Oliver Benjamin
3. Partment and Niles
In the beginning of the creation of Undergrounds, things didn’t look
so good. The few curious or lost customers they managed to attract
rarely came back for a second visit. The coffee, fantastic as it was, was
not enough to divert people from the mainstream. Plus, only one type
was served: Jamaican Blue Mountain Rat-Cut. There was tea, but
only one Javanese variety. Nothing else was for sale at
Undergrounds—no pastries, no sandwiches, no juices, no beer.
Leona asked Roy why he didn’t expand the menu a bit and he
answered with an terse reply, something about keeping things
simple. She understood, but doubted whether enough people would
see things his way. It didn’t really matter, as the ridiculous location
prevented people from ever having the chance to see things his way.
Even though his mortgage payments were low, Roy’s meager
savings still dwindled rapidly. He needed to support himself, Yak,
and Leona as well as pay the slim salary of Bennie, the dishwasher
and handyman he hired at the optimistic outset. Then, with taxes and
bills, repairs and supplies, it wasn’t long before he found himself in
the red and forced to borrow money. His house was collateral for the
loan, and if business didn’t pick up he would have to relinquish the
shop and get a normal job. Otherwise he’d lose his father’s property.
Roy’s dreams were once again fraying at the hem, threatening to
unravel and prove just how pint-sized he really was.
Nevertheless, there, inexorable, lingering beneath that insistent
aroma of fresh coffee, swirled something seductive. Roy knew this
thirsty ghost intimately. It was the fragrance of the future, the inkling
of the absent, the tip of the tongue.
Impelled by this spirit, Roy would often run out looking for new
decorations or items of furniture. He might suddenly decide that
what Undergrounds really needed was a new set of napkin
dispensers, and be off combing the city for just the right ones. One
day he would not set foot inside the place until he had procured the
perfect spoons.
It was as if he were a tender of two gardens: one natural, and one
imagined. A little clipping here, a little replanting there, and it was
perfect, at least until it became obvious that it wasn’t. Willfully blind
to the general reason behind Undergrounds’ lack of success, Roy
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