Oliver Benjamin
ringingly endorsed. Partment, Niles and Martin all stopped by at
various points in the day to lend a hand. Colin woke up very late,
nursing a hangover and an injured ego. The article had singled him
out as an “arhythmic and oafish loon.”
Laying exhausted on the floor of the “coffee melting pot for
outsiders with an in,” Roy stared up at the simulated leaves above
him. He located the spot his penis penetrated, and the other one
where he had been injured, where he had fallen through. It was as if
puncturing holes in the painted ceiling had let a strange, illuminating
providence shine in.
Roy hired Sprout on a permanent basis that evening. For the flood to
continue he would have to offer his patrons as much raw magic as
possible. Gauging the affect she had on them, it seemed that Sprout
exuded magic like a sublime fragrance. In this temple of coffee, she
was the patron saint of patrons.
Whenever she would bring the steaming mugs to customers’
tables, she would simply declaim, “There you are.” And though this
was something waitresses all over the country were known to say, it
took on special significance coming from her lips. One almost felt
compelled to agree with her, “Yes. That’s true. Here I am.”
Despite professing not to believe in coffee, she served it like an
orthodox disciple. If Roy’s religion was based on the bean, hers was
all about service; she waited on customers like a Brahman idolizing
an endless pantheon of gods. Diligently venerating each patron,
however slightly, she made sure no one left Undergrounds quite the
same as when they had come in.
The phone rang continually through the day, each time from a
magazine or newspaper hoping to arrange an interview with Ray
McOnion.
“Makonnen.” Roy would correct them each time, spelling it out.
“Roy Makonnen. It’s an Ethiopian name,” he explained, “Tafari
Makonnenwas Haile Selassie’s name before he was coronated.” But
surprisingly few Los Angeles restaurant critics even knew who Haile
Selassie was. The only sure way to elicit a response was to point out
that it was from him that Rastafarians got their name.
At the end of the day when Roy walked her out Sprout surprised
him by kissing his cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you,” he
replied, bowing slightly. As she left, Yak passed her. He only nodded
politely in the waning light of the alley.
71
 |
 |
 |
 |