Confessions of the sugar fiend

Coffee in the morning. No better way to start a Sunday morning than a café, in a hidden nook of suburbia. Albeit there had been one error this morning, pushing the ‘PULL’ door, which had earned him a neat bump to the head, but that had been pre-coffee. A thing of the past. Journal open, pen primed, Tony had acquired a window seat with a vantage point of the entire street.

However, he was struggling to turn the straight-lined bricks of suburbia – even with the several police cars that had driven past that morning – into a story that really pulled the heart into the stomach. What he didn’t know, was that he would not have to conjure a character today. A ready made, get-your-camera-ready, and learn how to make $20,000 in one day, type story was about to meet him. It would be like a splash of cold water in the face, only, quite literally.

Wiping cold water from his face he looked up to find that the ruthless vigilante that had attacked him was a wide eyed, seemingly innocent twelve-year-old girl. Tony knew better, however. She and her band of thieves had come into the café to overload the barista with a mountain order of Frappuccino’s for no other reason than to play Russian Roulette with diabetes. Savages.

It was at this point that Tony’s attention was drawn to what was holding up their criminal exploits. At the front of the queue, was an older gentleman, dressed quite appropriately for the location in all manners, but his slippers. Right now, he was shouting his order loud and slowly.

“A mocha frappa-fancy-pants with more squirts and make the cream as high as the Eiffel tower, please.”

The young girls looked onward in fascination at this obviously well-equipped sugar taunting veteran. The essence of a congregation was forming.

The barista, tall stiff and knobbly, was unimpressed. Equally experienced in his line of duty, he stared blankly at the old man. He was not about to be convinced to have an expression of any kind, under any circumstance. Instead, he simply asked the man, “what’s the size with that order?”

“Gordon.” The man replied.

“What?”

“My name is Gordon.” Blue and red lights flashed through the café as another police car passed by. Tony was tempted to glance to the street in case James Bond level drama had suddenly occurred, but his gut whispered to keep his eyes glued on the man instead.

“Yes sir, but what size would you like?”

“The big one please.”

“Ok, Venti Mocha Frappuccino, extra mocha, extra whip. Seven dollars eighty.”

“I’ll pay when I find my book.”

The barista’s eyebrow twitched. He looked carefully at the sprawled hair of the man before him, who was nodding in absolute affirmation. Hesitating only momentarily, he continued, “Sorry Sir, eftpos or visa.” He pointed to the sign that read, ‘CARD ONLY’.

Although Tony did not condone the misuse of insulin, he was not about to see this journey end. Shuffling past the sea of girls, he raised his silver card heroically to the sky and with one seamless ‘don’t worry, it’s on me’ swoop, he placed the card down onto its money-extracting landing pad. Well, he would have, except the tap on his card was always faulty. It took a few tries.

Moments later the two were sitting together at the café table, Frappuccino and going-cold coffee in hand. Gordon leaned into him and whispered conspiratorially, “The man’s a snob.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well that sign of course. Who accepts card only when decent 70 gsm paper can do just the trick?”

“Not many places accept checkbooks anymore, sadly.”

Gordon looked at him sideways, “Well of course not man! It’s not the 70s! Do you think I am senile?” He laughed as if this was a very funny thought indeed, “I said book, not checkbook.”

Tony looked down at his now-definitely-cold-and-only-had-one-sip coffee, a little bemused. The many blockbuster story’s he had sacrificed that morning for this man came to his mind. He mourned the loss of those empty lines, and then wondered why it made him think of a police line-up of suspects. What a strange association! Never mind, he thought, in for a penny, in for a pound. So, he proceeded to ask Gordon about his book.

“It’s a book like yours”, the man said, pointing to Tony’s Moleskin spread out before him, “In fact, is this it?”

Gordon reached abruptly across the table and grabbed the moleskin and started to flick through the pages before gruffly putting it back on the table and stating that it wasn’t, but that it looks just like that one. Except, of course, Gordon’s Moleskin was better.

“Every Moleskin is the same,” Tony replied, eyebrow cocked high, “They’ve a standard quality.”

“But that’s where you are wrong. The books are quality, yes,” he nodded, “Ahhhh! but the owners… the owners you see, they chop and change. A rod, in the hands of a man who cannot fish, is just a stick.”

Gordon picked up Tony’s book once more, tilted his head back as if he needed glasses to look at it, only, he had forgotten them along with his shoes that day. He peered down his nose, squinting and flicking the pages for a couple of seconds, and then he put it back down with a solemn expression.

“As I thought,” He said glumly, “Mine is worth $20,000, whilst yours… yours, is a pretty stick, but a stick, nonetheless.”

“Excuse me?!”

“You’re excused. It is not your fault after all”.

At this point, Tony was picturing the cream ‘high as the Eiffel tower’ placed neatly on top of Gordon's ‘high as a kite’ head. But Tony was a smart man – smarter than his pretty stick would imply – and so he remained calm and seized the opportunity.

And an opportunity it was! Gordon, frail hand placed on top of Tony’s, had leaned in once more in an urgent whisper.

“I stole $20,000 once in a bank heist, and I wrote down the plan and the location in my Moleskin. Oh but if Moleskin’s could talk! The things they would tell! Or maybe… maybe he could call me up and tell me where he is… No! he’d probably run away with it and buy a new cover… turn a new page!”

Tony at that point had stopped listening and instead, had the image of a monkey clapping symbols in his brain. The symbols strangely matched the vague sound of sirens that were whooping in the distance. It took a moment, but he replied with a serious whisper, “Why don’t I help you find it then?”

Gordon reached across and detained Tony’s Moleskin once more. He was no fool of a man and so he wrote ‘I will help Gordon W.P Smith find his $20,000 and understand that it is his loot. HIS. End of’. He affixed his own signature and requested the signature of Tony-the-man-who-paid-for-coffee, and then proceeded to scribble the points of his story. All the while he continued teaching Tony about the subtleties of the Moleskin journal. Gordon’s Moleskin, for example, would let other people write all over it if he did not keep it by his side. He was not saying Tony’s did that, but it was something to be mindful of, that was all.

Tony nodded, sometimes watching the man’s sprawled hair, shaking in a frenzy as he wrote, and sometimes eyes wandering to the street outside. It really was an interesting day; two police cars had stopped on this street already. Yet, there was little drama that he could see. Uniformed men and women were peacefully knocking on doors, probably delivering news of planned road construction or something.

He happily provided himself three more rounds of coffee and for Gordon, three more rounds of sugar. Although he would not admit it, he was growing fond of his new acquaintance.

At the exact moment Tony decided one more coffee would cause his heart to jump out of his chest, a police car stopped directly outside and a policeman was looking in through the window at the two of them with the oddest expression. Tony wondered if the policeman and Gordon had maybe gone to school together? Or perhaps, he too, was a secret sugar fiend.

Gordon finished both the sentence he had been speaking and the simultaneous, yet, very separate, sentence he had been writing. He put the pen down with a contented sigh. Unfortunately, twenty seconds later he was being guided by the elbow down the straight-lined bricks of the suburban street, by a heavy-set Policewoman.

The Policeman – confirmed NON sugarholic – was taking Tony’s statement just inside the door of the café as they both watched Gordon through the glass.

“A mad man you say?” Tony squawked, as if this was the most surprising news of the century.

“As I said, the man you met this morning was an attendee of Rosebury Reformation Center who disappeared this morning, but it is not under any further investigation. If you have any complaints to make, you can do so down at the station.”

“The man told me he robbed a bank.” Tony gasped.

“That case has since been closed. All the men are in custody, bar Mr. Smith here, who we will transport back to the Center.”

“Gave me directions to the loot. Is that useful?”

“As I said,” the policeman gave a sigh, the bags under his eyes looking heavier than ever, “The case has been closed. We will return Mr. Smith to the Center and any complaints, give them at the station.”

He began to turn away, but Tony could not hack it one bit. There were so many unfinished threads! Who was this man? Was it true? What sort of Policemen were they? But burning deep inside was one major question of all. One that he could not live without the answer to. He must find out. The policeman had been very final in his last words but, sod it: Tony was a man who fearlessly bought coffee for mad men and then listened to their rambles. He had basically kept Gordon detained until the Police arrived. He was a hero! Filling his chest with air, he ascertained that he would solve the last remaining puzzle.

“Wait! Wait! Gordon!” Tony shouted, moving past the policeman. He remembered this time to push the cafe door on the way out, and the lack of a second head trauma only filled him with more confidence in his abilities. He hailed the heavyset policewoman, who was now guiding Gordon into the car. The pair turned to face him. Confusion beset the policewoman’s face as she wondered if there were in fact two, not one, attendees she was supposed to obtain.

“You must tell me,” Tony panted as the policewoman shuffled between them.

“Sir, I must ask you to hold any statements at the station.” She said, hands on hips. Barging through the café door, the policeman was now striding towards them like a strong footed bull. There was not much time.

Tony took a light step back but moved to his tippy-toes to gaze eye to eye with Gordon over the policewoman’s shoulder. The policeman was only steps away now.

“Gordon, you must tell me,” He called,

“Yes??” Gordon replied.

“You have diabetes, don’t you?”

The policeman homed in and created a second barrier between the two, but not before Tony saw Gordon wink. Tony, his face now level with the large smoky policeman’s vest, did what every person does in such situations: he gulped and began to question life. But delight filled his heart as he heard Gordon’s words somersault through the air and he received the thread that would allow him to continue. The words, spoken in such a manner, Tony swore he could hear Gordon smiling.

“Find the Moleskin, find my life”.