The Real Thing

by Joe Mallon

The two men stood outside Cuppa Joe.  “Cold for this time of year,” Mickey said.

Stuart nodded.  “Sit inside?”

Mickey shook his head, holding up a pack of Camels.  “Can’t smoke.”

“Can’t smoke on the patio either.  Those are the rules.”

Mickey tucked the smokes back in his pocket.  “Jesus.  I thought we finished the ‘no smoking on the patio’ argument. Inside it is.”

Stuart pointed as they walked in.  “The seat in the bay window is open.”

“Grab it. Quick.”

The barista came over.  “Can I help you? Or do you need a few minutes?”

Mickey looked up at the barista.  “I’ll have a dark roast, large, hot, and black.  And a donut.  Chocolate.”

Stuart studied the menu.  “I’ll have… a cappuccino, and…. A gluten-free blueberry muffin.”

Mickey pursed his lips.  “You know what I wanna know?  We been coming here every Wednesday for, what, ten years now?  And every single time you look at the menu, then order the same goddamn thing.  A cappuccino and a gluten-free blueberry muffin.  Every goddamn time.”

Stuart put the menu down.  “I don’t like to be predictable.”

“Yeah, but you are predictable.  What’s worse, the barista knows exactly what both of us are going to order because we’ve been coming here for ten years and he always asks, ‘can I help you or do you need a few minutes?’  You’d think by now he’d know the routine.”

“In fairness,” said Stuart, “he’s only been working here for five.”

“Christ.”

The barista brought their drinks and pastries.

“Cheers,” said Stuart, as he raised his cappuccino.

“Back atcha,” Mickey said, tipping cups.  “And that gluten-free crap.  Has it made any kind of difference in your life?  Because from my point of view, nothing’s changed.  I’m just sayin’.”

Stuart sighed.  You know about my condition.  We’ve been over that, too.  Ad nauseum.”

“Still.” 

Mickey took a sip of the steaming hot brew.  “Ahhh.  Best dark roast in Chicago.  Can’t beat it.”

Stuart nodded.  “Cuppa Joe is a fine café. Its cappuccino is also the finest in Chicago.”

“Café?  We’re not in France.  It’s a coffeeshop.”  He took another sip of his coffee, hands gripped around the mug.

Stuart shook his head.  “I won’t take the bait.”

“What?”

“Café versus coffeeshop.”

Mickey shrugged.  “I’m just making a point.”

They sat in silence.

“Wish we could sit on the patio,” Mickey winced.  He dunked his donut in the coffee.

Stuart nodded.  “As do I.”

“Imagine.  Sitting outside, sun on our faces, you with your fufu drink and me with my joe.”

“I prefer the shade.”

“Christ in heaven.  You argue just to argue.  You know that?” He took two large gulps from the mug.

Stuart shook his head.  “I’m merely stating my position.”

Mickey rolled his eyes.  He looked over to the counter.  “Hey.  Barista.”  He waved his mug.  “How about a refill?”

Stuart cut his gluten-free blueberry muffin in half.  “You should try this.  It’s quite delicious.”

“I’ll stick to my donut.”  He dunked the rest of it into the coffee, bits of the donut now floating in the mug.

Mickey looked out the window.  A car drove by.  Three teenagers walked past the window, two girls and a guy.  High school kids.

Stuart sat, hands folded.

A Coca Cola delivery truck, bright red with white stenciled letters, rolled past the window.

Mickey smiled.

He turned back to Stuart.  Raising his eyebrows and dipping his chin, he said, “You want a real drink? Coke.  A nice Coca- Cola.”

Stuart shrugged.  “I’ll stick with my cappuccino.”

“You get the can nice and cold. I mean really cold.”  Mickey looked out the window again, hoping for another glance at the delivery truck.  “Even better?  Get one of those old bottles.  Get the glass cold, too. Fill it with ice, right up to the top.”  His voice, softening, assumed a mystical quality that arose from his very soul.  “You tilt the glass and pour the Coke down the side of it so you’re not melting the ice, see?  Then at the last second, you straighten the glass.”  He paused.  “You know why?” His eyes gleamed, a small, expectant grin on his face.

“You most certainly cannot expect an answer.”

“Gives you a nice head on it.  You can smell it, it’s so good.” 

Mickey closed his eyes, inhaling, a contented smile on his face. “Yeah, Coke is it.  The real thing.  Just like the commercials say.”

Stuart raised his mug.  He pointed at it.  “No Coke.  Cappuccino.” 

Mickey leaned over, elbows on the table, smiling.  “Let me ask you something.  A hypothetical situation.”

“Oh, please don’t.”

 “What if Coke was still The Real Thing?”

“What do you mean?”

Mickey sat back, hands behind his head.  “Well, I mean, take the 1920s. Coke had coke in it. I’m talking real, honest-to-God cocaine.  What if they had it now?  What if you could walk into a store, put your money down, and buy a bottle of The Real Thing?  With cane sugar in it, too.  Like the Mexicans.”

“What’s the cane sugar have to do with getting high?”

“Nothing.  I like sugar.”  Mickey leaned forward.  “Would you drink it?”

“I thought Coke had high fructose corn syrup in it.  Not sugar.”

Mickey cocked his head, getting closer.  “You never had a Mexican Coke?  Uses cane sugar.  I mean real cane sugar.Opens up a whole new world.”  Mickey smiled.

“Does it come in Diet?”

Mickey rolled his eyes.  “How the hell could Mexican Coke be Diet if it’s using cane sugar?”

“No, I mean The Real Thing? Does it come in Diet?”

“I told you. It’s all hypothetical.  The issue—” he placed his palms flat on the table— “the issue is whether you’d drink a Coke with coke in it.”

“Can’t afford all the calories.  So, I will need to know if I can get it in Diet Coke.”

Mickey raised his hands, palms out. “For Christ’s sake.  Let’s say they could put cocaine in Diet Coke.  Would you try the damn stuff?”

He scratched his chin.  “I don’t know.  Did they make Diet Coke in the ‘20s?”

Mickey swept his hand through his hair.  “How the hell would I know if they made Diet Coke in the ‘20s?  Who gives a shit? Would you— or would you not— drink regular or Diet Coke if it had cocaine in it?”

Stuart sipped his cappuccino.  “You sure are passionate about this.”

Mickey took a drink of his coffee.  “Great. Now my coffee’s cold. All because you”— he knocked twice on the table— “won’t give me a straight answer.”

“I’m just trying to understand the rules.  Besides, you got it in a mug, not a to-go cup.  No lid.”  He took a drink.  “Ahh. Nice and hot.”

“Yeah, but it tastes better out of a mug.”

“Cold coffee? I’ll bet it’s great.”  He put his cup down.  “Now explain the rules one more time.”

Mickey looked out the window, then back at his friend. A long, noisy breath escaped him.

“Rules. Jeez. There are no rules.  It’s a simple question,” he said, shaking his head, the quiet sound of defeat in his voice.

“I’m a Pepsi guy.”

“Oh, Jesus.”  Mickey pulled at his hair.  His voice rose an octave.  Without turning around, he waved his cup. “Barista.  One more round.  And give it a shot of espresso.

“Did Pepsi have coke in it?”

“No. For fuck’s sake, no,” Mickey said, his voice rising again.

The barista looked over.

“Then where did they get the name ‘Pepsi?’  Another drug?  Have you thought of that? Pepsi sounds a lot like pepsin, you know.  A digestive aid.  Do digestive aids use cocaine?  Have you ever thought of that, wise guy?”  He leaned back, hands behind his head, a victorious smirk on his face.

Mickey’s hands shook.  “It. Doesn’t. Matter.”

“And it does have the word ‘cola’ in it.  A small step from cola to cocaine.  Pepsi-Cola.  Makes you think.”

“No.”  Mickey’s eyes went cold.  “It does not make you think.  Only Coca-Cola had coke in it.  So would you drink it or not?”

“Dr Pepper definitely would not have cocaine in it.  Nowhere does the word coke or cola appear, so let’s put that aside.  And the odds of pepper being in a soft drink?  Nil.  So, you really have to wonder about that one.”  Consternation crossed his face.  “You seem to be growing upset.”

Mickey’s voice lowered again, shaking.  “Yes…or no?”

“I told you.  I’m a Pepsi man.”

Mickey stood up, lifted his shirt, and pulled out a Glock 19 tucked in the small of his back.  He raised the gun and racked it, drawing circles in the air.

 “Listen you bastard, for ten years you’ve been doing this to me.  Always with the questions.  Or some stupid hypothetical.” 

Stuart looked at the gun. “The gun is uncalled for, Mickey.  I always thought we viewed our conversations as harmless banter.”

“Give me your answer now or I’ll shoot.  I swear to God, this will be the last cup of coffee we ever have.”

“I drink cappuccino.  And, again, I’m a Pepsi man.”

“Answer.  Now.”  The gun, now lowered, shook in Mickey’s hand.

“Diet Pepsi.”

Mickey pulled the trigger.  The deafening roar of the Glock roared through the room.  The thud of a shattered body dropped to the floor.

The smell of sulfur overpowered the nutty aroma of brewing coffee. Smokey silence engulfed the coffee shop for a brief moment.

“The crazy bastard shot himself.”  Stuart stared down at the body of Mickey, now missing a head.

Stuart stood up from the table.  “Now there’s something you don’t see every day.” 

The barista stood paralyzed. “ Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.  I’ll go for help.”

“I believe the proper rule is to call nine-one-one.”

The barista, frozen, unable to act.

His brow furrowed, Stuart studied the café, assessing the befuddling situation in which he found himself.

He turned to the barista.

 “Young man, would you be so kind as to place me at a new table and prepare for me a fresh cappuccino?”