Be Jake English.
You are now Jake English, and hey, it's the sleepy guy again. "Hello again, uh..." It's then you remember that he didn't give out his name. "Dirk Strider." He replies, and you wonder if he's tired or just a man of action! He hasn't got any gear, though, so you guess he had another late night. "Right then, what will you have today?" "Tea, just give me whatever one you like." You suppose he isn't tired, and a small voice in the back of your head wonders if you've done something to offend him. You hope not, as he seems like a fun guy, albeit a quiet one. Pouring out the Lady Grey, adding in the requisite thin slice of lemon, and handing it to him, you sort of wish Jane was here. It wouldn't surprise you if she turned out to be some kind of heiress, considering her impeccable manners. Oh well.
He sits down without paying, and you consider asking him for the money but decide against it at the last second, hoping he'll pay when he leaves. After about two minutes of pretending to clean up, your curiosity gets the best of you. "So, another night out on the town?" You ask him, and when he takes a second to reply you wonder if he's asleep again. "No, but I was in the neighborhood. Figured I'd come again." He pauses. "Oh, God, I didn't pay you. Why didn't you tell me?" Why didn't you tell him? Does it really matter that he's a bit intimidating? He's just a customer. Before you get a chance to reply, he gives you a five dollar bill, telling you to keep the change. "That's four dollars, Mr. Strider." You say, because it felt sort of wrong to be getting such a big tip for your social idiocy. "Dirk. And I know- just consider it paying for the espresso." "Thanks, then, Dirk." As he walks out, you think you see him smile a bit.
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Be Dirk Strider.
You are now Dirk Strider, and-OW JESUS WHAT THE EVERLOVING JEFF WAS THAT YOU DOUCHEPANCAKE!? The aschloch who hit you speeds off faster than a drunk driver on the rainbow road, and you hear a jangle of the coffeehouse door opening as you flash his licence plate with a one fingered salute and a "I hope you get beaten up by Pinkie fucking Pie, you paleolithic fuck!".
"Dirk, are you alright?!" Jake asks, sprinting towards you before hovering a bit as he tries to decide which limb looks most injured. "Yeah, bro. Just a flesh wound." Trying to stand up again, you realize that no, it was not just a flesh wound. You find this out sometime between the sharp pain shooting down your right leg and landing your ass onto the pavement. "Okay, uh, maybe a bit of help would be useful," you manage to say as you grit your teeth and try not to freak out the perpetually excited Jake English. He helps you up, and woah, he's actually kinda buff. You decide to lean against him as putting any pressure on your right ankle makes you collapse onto him completely. Using him as a human crutch, you realize that there's no way you can drive, much less walk to Roxy' s, who's probably passed out anyway.
"Listen, I know that this is imposing on you and all, but would you mind driving me to the hospital? I'm really sorry, but if I try to go by myself I'll probably cause another accident." You ask, feeling awkward and wondering where the hell your debonair attitude flew off to. Damn, if your bro could see you now he'd laugh at you. He'll, he's probably hosting a telepathic chuckle gala right now from whatever hotel room he's camping in. Cold gin, hot pianos, eccentric millionaire, yellow car, the works. Regardless of your sudden loss of charm and cool, Jake happily agrees. It occurs to you as he pretty much carries you to his car that he could be a murderer or rapist waiting to strike, but you decide you'd rather take your chances with him than drag your sorry ass on a train and hobble over to the ER.
As you're lowered into the shotgun seat, mumbling thanks and promising to buy him a drink- not coffee- once this is all over, you figure there's no turning back now, and mention to him that you still have one leg you can kick his ass with if he does try to kill you. He laughs at that, saying he'll ward off your attack with his "aura of unappreciated chivalry." You chuckle back.
Limping into the sterile-ish waiting room and giving up entirely on trying to use your right leg, you wonder if buying a "drink-not coffee" for the barista who didn't abduct you and took you to the emergency room counted as a date.