Clerical

Daphs Café, Thursday, 23:50. It's the smell that strikes someone when they first enter the cafe. That odor of old greasy waste, mixed in with extremely cheap bleach that gets in your nose. Daph's café is the kind of place that you'd walk past every day for 30 years and observe that the décor, nor the people inside, actually change; they only age. Daph herself is no exception, she's been the rock on the accelerator that's shooting this café of a cliff face at 40 miles-an-hour for the past 20 years. This café is her baby—albeit one she should have given away upon birth. Daph's stays afloat due to her loyal brigade of oddball customers, her late opening hours, and her underpaid lackey Barry. Barry's work ethics, much like his dreams, are nothing short of rotten. He stands idle by the main serving counter, seeing the world go by with his head in his hands, and wishing that by gods good grace alone he might be able to leave early. Sniffing that bleach for the 1000th time as he cleans the sweat and bean juice off the floor fills Barry with a severe bout of misery. His short-lived break is interrupted as Daph's unmistakable nicotine-stained sausage-fingers hit the bell in his left periphery. “Bacon, Egg, beans and chips!". Her voice box sounds like she's been smoking coal. Barry hesitates for a moment, almost like he's taking a moment to weigh up whether it's actually worth doing his job. With a sigh and a groan, he straightens his back, and grabs the plate. Barry moves begrudgingly across the small café floor, snaking around the blue plastic chairs that have been welded to the floor. He approaches a man sitting alone in the corner, he's asleep. Barry is still for a second, he sighs a sigh which signals that this is an annoyance, but not an uncommon experience in this setting. The man isn't waking up, so with a less than deft touch, Barry throws the plate onto the table; the bang startles the gentleman from his delicate slumber and scatters loose beans across the side of the plate. “Head in the game, Gerald. One lovely plate of heart disease and misery for you. As per the usual.” Gerald gets that same look on his face you get when awoken and are unaware of your own reality. He’s an older gentleman, mid 60’s-early 70’s. Similar to the other customers in the café. His nose is red and bulging, years of booze consumption and bacon scoffing have most likely decimated his liver, but as they say, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. “Nice one, err.” “It's Barry, Gerald, Barry. Remember? I've been working here for 10 years?”Barry speaks in a manner generally reserved for someone with extreme memory problems. “Try to get this in your mouth this time. Last night you left looking like you’d spent the night in an abattoir.” Barry leaves the interaction there. He walks his way back to his original position at the front of the café, muttering to himself and shaking his head. Puffing and panting in-between. Barry looks older than he is, and at the ripe age of 34, he could easily pass off for 40. He's a little unkempt, and fairly pale, but he's in decent shape and if he actually tried, he would certainly be passable to most people's standards. Still, he clearly hates where he is. Barry exemplifies abjection, and he has as much experience with smiling as he does with aeronautical engineering. Back at his counter he checks his watch before reaching underneath the counter to pull out a pouch of illegal import tobacco. His rolling technique is rushed, and in his haste to shovel the tobacco onto his paper he drops more than he uses; rushed though it may be, he’s well versed on the art form, and with a flourish he is ready to have a break. In the past ten years, Barry has moved past the need to actually talk to Daph, he only has to motion to her in the kitchen to get the go ahead to leave for a quick smoke break. Barry quickly moves to the door but gets stopped in his tracks by an unfamiliar northern voice calling out his name. The man who called out sits in the middle of the café; a strange sight for Barry as he could swear that this man was not there a few moments ago. That being said, Barry doesn't pay much attention to his surroundings on a good day. “I'm on my break, buddy. If you want something, then that count Dracula looking lady coughing into the food will see you right.” Barry moves towards the door again but becomes stuck in place by the shriek of his boss. “Barry! Sort 'im out you lazy git.” The words clearly cut through Barry's soul. He looks to the door, then back at the man, getting a shrug from his new customer. “Alright. What do you want?" Barry says petulantly. “Just a tea, please.” The man speaks with a smile. Barry doesn't even acknowledge him as he walks away. The man watches Barry with a gentle smile as he moves behind the counter to the hot water machine and sloppily throws a tea bag in a cup. He fills the cup with water right to the top and brings it to the man. “One tea, hot. Have we seen you in before? You don't seem as haggard as the rest of these…. People.” The man takes a long, sweet sip of his tea. He lets out a wonderful sigh of relief. Barry merely rolls his eyes. “Lovely cup of tea there Barry. Just spot on. But no, this is my first time.” The man stands up from his seat, puts 50p on the counter, and makes his way past a now bewildered Barry. He briefly checks his own watch before speaking. “I have a feeling you'll be seeing more of me, though.” The man gives a short smile before walking out the door. Barry watches him go, a little confused. Within a few seconds, a bus horn loudly penetrates the air. Screeching tires and screaming are a short warning to the incoming chaos as a bus crashes into the café. The destruction is catastrophic, and the whole café is now just a mess of rubble and metal. Barry is quite simply just another of the victims.