this chapter has been updated - previous descriptions of John Smith to me felt kinda ableist, and in the year or two (? or more ?) since i've paid attention to this fic i've grown sorta less tolerant of my own wordiness so yeah here u go
Felix had read somewhere that people see their own reflections as about a third more beautiful than they actually are, and as such are feeding their own vanity every time they look at themselves in the mirror. As he surveyed his grey, anaemic and very worn-looking with a slight tough of hypochondria, Felix found this worrying. If this was a third more beautiful, he pitied what the rest of the world had to look at each day, when they unsuspectingly wandered into the local coffee/wifi hotspot only to be greeted by a mousey-haired, too-lazy-to-shave-often, underweight, unhealthy-looking specimen of a barista who, although not unwilling to please, had little social skill and could think of few coffee-related conversational topics. God help the customers. God help them.
"MacArthur!"
Jumping, turning, flushing with embarrassment and dashing out of the loo in an impressively short space of time, Felix was greeted by the dulcet Glaswegian tones of Bobby, who, although not of a higher salary than Felix, deemed himself in charge of his fellow slaves to the coffee machine and greeted everyone by surname.
"That was a long fuckin' piss, MacArthur. Have ye seen a Doctor?"
Felix shook his head meekly, hazarded a weak smile and then trotted off to the counter, where he fiddled with a pot of herbal tea leaves in a way which may or may not have looked productive.
"'Scuse me! Oh, not you. Sorry. I was talking to him. Yes. Him. Ah. Hello. Can I have some of that?"
Felix turned. Before him stood a tall-ish, skinny-ish, moderately dishevelled yet passably smart man, who looked both too young and too old for his age all at once. He leant his lean, pinstriped frame against the counter, smiling expectantly.
Felix raised the jar. The man nodded vigorously.
"Yes. Wait." A sudden frown, a squint. "What is it?"
Felix blinked. "Winter spiced?"
"Yes. I'll have that. Spicy and wintry! Sounds yummy. Yum."
Unsure as to whether or not he was having the piss taken out of him, Felix turned away to begin a routine coffee-making flurry, bowing his head to hide reddening cheeks.
He placed the tea beside the till. He had put it in a takeaway cup without having asked the man, deciding that this was one customer which he probably did not want to sit in.
"That's one seventy-five..." Felix trailed off as the man downed the scalding hot drink in one, before screwing up his face in disgust and making loud noises of distaste. The barista shifted behind the counter, noting that the majority of his co-workers were eyeing him with sympathy, except Bobby, who was shaking his shaggy, Glaswegian head in disapproval.
"Um…one-seventy-five?"
"Yes, yes, yes." The man waved his hand in the air. "I'm getting to that. What else have you got for me?"
Meekly, Felix pointed to the hot drinks menu on the wall. "We've got food, too," he offered, immediately regretting the words. He heard Bobby tutting with relish from not far off, and resisted the urge to hang his head in shame.
"Ah…I'll have…this. That kind of coffee. Right there. With extra froth. Please." The man winked, and Felix shifted on the spot. "Come on! Chop chop!"
He spun in a nervous flash, clumsily operating the coffee machine. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Bobby re-directing the ever-growing queue to make their way around the man, who was continuing to chatter.
"See, I'm looking for something quite specific. I couldn't tell you what it is…coffee shops do everything, don't they? Maybe it's not a drink. Maybe I need a sandwich. I like sandwiches. Very human. Sticking stuff between bread. What an idea."
Felix sat the coffee down in front of the man, who grinned, but on gulping it down provided a similar display to the previous one, only with extra-violent spluttering and bonus watering eyes.
"What is this?" The man looked genuinely horrified. "Why….why?" Felix found himself mumbling an apology. He then remembered that Bobby was still watching and would likely use this event as a point of reference in some argument someday, so he made an attempt to clear his throat in a not-so-authoritative way. In a flash, Bobby was at his side.
"Not so fast, MacArthur." He muttered in an undertone, before turning to address the man. "Is there anything else we can get for you, sir? Perhaps our special blend?"
"Ooh. I like the sound of that."
"Not a problem, sir."
"Ohh." The man screwed up his face and flapped one hand in the air. "Don't sir me. I'm not a sir. Welllll...not to you…" he peered at Bobby's name tag. "…Bobby. I'm John. John Smith."
Felix, having been shimmied away from the counter, gazed dumbly as Bobby set down another steaming cup in front of Mr Smith. His co-worker sidled over in what he seemed to think was a conspiratorial manner.
"Don't be fooled," smirked Bobby. "I've been around a lot of coffee shops, MacArthur. A lot. Every city has blokes like Mr Smith here. Bloody lunatics, but established fat cats." When Felix looked at him blankly, he tutted and shook his head. "Rich folk, MacArthur. Rich."
"I know. I mean, I know what a fat cat is. I just…" He paused, shifting uncomfortably, unwilling to be anything but meek before Bobby. The great, unshaven Glaswegian did not invite challenge. "I mean, are you sure?"
Felix eyed Mr Smith sceptically. His hair was flyaway, due to quite possibly never once having been brushed during its whole existence, and although his suit was sharp and expensive-looking, Felix spied a pair of extremely well-worn plimsolls protruding from the hem of his trousers. A small, dreamy voice in the back of Felix's head, which he usually tried to keep silent for the sake of both his career and his sanity, whispered that a man with such faraway, unearthly adventure in his eyes could not possibly be someone who dedicated his life to making money. Besides, the manner in which he now stirred sachets of salt into his coffee did most definitely not signify refinement.
"Of course I'm sure, MacArthur." Bobby replied scathingly, as Mr Smith gagged on his salty coffee, staring at Bobby as though it were he who had maliciously stirred salt into his special blend. "Not to your taste, Mr Smith? Nae worries, I'm sure there's something else on the menu we can get ye."
Felix sighed, and leaned back against the salad bar, anticipating how long and wearing this particular shift would be.
Neurotically, he thought about what a negative effect this must be having on his nerves. He wondered if, one day, he might walk into work and have a heart attack right there on the dusty linoleum. Perhaps then Bobby would regret harassing him. Perhaps every awkward, annoying or aggressive customer he'd ever served would come to his funeral and express their regret for all the strain they'd put on his poor, weak heart. His family might show up, possibly. His friends would shake their heads and tell of all the great things they'd never thought of him, with tears in their eyes. And John-bloody-Smith would actually be too ashamed to show his face, and would lament the day he'd ever stirred salt into his special blend.
Interrupted in his morbid thoughts by painful-sounding, hacking coughs, Felix rested his gaze on the customer and the ever more unhappy-looking Bobby. The pile of cups suggested that Mr Smith might, in fact, have tried every last drink on the hot drinks menu.
Mr Smith shook his head with its fabulously ruffled hair, and looked to Felix, who dropped his gaze instantly.
"'Scuse me! You…um…" Felix looked up reluctantly to see Smith squinting at his name badge.
"Felix, sir."
"Felix. Good name." Smith nodded approvingly. "John Smith, not sir, never sir." He grinned, Felix shifted uneasily. "Tell me, Felix. What do you order in a coffee shop?"
Felix paused, staring. "Um…" he tried to gather some coherent thoughts. He'd be happy to say anything to appease this customer. Anything at all. "Um. Tea?"
"Tea!" The entire coffee shop turned to stare at the man's wondrous realisation. "That's it! Tea!" John Smith whirled in a circle, before slamming both hands on the counter. "Felix. You are magnificent. Make me tea!"
Felix set the beverage down in front of his customer with care and subsequently edged very slowly along the counter.
John Smith took his time with his tea. He examined it from every angle, blew on it gently, swirled it with his little finger. When he finally took a sip, he smiled, and sighed with contentment.
"Oh, Felix." He shook his head. "What was I thinking, Felix? Of course it was tea, it was always tea."
"Of course." Felix agreed, somewhat self-consciously, as the tea was downed in one long, satisfied gulp.
"Right then. I'll be off. Places to go. People to see. Worlds to explore. Et cetera et cetera."
"Um. That's fifty-three seventy-five."
"Oh." Smith paused. "That's a lot."
"Yeah, you...drank most of the menu."
"Really? Oh. I suppose I did, yeah." He grinned suddenly. "Well, I've no money. Should I run?"
Bobby appeared quite without warning, interrupting Felix's shrug.
"'Scuse me, sir, but I think you'll find that you assured my colleague that you could pay for your purchase."
Smith frowned. "No. No, I don't think I did. Did I?"
"He didn't." Felix chipped in, without quite knowing what possessed him to do so. He shrank a little at Bobby's icy stare.
"See! He says I didn't!" Smith grinned, joyful.
"It doesn't matter." Growled Bobby. "Y'still have to pay."
"Ohh, don't be like that…"
"I'll pay."
A completely different person, who just so happened to be residing in the same scrawny body as Felix, had surely spoken those words. A spiritual interloper of sorts, who had bounced their way momentarily into Felix's mind, used his power of speech, and then dashed away again, leaving him to deal with the consequences. Felix could think of no good reason why he would even consider volunteering to do such a thing. He didn't have a substantial enough salary to splurge fifty quid on himself on such a whim, let alone perform random acts of charity. Yet the words had been spoken, and they had come from his mouth.
"Pardon?" Smith seemed stunned, but his lips curved in a bemused little half-smile. "What?"
"What, MacArthur?" Bobby's voice was quite thunderous. Felix shifted ever so slightly, trying not to quail.
"I said I'll pay. Um…" He paused, his voice quavering a little. Bobby's eyes were wide and dark and manic. "Um…I've got about twenty quid on me now…I'll square up the rest. From my wages"
Smith eyed him. "Ohh, I can't let you do that."
Felix sighed, becoming frustrated. He tugged his wallet out of his pocket and emptied the contents on the counter. "There. Paying. And my shift's over."
He directed his last comment at Bobby with extremely uncharacteristic defiance.
Felix's eyes remained on Smith as he pulled off his apron. He wasted no time in donning his scarf and coat, remembering with a weak twinge of irritation that it was the only winter coat he actually owned and that the twenty pounds he had just relinquished had only been in his wallet for the purpose of buying a new one that very afternoon.
However, he was set in his decision. The sudden, inexplicable and atypical courage he was feeling seemed unlikely to be a permanent fixture in his usually meek personality, but whilst it lasted he was determined to use it to rebel against Bobby. If that cost him actual, real cash, then so be it.
Stalking huffily across the shop, he felt all his colleagues staring at him with indiscreet disbelief. Uncharacteristically, he resented them. There was only so much he could take. He had resigned himself to a meek and uninteresting existence, but the crushing despair that was married with that had been particularly heavy in recent months. Perhaps this is how it felt to boil over.
Felix didn't miss the little two-fingered wave-salute-thing which Smith directed at him, but he did not return it. There was something about that man which sang out do not associate with me, akin to the instinct to avoid an alleyway at night time, or not to put one's hand in an unknown place, or to jump down a deep dark hole which was known to contain an undetermined something.
Feeling an odd churning prickle in his gut, Felix let himself turn back and look at the strange, tea-drinking, pinstriped man. Just once.
The loss of the fifty pounds was lamented for the rest of the day. As he walked through Edinburgh, he passed the window of his coat-vending shop of choice and paused for a moment.
He did not need the coat. He considered the coat he currently possessed to be something of a signature garment of his. It was not quite stylish, but was multi-purpose, warm, and a neutral shade of grey-black. It was woollen and had big, dependable, metal buttons. He liked to think that it made him look a little more like a man and less like the scrawny, underweight, reclusive fellow that he really was.
The thing is, it was nice to buy something new, if inexpensive, once in a while. He didn't really care for shiny new possessions, but if he went in, tried it on, took his time pretending to browse more expensive garments as though he could actually afford them, took the cheap one to the till and paid as though buying new coats was something he did all the time, then he could make believe for a little while that he was a proper adult with a proper job and a proper house, in a proper relationship and with proper friends. It was just nice.
As he looked in the window with mild longing, just for a second longer, he resented the man who called himself John Smith. Yes, the satisfaction of having so bravely defied Bobby still lingered, but was slowly fading to be replaced by a realisation of how wearing it would be to return to his next shift with the resentful Glaswegian.
He shoved his thoughts brutally aside as he reached the train station. It was packed and unwelcoming and urged him to tug all his possessions closer.
Consolingly, the train neared almost as soon as he reached the platform, rushing and screaming as it hissed to a halt. Buffeted by commuters, Felix shoved his hand into his pocket to grip his phone tightly and bundled his backpack under his arm as he wormed his wiry frame through the gaps.
Once on the train, he picked a window seat which appeared solitary, but was nonetheless soon joined by a teenage girl who made every attempt possible to engage him in conversation. Felix wondered why she was so keen to impart to him the finer details of her personal life, given that he could easily be a person of a dangerous nature (despite appearances), but he politely humoured her anyway. It wasn't too irritating after a while as long as he remembered to nod awkwardly and make the odd sympathetic noise.
He wasn't unused to being a shoulder to cry on. All Edinburgh's lost, lonely and broken-hearted souls seemed to flock daily to his workplace and, knowing that he would not complain and was quite used to being put upon, Felix's colleagues would stand aside and allow him to serve any potential weepers or whiners. He was not particularly good at offering comfort, but he was at least accustomed to listening to long monologues without seeming rudely uninterested.
So he sat, resisting the temptation to put his forehead to the window and close his weary eyes, nodding and 'ahh'-ing at all the correct intervals. His eyes slowly began to glaze over. His mind floated elsewhere, dwelling uneasily on the fact that Bobby would likely find a way to report him to higher powers for some imaginary offence, after his earlier display of mutiny. Felix's sudden, strange drive to challenge had long since faded and been replaced by regretful nausea; although Bobby was not widely listened to amongst his bosses, neither was Felix. A confrontation would not be a welcoming prospect.
He could not fathom, now that he had regained enough rationality to put things into perspective, where such desires to irk his most intimidating co-worker had come from. Felix did not make a habit of provoking people or things which might cause hassle, so it was tremendously unusual for him to have an urge to so forwardly toy with Bobby's rage.
It was John Smith's fault, he knew that much. If he lost his job, that'd be John Smith's fault too. At least when he was redundant and homeless, Felix would be able to blame John Smith, the pinstriped, tea-drinking stranger.
Felix listed his reasoning for his in his head.
Firstly, had Smith not entered the café in the first place, there would never have arisen a situation during which Felix could have been tempted to fork out of his own wallet to aid a man who was so openly confronting Bobby and the rightful order of his coffee shop.
Secondly, had John Smith not appeared to be quite so in need of tea, the barista would not have been afflicted with the pity necessary to extend the hand of charity.
Lastly, and most importantly, it had seemed to be John Smith's presence which had infected Felix with the necessary courage to act so boldly. As soon as the man had begun to order, the barista had perked up and felt at least marginally less zombie-like and at the same time experienced a tiny jerk somewhere amongst his internal organs. He had been too preoccupied to identify it at the time but now, he recognised it as unmistakeable envy. John Smith had walked in emanating waves of the strongest kind of oddness, it was true, but amidst that, the suppressed idealist dreamer who resided within Felix had nseen not madnessot seen madness, but self-confidence, an admirable self-assured courageousness. Without quite knowing why, Felix had envied this, and borne from this envy had been borne a very un-Felix-y boldness.
So it was John Smith's fault. He could blame John Smith for whatever came of his actions, and it was a comfort to have someone to blame.
An hour or two after the girl left, when he delved into his bag to extract a little packet of salted peanuts, he found that a tiny slip of paper had been not-so-discreetly slid into a side pocket. Scrawled on it was the name 'Jay', a mobile number and a painfully teenage e-mail address. Felix folded the paper into a miniscule square and slipped it between his seat and the one beside him. Sometimes, he wished he were the type of person capable of being very, very rude, or failing that, a particularly spiky-looking porcupine.