Resurrection

Chapter 20 : The People vs the Damned

Now after the death of Manager it came to pass that I would be allowed to pursue my goals without the ridiculous burdens of another's wasted existence. A new identity, new schedule and an endless abundance of opportunity awaited but I desperately needed a coffee. It was difficult to explain whether this was a human feeling or the need for ritual enjoyment. Either way I needed a large Mocha with an extra shot of espresso and destiny could sit on the backburner.

The faint waft of Belgian waffles, apple strudel and strong Colombian beans was all it took to lure me into my favourite people watching venue. The patient fly fisherman could throw the bait out constantly and only feel the slightest twang before yanking a flailing salmon onto the riverbank. As you can tell, this was the beginning of another wondrous afternoon honing my gift.

After several soothing sips of the perfect combination of chocolate and coffee, I had started psychoanalysing a vacuous redhead attempting to break up with her boyfriend across the room. With my spidey senses tingling, I could tune in enough to hear their conversation though I didn't need to. I could lip read the whole exchange and read all of the body language. Showing not telling revealed everything through simple gestures. His pained expression, and downward gaze, smoke rings pushing downwards over his chin. Her eyes, their lack of spark and the constant bored look with the realisation that he wasn't up to her way of life. Her phone vibrating against her hip. Her new boyfriend was checking for updates, knowing they would be assuming the position soon. I was actually glad for the tortured lad. He seemed much more conflicted and interesting. I watched Debra Messing awkwardly march out, not even attempting to pay the tab. He sat there a moment longer and forced the moment to wash over, prompting a much needed phone call with the signature red rings around his eyes.

Time seemed to ride past with a spasm of dating and break up montage scenes. My generous tip was accounted for and you would think I was ready to leave the village altogether when a familiar bunch of ragtag no hopers turned up on the street outside. Plodding along with a distinct lack of rhythm only overshadowed by the gargantuan thud of Doctor Martin's boots, these glorious Neanderthals made their jolly way down to the local Seven Eleven.

Each strand of hair was closely shaven, dotting their heads like a ritualistic branding of their submission to a higher power. Skinhead power- neo Nazism, the hallmarks of another disaffected generation.

They dubbed you a mor-on, a potential H-bomb.

Each one stomped the kerb with reckless determination. I was drawn to the ringleader- a hard-faced younger man with a face full of metal and a black non-descript jacket. The type you would see on a bloated security guard patrolling a football match. I knew he would have some bogan white trash nick name like Jizzy to match the utter crassness of his general persona. He was no Alex and I was damned sure he wouldn't be listening to Beethoven in his private life. The rising parallels were illustrated in his deathly calm demeanour- to the untrained eye he was a hive of activity, jumping around the store and throwing random assortments of naan bread, crisps and hog lumps. I knew this was merely an act that did little to betray his calm under the surface. My devils danced with his and an image of destruction shone like a beacon into my thoughts.

His overdone mock Indian accent was his first strike at the hapless Sikh assistant cowering behind the metal strings strewn across the counter-top.

"Oh thank you my gosh, Gupta, you are beddy beddy bad huving some pork products in dis sacred store. Whutever would Ganeesh say?"

His gawking onlookers could only guffaw at this desperate display of dominance.

"Good one, ya chav. The currymuncher's shittin' himself." His offsider remarked.

"It's beef that's sacred, but anyway, What do you think Gupta will do now, lads?" he asked.

"He's probably got a boner now ay?"

This brought on a mini wave of anarchy as the magnificent five started ransacking the store. The cashier quickly scurried out the back and locked the door behind him, probably looking for a phone to ring his employer. This act of surrender seemed to inspire them to keep going. One of the lads jumped over the counter and grabbed the register, trying to jimmy it open with a crowbar.

I was admiring all of this from out in the street when I saw the familiar blue bob of a policeman's hat weaving down the lane.

"Hey!", I shouted out. "Law's on its way!"

They stopped what they were doing, gave me the look of a hedgehog caught on the highway with hi beams shining in their eyes. This lasted only a few seconds before they ran out of the store with a Constable Lardass slow on their heels. I had every good reason to believe they would escape scot-free. This lot needed leadership...and badly. I couldn't help but judge them and understand this fanatical need to belong to something important. If they were family, it was a broken bloodline; it needed re-forging with a stronger fire.

The urge for violence was only thwarted by a mild sense of amusement watching these hapless barbarians skip down the lane. Each of these thoughts continued to thread outwards- long lines forming a web of splendour. The first piece in a strategy, no matter how ugly or cumbersome, was locking into place.

Before I left the village I returned to the café. I leant down beside the brokenhearted Romeo. Head still buried in his hands I had to remark. "I think it's time to go back to your wife. I'm sure she misses you." The look he returned was truly mesmerising. This was just another reason to take stock of this beautiful life.