A/N: This story will eventually feature material that may be triggering to some readers, specifically bipolar mania/depression and suicidal thoughts. Please do not read those parts if you think you may be susceptible to those behaviors. Chapters were those issues are featured will be marked with a trigger warning.
Secondly, some of the reviews from before July 16, 2018 may not correlate with the material currently in that chapter. I decided to cut the prologue from this story because I found it to be irrelevant upon a closer revision. Therefore, the reviews from before this change might be a chapter off.
The Usual
Falstaff Café
The realization that he could no longer afford a four-dollar cup of coffee was the moment when everything changed. Troy steps up to the register, a line forming behind him in one of New York City's busiest Starbucks, and says, "I just want a twenty ounce-"
The barista corrects him, "You mean venti?"
"Whatever…a venti cup of coffee."
"That'll be five, eight-two." The barista reaches his hand out for money, but Troy remained still.
"For a cup of coffee?" Troy finally asks in astonishment.
"Yes, sir."
"That's ridiculous!"
"I don't make the prices, sir."
"I know you don't." Troy rolls his eyes and considers the purchase just a moment before quickly deciding there's no way it'll be worth it and exits the coffee shop.
Greeted by the bustling 14th Street, Troy glances around his surroundings, considering his next move. Hints of yellow snuggled close to his pupils in his otherwise bright blue eyes show themselves in the presence of the sun shining high above. He knocks down the pair of ray bands from his head onto the bridge of his nose with a violent nod of his head. Bitterness bites into his heart as he realizes the truth of the situation. He can't just spend money like how he would when his parents covered everything. Plainly, he just can't afford much of anything anymore. When suddenly by pure luck, the smallest sign across the street catches his eyes. It read, Hot Coffee $1.50. His eyes float up from the small window to the larger sign above reading, Falstaff Café.
The windows are covered from the inside with old coffee bean bags sewn together to form cheap, makeshift drapes. The long wall to the left of the door is lined with tables and chairs, with dim light bulbs hanging from the ceiling that flicker sporadically. The scent of freshly ground coffee beans and sugary Thai tea competes with a musty, dirty water smell. On the wall behind the counter, a chalkboard with the few drink options and prices hangs slightly tilted. Compensating for the chalkboard, he tilts his head slightly as he sheepishly approaches the counter.
"Hello, dear." The fragile, aged voice greets the young man from somewhere behind the espresso machine, too short to be seen.
"Hello?" He asks, looking around the café for the source of the voice.
"What can I get for you?" A petite, wrinkled woman steps out from behind the massive machine and into Troy's sight. His eyes trace the white hair framing her aged features, the apron covering her clothing, the thick lenses in front of her distinct, emerald eyes.
"Your sign caught my eye," he explains. "Is it really just a dollar and a half for coffee?"
"That's what it says." She clenches a damp, stained rag and wipes off a dried drop of coffee from the counter between them.
"What size?" He asks, an eyebrow rising suspiciously.
"Twenty-four ounces."
"Perfect!" He responds with a warm smile, handing her two singles, "I'll have one of those, please. Also, when do you close?"
"We're always open." She responds.
"This place doesn't get any better!"
"Shh!" Mrs. Falstaff brings her index finger up to her lips.
Troy's eyes widen and eyebrows dip together as he stands unmoved and perplexed, "Did - Did you just shush me?"
"We have a strict no talking policy in the café."
"Oh," Troy drops his voice to a quieter level, leans towards Ms. Falstaff, and says, "I'm sorry."
Ms. Falstaff gently sets down a large cup of coffee on a platter and reaches two quarters out to him.
"Keep the change." Troy carefully grabs the platter and takes it over to a nearby table. As he begins to set the plate and coffee down, it settles lopsided and a small amount overflows.
Troy takes a good look around at the fellow patrons and recognizes them almost immediately as his own kind. Although the mop water smell and dark lighting and wobbly tables make for a less than desired café experience, the quiet environment and affordable coffee makes Falstaff Café a popular hub for poor poets and writers alike. The men's faces have a week's worth of unshaven stubble. The women have messy buns slowly falling apart on their heads. The tired, reddened eyes juxtapose the energetic fingers speedily tapping away at the keyboards.
Just as Troy situates himself in the sturdy wooden chair and carefully positions his laptop on the wobbly table, the door swings open and welcomes in a cool breeze. Glancing up from his work, his eyes fall on a blindingly pink business suit and long locks of blonde hair. As the woman turns to approach the counter, Troy watches as she raises her designer sunglasses from her eyes and folds them close in her hands. The stiletto heals clack against the tile floor until she reaches the front.
"Hello, Miss. Evans." Troy barely hears the old woman speak as she does so in such a soft, hushed tone.
"Good evening, Ms. Falstaff. The usual, please."
"You got it." Ms. Falstaff then turns to prepare the drink. Meanwhile, Miss. Evans quickly spins on her heels and her brown eyes suddenly land on Troy's lingering blues.
Awkwardly refocusing his attention on his laptop, he types at random, but hears the stiletto clacks growing louder and louder until her pink suit is visible out of the corner of his eye.
"You any good?" She asks while peering down at him with her arms crossed over her chest.
"What?" Troy asks.
"Shh!" Ms. Falstaff shushes the duo from the counter.
Taking the seat on the opposite side of the table, Miss. Evans folds her hands on the table and quietly clarifies, "Are you a good writer?"
"How did you know I write?"
"It's my job to spot your type. I'm a publishing agent, and I can change your life if you're any good."
"Yeah, I'm good." Troy accidently regains his normal voice level in excitement.
"Shh!" Ms. Falstaff shushes them again.
Sorry, Troy mouths.
"Here's my card," Miss. Evans removes a small, silver tin from her white purse and takes out a crisp business card. "Send me your best. We'll be in touch." Leaving the card on the table, Miss. Evans quickly crosses the café to the counter, grabs her drink, and flees in a rush.
…
"Next, we're going to rinse the lettuce." Troy hears a muffled voice on the TV talking just beyond the door. He fumbles around with the keys for a moment, the excitement coursing through his veins affecting his movements.
"Zeke!" He yells into the small apartment once he forces the door open.
"Yup?" Zeke asks from his spot on the couch, lounging with a massive bowl of Cheetos resting on his stomach.
"Is that Martha Stewart?" Troy asks in amusement, pointing to the woman on the TV screen.
"Problem? Martha's a cooking legend!" Zeke tosses a Cheeto up into the air, letting it arch, then fall back down into his mouth.
"Whatever." Troy shakes off the distraction and speedily crosses in front of the TV to capture Zeke's full attention. "Dude," he begins, his face gleaming with excitement, "you'll never guess what just happened."
"What happened?" Zeke asks uninterested, taking the Cheetos off of his stomach and onto the glass coffee table.
"I met a publishing agent."
"That was damn fast! Congrats!" Zeke sat up in the couch and leaned forward, supporting his weight on his elbows that rested on his knees.
"I know! She knew that I was a writer like a psychic or something. I got her card to send her my work. I may already get a deal!"
"That'd be awesome!"
"You want to celebrate?" Troy offers.
"Chef needs me in the kitchen tonight, but maybe tomorrow night?"
"Works for me."
"Speaking of chef, I should probably start heading to the restaurant. I'll be home around three." Zeke wipes his orange dusted hands off on his sweatpants as he stands up.
"I guess I'll send Miss. Evans my best stuff." Troy searches around the floor for where he set down his laptop case.
"Wait…" Zeke holds an index finger in the air in thought. "Did you say Miss. Evans?"
"Yes, do you know her?"
"Always blindingly pink? Long, blonde hair? Very type-A?"
"Sounds like the same chick."
"She comes into the restaurant every night. You have to introduce us! I've always been too shy to come out and say hi."
"Oh, so you like her?"
"I think she's cute."
"Weird. I never would have thought she'd be your type."
In response, Zeke simply shrugs as he swings his leather jacket over his back and pulls it on. "See you in the morning."
"See you then."
…
From: sharpayevans
Subject: Re: Previous Work
Good evening Troy,
Thank you so much for sending me your work in such a timely matter. I'm glad you're just as excited as I am about the possibility in getting your pieces published. You will need to keep that energy high during this long process.
I have read your untitled work. I have to say, I am impressed! I think that it is definitely something to continue working on and finishing. Seventy thousand words is a great start, but I need an ending before I can send this to my boss. Once you send me the completed work, I can officially approve of it and set it up for review. After it's accepted there (which I am more than confident it will be), we will find an editor to work with you. Do you have any questions at this point?
Thanks,
Sharpay Evans
Troy's eyes read every single word with meticulous concentration probably seven times. With every additional read the meaning of words becoming more and more real. Publishing can be a mere chapter away! It's really happening!
…
His feet feel sorer than they were back in his track days as they land heavily on the tile leading to the apartment's front door. Letting out a heavy sigh, Zeke rubs his tired eyes before leaning against the door in a lazy attempt to open it.
The clock on the microwave illuminates 3:18AM into the otherwise completely dark room. Slowly twisting the knob, he turns on the light to see the path to his room. Along with the rest of the room, Troy's sprawled out body on the couch slowly comes into focus.
Passing by the snoring figure, Zeke caringly repositions the falling blanket over Troy's body fully.
"What are you doing?" Troy slurs, only half conscious.
"Go back to sleep, Troy," Zeke orders quietly, his voice barely a half whisper.
"Sounds good," he mumbles before falling back into a deep, deep sleep.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading! Do you think Sharpay will be able to get Troy published? And let me know what you think of the story so far in a review.