Sherry Cracker Gets Normal

‘As soon as I get five quid together.’

I watched him slouch off and wondered where he would get the rest of the money. It was not uncommon to observe people asking for cash or cigarettes from townspeople but I did not often see them rewarded.

Nigel was waiting for me on the corner in front of the betting shop. I had not seen him pass me and had no idea how he had got there. He pointed to an electronic signboard hanging in the window of the pawn shop next door. Running across the board in red diode lettering were the words: ‘We buy used gold! Divorcees trade in those wedding bands then double your cash on the nags.’

‘That does not seem very ethical,’ I said.

Nigel laughed. ‘The punterers will be cutting the ring fingers off their grannies.’

There was truth to what the boy said. Gambling is a compulsive activity and can prompt an addicted person to engage in desperate behaviour. Mr Chin had told me he would never employ a gambler. ‘Policy of office strict,’ he explained during my job interview. ‘Gambler forbidden and not permitted. Chin never trust such fool. Gambler worst kind of weak and stupid person. Never care for family. Only care for money and more money.’

I motioned for Nigel to follow and led him down the side street towards Ted’s Famously Fine Coffee and Teas. The café is a small place with colourful plastic tablecloths and solid wooden chairs. It serves an all-day breakfast of fried bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and eggs on a pool of baked beans. The price of breakfast includes a large mug of tea or coffee. There is a sign above the counter that reads: ‘Our teas and coffees are made the old-fashioned way – by Ted’s very own fine hand’.

For a month now I have been going to Ted’s every Monday and Thursday after work to observe people and collate my notes. I would like to go every day but I do not want to overstay my welcome. This has happened to me before in other places and I have learned to pace myself. Most people are able to pace themselves without thinking but pacing does not come naturally to me. If I like a place, I want to go there all the time. I would spend many more hours in the office if Mr Chin were not so strict.

Twice a week seems about right for Ted because he always raises his eyebrows and greets me with a familiar, ‘You again’. It is not often that I am recognised and greeted as a regular customer. Ted lets me spend as much time as I like in his café but insists I use a small table and buy at least one drink per hour. ‘House policy,’ he says.

This time, however, Ted did not give me his usual greeting. He looked at the boy beside me.

‘I’ve got my eye on you,’ he said.

‘Aren’t I the lucky one,’ replied Nigel. He winked.

‘Don’t try any funny business.’

The boy snorted. ‘A funny thing happened on the way to a funeral.’

‘That’s not funny!’ Ted pushed his large stomach against the counter and tapped its surface with a stubby finger. ‘The recently bereaved come in here.’

‘Did you hear the one about the bishop and the button mushroom?’

‘Watch your mouth! I’ll not have Roman Catholics offended. Buy something or get out.’

‘Keep your hair on, Teddy boy.’ Nigel pointed to me. ‘She’s buying me one of your fine teas.’

‘What the hell are you doing with this delinquent?’ Ted turned to me, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t think your sort had friends, especially not his sort.’

‘He’s not a friend,’ I said. ‘I’ve hired him to help me.’

‘I doubt he helps anyone but himself.’ Ted’s eyes shifted to Nigel and then back to me. ‘So, what will Her Ladyship be having?’

‘I’ll have one of your famous milk coffees and my employee will have a Coke and fairy cake with his tea.’

‘Fairy cake?’ Ted’s thin lips parted in a smile. It was a tight smile that did not reveal any teeth. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books.’

I used one of Mr Chin’s twenty-pound notes to pay the four pounds forty for the order before leading Nigel over to a table for two near the window. As I sat down, I noticed a message had been scratched into the glass with something hard like a diamond ring or glasscutter. Each letter of ‘Chantelle Corby Luvs it’ was made up of multiple scratches. Nigel sniggered at the graffiti.

‘Bet that pisses off old Ted,’ he said.

‘He doesn’t seem to like you,’ I replied, sliding the tray over to the boy. I removed the notebook from my bag and began noting down the graffiti.

‘He’s a prick.’

‘He’s always very welcoming to me.’

‘You call that a welcome?’ The boy took a bite of the cake and screwed up his nose. ‘This must be fifty years old. Probably crawling with salmonellera.’

‘Ted makes all his cakes and beverages by hand.’

‘I don’t want to know that.’ He frowned but kept eating.

‘He says that his coffee is superior to machine-made espresso and cappuccino.’ I took a sip of my instant coffee. It was tepid and weak, just how I liked it. ‘Ted says the steam jets of modern machines destroy the flavour of the beans and can lead to cancer.’

Nigel stopped chewing and frowned at me. ‘Are you really a wally or is this an act?’

‘Wally?’ I glanced over at Ted who was wiping a tabletop with a grey washcloth. ‘I prefer the coffee here. It’s light and remarkably thirst-quenching. Even more thirst-quenching than a glass of tap water. It doesn’t prevent me from sleeping at night.’

‘I bet it doesn’t.’

Ted’s café is one of the few places in town still furnished with a payphone. It is an old pink ring-dial model with a slot for coins. Around its base is a strip of brown tape with the words ‘FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY’ written in red marker. The phone is often in use and not always by customers. There are not many phone booths left in the town and it is often difficult to find one in working order.

I walked over and brought back the Yellow Pages. The phonebook was dog-eared and its cover had been defaced with doodles and swear words. I opened it at P and ran my eye over the page before sliding it across the table to Nigel, who was unscrewing the lid of the sugar dispenser.

‘I’d like you to choose a psychological expert from this list.’

‘Why can’t you do it yourself?’

‘Decision-making is difficult for me. I have a problem with choices.’

‘That’s not normal.’

‘Correct.’

‘You’ll be wasting your money. All those psychologicalists are pricks.’

I nudged the phonebook closer to the boy. ‘I need to see a therapist as soon as possible. I have no time to lose.’

Nigel finished pouring the contents of the salt container into the sugar dispenser and then screwed the lid back on. He looked up, pleased with himself. ‘You’d better pay me.’

‘Of course I’ll pay you! I’ve been given money to get normal by Monday. This afternoon tea and your salary are my first investments.’

‘Whatever.’ The boy shrugged and ran a finger down the listings, stopping at the name Poulet. He sniggered. ‘Here’s one for you. Pooh-let.’

‘Could you call and make an appointment?’ I did not bother to explain the challenges of telephony without the prompts and responses of the Honey Trap.

‘Give me your mobile.’ He held out his hand.

‘I don’t have one. It’s a personal policy.’