Oscar spent a majority of his mornings on the patio nursing hangovers with a regimen of espresso shots, Australian sparkling ale, hydrocodone (when he had it) and mineral water. Three years in Austin as a waiter and manager for a wine bar should have deterred him from opening his own business but he had an unfeigned love affair with coffee. Oscar changed clothes once a week and his hands were by and large the only clean parts of his anatomy. Anyone within his tightest circle of friends complained only half-heartedly about the volume of social media notifications they might receive from Oscar during any given day. The barrage began around 10am when he would stroll the single block between his duplex apartment and the shop, his Vader shaped lenses forever fixed on the screen in his palm, his furious tussle of hair forever a black brush stroke across the back of his head. It was rare to receive one-to-one text messages from Oscar. By noon, Hatchet had already seen two.
Let me buy you a coffee.
We’ll talk about your tab.
Although Oscar would generally allow his tab to run higher than most customers, in the days leading up to heist, it would reach a milestone at well over $500. Access to fresh coffee and hard cider made his preparations much more endurable if not more efficient. Just prior to Hatchet’s arrival, Oscar had fired one of his teenage employees, a girl so goth, if she were dead, she wouldn’t have known and she would still be standing in the center of room, screaming obscenities with spittle popping from her mouth like welding slag. Marcus stepped around her just as her spaghetti noodle frame ran out of wind. She gave Oscar a demonic stare-down. Shades in place, Oscar kept his mouth shut and with a single click on his phone replaced the husky voiced folk singer on the PA with the Imperial March from Star Wars. The room full of customers shared a guilty chuckle as she almost sprained an ankle in her angry about-face exit.
I take it you’re in a glorious mood, Hatchet said. Walking on sunshine, Oscar told him, grab a coffee; I’ll be in the office. Hatchet toed the door closed and sat in a chair in the tiny room cluttered with canvas paintings and expired office machines. Your tab sucks, Oscar said and tossed the shades onto the landscape of paper that covered his desktop. You know I’m good for it. That doesn’t really help me right now, does it? You do have a point. This shit kills me, Hatchet, I have to replace a roof this year and they don’t make a door on an ice maker that my employees can’t destroy; they should be winning trophies. I hear you, Oscar. But fuck it, look, the Annual Black & White Show is right around the corner and one of my artists dropped out last night; you haven’t hung a photo in my place in over a year. I haven’t been showing much at all. That’s stupid; that means you’re not selling much. It’s been on my mind. Bottom line, I want you in the show and I want a seventy-five percent commission until you're paid-up; I’ll even do the unthinkable and forgive you $100. What’s the date? The 17th. That just might work out perfectly for me, Oscar.
Let me buy you a coffee.
We’ll talk about your tab.
Although Oscar would generally allow his tab to run higher than most customers, in the days leading up to heist, it would reach a milestone at well over $500. Access to fresh coffee and hard cider made his preparations much more endurable if not more efficient. Just prior to Hatchet’s arrival, Oscar had fired one of his teenage employees, a girl so goth, if she were dead, she wouldn’t have known and she would still be standing in the center of room, screaming obscenities with spittle popping from her mouth like welding slag. Marcus stepped around her just as her spaghetti noodle frame ran out of wind. She gave Oscar a demonic stare-down. Shades in place, Oscar kept his mouth shut and with a single click on his phone replaced the husky voiced folk singer on the PA with the Imperial March from Star Wars. The room full of customers shared a guilty chuckle as she almost sprained an ankle in her angry about-face exit.
I take it you’re in a glorious mood, Hatchet said. Walking on sunshine, Oscar told him, grab a coffee; I’ll be in the office. Hatchet toed the door closed and sat in a chair in the tiny room cluttered with canvas paintings and expired office machines. Your tab sucks, Oscar said and tossed the shades onto the landscape of paper that covered his desktop. You know I’m good for it. That doesn’t really help me right now, does it? You do have a point. This shit kills me, Hatchet, I have to replace a roof this year and they don’t make a door on an ice maker that my employees can’t destroy; they should be winning trophies. I hear you, Oscar. But fuck it, look, the Annual Black & White Show is right around the corner and one of my artists dropped out last night; you haven’t hung a photo in my place in over a year. I haven’t been showing much at all. That’s stupid; that means you’re not selling much. It’s been on my mind. Bottom line, I want you in the show and I want a seventy-five percent commission until you're paid-up; I’ll even do the unthinkable and forgive you $100. What’s the date? The 17th. That just might work out perfectly for me, Oscar.
Edit 11.10.2018