Bad Coffee

‘What’s that?’ the noticeably sleep-deprived taxi driver asks, whilst looking back at me in the smudged rear-view mirror.

‘Oh, this?' — I lift up the opened, transparent cartridge that has thick, red liquid inside — ‘it’s just replacement juice for my vaporiser. I am filling her up.’

‘Ah, right,’ he responds in a sceptical tone. ‘That’s fine, but don’t be lighting that thing up in here. Ya hear?’ he says sternly whilst pointing at the scuffed no-smoking sign on the dashboard to his right-hand side.

‘No, no, I wouldn’t dream of doing that!’ I reply in an overly friendly manner. For 6am on a Monday morning, I don’t want any interactions with people, let alone a disagreement with my ride to the airport.

‘Okay. It’s just that some people I pick up think those things are an exception to the rule. Well, I am telling ya, my friend — they ain’t. And have been known to cause just as much damage as a normal straight. D’you know that?’ The driver chuckles whilst scratching his stubbled chin.

‘I wasn’t aware. Thanks for letting me know,’ I say in a flat and disinterested tone, as I watch streams of rainwater trickle down the window. Beyond, there are gormless views of industrial buildings, shrouded in darkness before the beckoning of dawn; their silhouettes barely visible, caressed by the spiritless light emitting from infrequent street lamps. Sat in the back of this car with these uninspiring views reminds me of being stuck inside my apartment. Those countless weeks spent alone. Claustrophobia. The indefiniteness.

‘So, how come you’re heading to the airport?’ The driver asks over his shoulder, as he adjusts the wind-wipers to accommodate the increasing flow of rainwater.

Clearly, he isn’t someone who understands the early morning etiquette of remaining quiet unless the customer is animated and obviously willing to engage in conversation. At first, I pretend I haven’t heard his question, but decide not to be a complete ignoramus, so I clear my throat, which is dry from the terrible coffee I forced down before hailing this taxi.

‘I’m going to visit some friends out in California,’ I respond, pocketing the vaporiser and empty cartridge.

‘Let’s hope the weather is better out there this time of year compared to here, huh?’ He chuckles once more. He then huffs. ‘This rain always makes the traffic worse. It’s like people become useless once some rain starts falling. Nightmare, I tell ya!’

‘Haha, rather you than me, my friend,’ I try, tragically, to humour him, but we exchange awkward glances as he pierces his lips and shakes his head at the amounting traffic that lies ahead.

I’m not sure whether it is the effects of the cheap coffee bean I had just punished my body with, but as I sit here I am immersed with irritability. I feel enclosed within the back of this taxi. There is a lingering, musty smell and the interior needs a deep clean. It reminds me of my apartment, of how I neglected it for all of those months, as I gazed listlessly into space.

I then lean over, in a very abrupt fashion. ’Is this traffic going to make me late for my flight? It is in three-quarters-of-an-hour.’

‘Most likely, pal.’ He then turns around and shrugs. ‘There ain’t much I can do.’

Suddenly, the anxiety intensifies and I am aware of the lack of air in the back of the car.

‘Just let me out here and I will walk the rest of the way.’ I try to contain myself.

‘Sure thing.’ He then reads the meter. ‘That’ll be $32.75. Let’s just call it $33.’

‘Sure.’ I then rummage in my pocket, finding crinkled notes and coins amongst receipts and chewing gum wrappers, and then drop them onto the paying tray. ‘Keep the change!’

I then open the car door and don’t hear the driver behind as he says, ‘Ay! Don’t forget your luggage in the boot!’

I jump out onto the pavement as rain thunders down upon me. Whether it is my lack of spatial awareness or visibility due to the rain, I misjudge my footing. No sooner had I stepped out, I watch in dismay as the pavement comes towards me.

My right cheek collides with the wet surface and my body followed afterwards. In that brief moment of agony and utter embarrassment, I see the dreary skies overhead and quickly stagger to my feet in the hope my driver hasn’t seen me. I can feel a pain in my right knee and a throbbing sensation in my head. Looking through the taxi door, I see the driver looking over his shoulder in my direction.

‘You okay there, pal?’ he asks in concern. I limp forward and lean in to speak to him.

‘Yes, thanks.’ I then pat down my soaked abdomen. ‘Everything is intact!’

‘…Apart from my dignity.’

‘You sure you don’t want me to drive you all the way there?’

‘No, it is fine — honestly,’ I say casually whilst ignoring the increasing pain in my knee.

‘Okay. Well, I have popped the boot. Do you need help with getting out your luggage?’

‘No, it is okay.’ I force a smile as rain dribbles down my face.

I then stand up, take a moment to allow my eyes to focus, and then walk around to the back of the car and open the boot. All the while, oblivious to the rain that has now made my hair into a mop and soaked through my clothing.

Inside, I find a single suitcase — all of my possessions. Well, at least everything I need. I am leaving all else behind.

I remove the suitcase, close the boot, give it a few taps to signal to the driver, and then walk back onto the pavement. The taxi then indicates and momentarily drives off. I withdraw the vaporiser from my top pocket, put it to my mouth, activate the device, and then inhale the cherry-flavoured vapour.

Instantly, I am flooded with the synthetic nicotine hit. Slight light-headedness. Still oblivious to the rain thundering down upon me.

Self-service check-in. Glorious — the less amount of human contact, the better. I walk over to the machine, place the suitcase to the side, remove my passport from my top pocket, and then start to follow the on-screen instructions.

Around me, I see families, young professionals and back-packers all going through the same process. The air is thick with anticipation. I watch them all bustling around in an ant-like manner, uncertain as to where they might be heading.

So many different lives, stories and trajectories. So many different options.

Triggered — my thoughts start to spiral incessantly.

And I get that feeling again — the irritability. But this time it is mixed with a dash of crippling anxiety and a disorientating emptiness in the pit of my stomach. I am probably having a comedown from that cheap coffee. I remember purchasing it in a zombified state from that little kiosk whilst I waited to hail the taxi. The woman inside was pleasant enough, but whatever she was pumping out was like battery acid. Or perhaps it is just me? Perhaps I have pretentious tastes and unrealistic expectations towards what she had on offer?

The machine makes a noise. I awaken from my daydream. The ticket is printed. My stomach churns. I suddenly remember that I am soaked in rainwater and probably look dishevelled and unapproachable.

I check my watch — I have ten minutes before the boarding gate opens. Looking feverishly over my shoulders, I scan the horizon for a coffee shop. I notice there are people waiting behind, so in a flustered, somewhat manic state, I apologise, grab the suitcase and start edging away.

I am standing there in the queue, one hand extended downwards to the strap on the top of the suitcase. I should have invested in one of those newer models with the retractable handle and wheels. Instead, I am hunched over, gradually pushing it forward as I get closer to the desk, whilst simultaneously taking large sips from the coffee in my other hand, in an attempt to finish it before boarding. It is from one of those overly priced, bad-quality big brands. Usually, I wouldn’t sink so low, but couldn’t help getting another fix.

But I accept this accentuates how I am already feeling.

‘There you go,’ I say warmly to the desk attendant, handing over my passport and ticket. She smiles at me, but I can see a slight squint in her eye conveying her judgement towards how I appear.

‘Sir, you’ll need to finish your coffee before boarding.’

‘No problem,’ I say, before arching back my neck and swallowing the last few mouthfuls of the revolting tar-like liquid.

There is a space in the overhead compartment for my suitcase. Thank goodness. Nothing worse than having to wade through the sea of passengers at the end of a flight to collect your luggage from another part of the plane. I look at the seats behind and feel relieved there aren’t any children sat there who might cry or kick at my seat during the flight. I can sense people behind me waiting to get to their own seats. I grab the suitcase with both hands and zealously throw it into the compartment.

The caffeine is kicking in. I feel alert and a spritely excitement to take off.

There is a man sat in the aisle seat, so I ask him to stand so that I can make my way to the window seat. He obliges, hoists himself up, and we exchange sealed-lip smiles and nods, as I side-step past and duck my head to avoid hitting the air conditioning nozzles.

Once I sit down, I wriggle around to pull the seat straps from under my rear, fasten the buckle, tighten the belt, sit back, and then close my eyes.

It is only at this moment that I truly acknowledge how wet my clothing is. Like a wet dog dragged in from the storm. I hope that the middle seat will remain empty for the flight.

But as I contemplate this, and my swollen knee jerks with the rush of caffeine surging through my bloodstream, two things happen at once:

I am awash with anxiety at the realisation that we are about to take off. I fucking hate to take off. It is one of the most dangerous parts of the flying process. Even though I have flown numerous times, that doesn’t mean I won’t be part of the annual statistic of plane accidents. We always think it will happen to other people. It is one of those cognitive biases. And as I accept the possibility of my imminent death and the tragic loss of such wasted youth and talent, my hands start to moisten.

I can feel the pressure of another body sitting down next to me. I hope my clothes don’t smell damp, and they won’t judge me. My nostrils are tantalised by the subtle, sweet aroma of perfume. Even though I wouldn’t class myself as a specialist in fragrances — I can tell this isn’t cheap. This woman takes pride in her appearance.

And then the heart palpitations begin. I can feel my organ thundering relentlessly within my chest. My internal thermostat is reaching breaking point.

Restlessly, I rub my hands on my thighs to remove the sweat, before taking a deep breath to settle my nerves, before opening my eyes and looking towards the passenger seat to my side.

She is a young woman, probably in her mid-thirties, and attractive. Suddenly, I become self-conscious, my internal monologue of various voices scream in dismay at how shambolic I look sat here next to her.

‘Hi,’ I say casually, looking in her direction. Our eyes connect.

‘Hi,’ she replies amicably, whilst tightening her belt.

For a moment, I consider leaving it at that, but this caffeine is giving me a new lease of vitality. ‘So how come you’re off to LA?’

‘Oh, I have a meeting this afternoon.’ She sits up straight. Wonderful posture.

‘I see. Not something that could be done over a video call?’

‘No, I have to attend a conference. Big corporate stuff. How about you?’

I notice my knee is still jerking erratically, so put a hand down to stop it. ‘I am off to visit friends. Not sure if I will come back.’

‘Oh, right. So a one-way ticket?’

‘Yeah.’ Suddenly, I feel panic-stricken. I feverishly reach inside the pockets of my coat to check I have the ticket, along with my passport and vaporiser. And for some reason, I pull out the latter.

She notices this and says, ‘You know you can’t smoke those things on here?’

‘Oh, no!’ I chuckle awkwardly and swiftly place it back in the pocket. ‘Just checking to make sure I have it.’

She smiles and nods, before looking forward.

Overhead, there is a soft binging noise. I look to the front of the plane and can see that the hostesses have taken their seats. I had taken no notice of the safety presentation. I take a look out of the window and can see that we are positioned on the runway and the plane is about to take off.

Again, I am awash with anxiety. My heart pounds with a rip-roaring rhythm in my chest. My hands are clammy. I feel like I want to stand up and get off the plane. But it is too late. I am stuck here— my fate undecided.

Moments later, I feel the force of the engines powering up, the G-force pushes me back into the seat and the plane surges forward.

Without a slight glimmer of self-restraint, I blurt out: ‘can I hold your hand?’

There is an awkward silence. I instantly regret saying it.

‘No,’ she replies, obviously taken aback by my weird behaviour.

‘It is not me, it is the coffee talking.’

‘Don’t worry, I get that too,’ she suddenly says to me.

‘What?’ I expel.

‘I get jittery after a strong coffee.’

I realise that I was thinking out loud. A cold shiver of embarrassment engulfs my body.

Then it happens. Right on cue. My body clock functions so well. On a normal morning, I would be awake by now. And what with the ingestion of all that coffee, this was bound to happen.

As the plane takes off, I close my eyes and grip the armrests tightly with my fingers, whilst feeling my bowels gyrating. In my mind’s eye, I can see clothes swirling around in a washing machine. A water acrobatics group elegantly pirouetting.

I clench my butt cheeks and swallow hard.

‘This is going to be a long flight.’

I open one eye and look in her direction. Thankfully, this time I had kept my thoughts to myself.