That Week At Patches

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

They sat in the parking lot for a few moments while Michael's father drank the last few dregs of the coffee that remained in his cup. Not a word was spoken the whole ten minutes they were in the car. Not "good morning" or "how'd you sleep?" It was absolute, lonely... Silence.

They walked into the pizzeria. It was just off of the highway, a bit further from anything else in town, in a location that would build up anticipation in the mind of a child headed to his birthday party, but not too far that no one saw it when commuting to work or going to town. The actual building was hidden by trees, but a large sign pointed to the direction of the building. "Patches Pizzeria and arcade" it said." Come meet Patches herself" it said just below. After what felt like forever, they went inside

Michael stepped inside his father's office. It was just off and to the left of the main entrance. The office was basically a closet. It had just enough room for a desk, a potted plant and a small loveseat. His father sat at the desk. His empty coffee mug sitting beside him. He waved it in the air, his eyes fixed on the green text which came from the monitor. Michael knew what this gesture meant.

"Go fetch me some more coffee my slave of a son who means absolutely nothing to me." is what that gesture meant.

He gently took the cup from his father's hand and walked out of the room. The mug was one Michael had made for him in art class when he was younger. The paint had worn out from where his father held it for years.

It had Michael and Gabriel's name written on it, but Michael's name had all but worn off, by the constant rubbing of his father's thumb over it. Was it on purpose? Was it because that's where his thumb naturally rested? Michael never knew.

Michael walked out into the hall. It was early, so there were no children in the building quite yet. It felt wrong to be here when it was this silent. He wanted to apologize to the place, as if it was alive.

"I.. I'm sorry, I have to be here," He thought to himself. Slowly and carefully, he walked to the kitchen.

The kitchen was of decent size for a pizzeria. Just enough room for a few cooks to make pizza, and birthday cake. He walked up to the coffee maker and began making the coffee. Michael's father liked his coffee black. He liked it as dark as can be, and so acidic that it almost burned going down. Michael couldn't stand the stuff. To him, coffee should be light, sweet and creamy. Something someone would actually enjoy drinking, and not something one should be forced to drink in order to stay awake and focused at work. The coffee pot bubbled. A black liquid began to pour out of the cream white spout, stained by years of use by the dreaded man. A few moments later the coffee pot filled up. Michael poured the coffee into the cup and began his careful journey back to the office. The coffee was hot. It would hurt to accidentally spill it on himself. Not that he cared. Maybe a scream of pain would break this God awful silence.

Michael found his way back to the office. His father looked at him for a brief moment before gesturing him to come closer. As soon as Michael got within reach he snatched the coffee from Michael's hands and immediately began drinking it as if his life depended on it. Michael couldn't stand to watch him, and so he left. It seemed inhuman for someone to be able to drink something that hot without blowing on it to cool it, or flinching at the pain from the heat. It filled him with the same cringing odd feeling one would get when watching someone bite into cold ice cream. He couldn't take it. He had to leave.

Just outside the door something caught his eye. Henry had just walked in and began making his way to his office. Michael followed.

"So, what do you plan to do today uncle Henry?" He asked jokingly.