing the top. The first floor was where all the power was held. The head honcho's office was there, along with my own, and plenty of other big shots in the industry. We weren't a huge company, but for the area we were well known. I worked at a local newsroom, and was one of the head journalists. I liked to think of myself as decent, but that only lasted for a short period of time.

After my short stroll through the city, I made it to Real Dice, my place of work. Besides the dopey name, the place was pretty respected in terms of writing. And writing is what I love to do.