A Eulogy: Le Café De Le’scalier

Le Café De Le’scalier

  

9:20 AM

Harold Miner is behind the counter. He fills Suzy E’s mug – on the house. She’s passed out cold, face down at the bar. Been there since last night. Her shoes are missing. But she’s covered in gold.

Daisy strolls in for a bagel.  Humming melodies that haven’t been released yet. She takes all the pennies from the take-a-penny, leave-a-penny-jar. Her walk preaches

.

Grace Kelly is making faces out of her waffles and grotesquely eating them and laughing by herself. 

Jern Hayes strums a guitar out front. Tourists stop to listen to his Parisian tongue and wonder about his lyrics and what inspirers them. Mort Rainy is beside him, swaying her head and creating sidewalk chalk. They could date and he’d run out of lyrics because her tongue spills too much but also too much right. 

Paul Varjak awkwardly shuffles around Jern’s crowd to get through the door. Avoids eye contact with Grace, they’ve had history. He’s about to try the day’s special, but goes for a coffee. H. Miner isn’t surprised. 

Pages are flying and Sky Trillion is lost in a book. She’s got her bagel, and her shit put together. Sasha doesn’t have her shit together but is still the shit and also watches  Paul hit on Sky a few booths away.  He makes a pessimistic comment about her book and how he “didn’t expect a girl with a pretty face to be reading Fitzgerald” and invites himself to sit down. Sky blushes.  Sasha laughs.

Grace makes note: tools strive to exist even in top buttons.

I’m Hazel and I’d date Jern Hayes. I’m Hazel and I read John Green. I’m Hazel and I love Carmel Vanilla Bean Frappuccino’s. I’m Hazel I’m too hung up on my heart. Sick of my style, the spaghetti I make, I’ve been sick for awhile.

And Paul isn’t much better at communicating or Poker either. He’s way too intrapersonal. He’s lazy, and doesn’t know adventure even as it haunts his midnight door pounds. 

He’s been in love her since the 9^th grade and didn’t kiss her until he was 22. His eyes are too stubborn to change and too vulnerable for love. He’s a softie, got no sense of dream, but a whole lot of wonder.

He’s a realist and uses chopsticks. His British accent sucks but he has French Rosetta Stone. Has he tried it? No. He holds way too much in, but rubs his jaw and will wrench your heart if he wants his words to tear you.

He reads Hemmingway. Has scruff, not for style, he slept in. He laughs at so many things and somehow impossibly at hardly anything. I hate him. I’m quite skeptical but also have anxiety over him. I want to throw him out but keep his dreams because they’re mine and they're all I’m sure of. Thanks for letting me create Paul mid-semester because Hazel is too much myself.

Lol to all you suckas who thought Paul was a hot hipster you had a chance with and sorry Sky Trillion for flirting with you behind Paul I thought I was funny

Just,

In a minute…

Tara Johnson