Las Vegas for Vegans (7 page)

It's a modest gun. I'm not a closet Dirty Harry wanting someone to make my day. I just want someone to make my coffee.

When I pull it out for the first time the woman in front of me just kind of blinks sleepily and goes back to daydreaming about her strong latte with two sugars.

‘Hey,' I say to her. She's ignoring me so I give her a flash of black steel near her right ear. ‘Hey,' I say again. ‘I'm not kidding.'

I fire the gun through the wide doors of the cafe and out into the street. The shot travels just above the heads of the masses of people pushing along the footpaths. The bullet shatters a pane of thick glass in the fashion store across the road. People get a bit cut up from the crashing glass and a man begins screaming like someone has cut off his toes. The pedestrians keep passing, barely pausing, crushing the glass beneath their shoes as they make their way to work.

My wrist is limp from the kickback but I transfer the gun to my left hand as though it's all the better to display the weapon. The double-sugar-latte woman steps aside. The rest of the folks in the line follow her example.

Bradley the Barista knows how I like my coffee. His arms move with speed and precision, a perfection of machine engineering translated into human form. It's as though I press his fast-forward button and then the stop button when he finishes my ristretto-strength long black with three grips and three sugars.

I pay him and tell him he can keep the change of a ten-dollar bill. It's only polite to show an appreciation for good service.

‘How's your day been, Brad?' I ask after my first satisfying sip.

‘It's been pretty busy, Mr Bushnell. This is the first time I've had a moment of stillness for two hours.'

‘Are you enjoying it, Brad?' I ask.

‘I am indeed, Mr Bushnell,' he replies, and adds, ‘There's something about a loaded gun that makes one appreciate a moment like this. Thanks for that, Mr Bushnell.'

‘Glad I could do that for you, Brad. I'll now have the pleasure of strolling to work rather than the unwelcome power slalom through those frustrated crowds outside. I'm going to have a lovely amble to work today, Brad.'

As soon as I move away from the counter the line resumes its shape, longer and angrier than ever. A rattler of a line extending outside the front doors, the furious tail shaking with the anger of twenty mobiles and smartphones going off simultaneously. It's a soothing sound when you have discovered the ways of the snake charmer as I have.

I come in the next morning with a smile in my stride and a spring in my face. I'm eager to display my Kimber 1911 Compact again. I want to get that snake dancing out of my way.

I don't have a problem until I arrive at the head of the line and a high-powered exec smiles like his teeth are made out of diamonds and he eats crystal croissants with his coffee. He's been held in the purgatory of the line for the last fifteen minutes and can't swallow me moving past everyone with a royal wave of black steel. Maybe he didn't see my warning yesterday but I can tell he is a natural-born hero.

‘You are not going to shoot me for a coffee. That's ridiculous! It's only a few dollars and a few moments. You can't kill a human being with such little motivation.'

‘What's your game, Mr Suit?' I ask him.

‘I don't want to play. I'm just going to get a coffee and go to work.'

‘Well, Mr Suit, I'm not going to go into a lengthy analysis of the situation here. But I will say this—it's not about a few minutes or a few dollars. It's about an accretion of time that mummifies my brain and turns my thoughts into sand. More than anything it's about the brief, black, bitter taste of liberty in those cups. You're standing in the way of my freedom, Mr Suit. I advise you to step aside and give me a moment with Bradley the Barista.'

‘I don't think so,' Mr Suit tells me with his diamond grin.

‘Mr Suit,' I say and step forward. I raise the gun to the height of his heart. ‘Reconsider, please,' I say and wiggle the Kimber 1911 Compact. I polished it last night and I know it has a lethal gleam to its black metal.

He looks at it like it's a water pistol and turns around and asks Bradley for an affogato. It's more of a dessert than it is a coffee. An affogato! It also happens to be the most time-consuming thing he could have asked Bradley to make him. I take it as a personal affront. Mr Suit says he also wants two scoops of ice cream and not just one. I give him two bullets instead and I'm not sorry.

Mr Suit dies in a very elegant creaseless crumple of the best Italian fabric and design. A macchiato stain of blood spreads across the immaculate collar of his white shirt and drips onto the black marble of the cafe's floor. Everyone lines up behind me. Bradley's hands fly to the handles and dials of his Gaggia Deco D espresso machine.

The next morning I walk into the cafe and feel sure there will be no more need for gunwaving and I won't have to kill anyone to get a coffee. I had a difficult night getting to sleep. For hours I tried to rest my mind and body. Even when I managed to drift away I found myself waking in a fevered state, my sheets wet right through and my pillow soaked. In short, too much coffee. There have to be limits even to these dark pleasures, I suppose.

The line is long and I can barely get through the doors of the cafe. I announce myself but no-one moves.

The double-sugar-latte woman stands before me again and I tell her, ‘Surely, my mettle has been tested. My resolve can't still be in question.'

She turns around and a wash of her perfume breaks over me in a dizzying ocean of petals and pollen, bouquets of sweet-smelling chemicals rushing down my throat. I take a step back but I stumble and grab a cafe chair to steady myself.

‘You don't look good,' she tells me.

‘I didn't sleep very well,' I explain. ‘Frankly, my experiences in the toilet haven't been too pleasant either. I'm sweating a lot and my stomach feels uneasy. Queasy, I feel very queasy.'

‘Coffee's not for everyone. Perhaps you should drink tea instead. Take a few moments every morning perhaps—treat yourself to a pot of orange pekoe leaf tea. You'll find it's better suited to your nervous system. Our culture has so many problems and diseases that stem from stress and anxiety, and there's nothing that generates and promotes these things like the addiction to the coffee bean.'

I'm starting to feel disorientated. People are pushing past me to get into the store and others are coming out with steaming takeaway cups filled with the delicious beverage that will give me the boost I need to get through the next few hours of my life. ‘Shut up, you scandalous hypocrite. You're here for the same reason I am. You need the coffee bean as well.'

‘I drink decaf.'

‘Decaf?' I say. ‘Decaf!'

‘Yes, decaf. Decaf indeed.'

‘Don't talk to me about decaffeinated coffee. It's like taking a shower in a raincoat.'

‘I don't think so,' she says.

‘It's like eating one of those burgers made out of lentils and cabbage.'

‘No, it's not,' she says, looking at me like I'm someone to be pitied.

‘Should I remind you I'm carrying a weapon?' I reach below my arm and remove my Kimber 1911 Compact from a holster I bought for it yesterday afternoon. ‘You don't require further demonstrations, do you?' I pull it out and hold it before her.

‘It's not a good idea. There's a room full of coffee drinkers here, after all. Every single one of them desperate for that first hit, just like you. There's no way you can keep a trump card like that in a room full of losing gamblers.'

‘What?' I blink at her. ‘Just move!' I wave the gun with two sharp movements to the right.

She steps aside with a sorrowful expression. I see the line has changed. Everyone in it has removed a firearm from a pocket or handbag and they all have these guns pointed at me. Thirty barrels are trained on my head, chest and stomach. I blink but I can't really take in the image of all these respectable city workers armed with such deadly weapons.

I look over to Bradley the Barista and ask him, ‘What's going on here, Brad? Didn't I invent the game? It's my ball, isn't it? I get to say how we play. Bradley—tell these people!'

The barista wipes his hands with a tea towel and a regretful look passes across his face. He says, ‘I'm sorry, Mr Bushnell. No more coffee for you.'

‘What?' I ask the question meekly but I feel my heart kick in my chest at the thought of never having another morning jolt from Bradley's beans. ‘What?' It comes out as a roar this time. ‘You don't get to decide on something like that. I've been coming here for years. I've been working in this damned city …'

My anger had begun to foam like milk in the bottom of a metal jug and I was spitting with my eyes closed when I said ‘damned city'. My weapon might have been raised but it was more a gesticulation than an intent to harm anyone. Coffee drinkers are jumpy though and their fingers get twitchy.

MEASURED TURBULENCE

From the black, free-falling nothingness, the voice emerges with an absolute American calm. That television-friendly NASA cadence of confidence. Everything is A-OK. The pilot speaks soothingly about the turbulence. The muttered ‘motherfucker' at the end of the transmission makes Keith blink, though it doesn't destroy his confidence. The lights flicker back to life as the plane continues to vibrate. He isn't feeling any fear. If anything, he's bored.

Julia can go on and on, eternally, when the subject is her soul. She believes in the sacred spaces of her inner life, and within the confines of their airplane seats, there's no escape.

‘The best thing about this dream is that it was weird in that great way, where you're almost thinking while you're asleep, this is so cool it's like a film by Buñuel.'

‘Who's Buñuel?'

‘You've heard of David Lynch?'

‘Of course.'

‘Same difference. I was travelling for days and days, and after what seems like years, I finally get to the North Pole and I find that when I'm there it's mostly submerged rock and not even white with snow and ice. It's slate blue.' She takes the final sip of Scotch from the bottom of her plastic glass. ‘The North Pole was weird.'

‘Seems like an ecological message.'

‘Dreams don't do those kinds of messages. I think it's saying something about my soul. Maybe it's my relationship to the divine.'

‘Do you think they'll get the entertainment up and running again? There was one or two films I wouldn't mind seeing.'

‘It's all Hollywood poison, Keith. You've really got to check your tolerance for that kind of corporate corruption.' She raises the plastic glass, puts it down when she sees it's empty. ‘Is my dream trying to say that my heart or soul, or whatever, is submerged in the icy water somewhere distant and it's turned into stone?'

Julia looks at Keith. He shrugs and blinks at her.

She continues, ‘Whatever it means, a slate-blue soul can't be good. Global catastrophe isn't a positive symbol whether you take that dream to a gypsy or a headshrinker.'

‘Maybe you should go back to sleep,' Keith suggests.

‘I wanted to tell you before I forgot.'

‘Thanks for that. Go back to sleep now.'

Keith isn't interested in dreams. His girlfriend's dreams are no exception. He lifts his hand for the flight attendant since the button seems to be useless in getting anyone to actually come and attend to his needs. He's been pressing it and waving his arm for the last few minutes with no success. He's now considering whistling.

Julia swallows another sleeping pill even though it hasn't been that long since she had the two that were supposed to fix her for most of the trip. Three pills is a lot of sedation and he wonders whether it's dangerous. Her fear of flying is extreme. She'd been having nightmares before the trip to the States and again prior to the trip back to Sydney.

Keith arches his back and makes himself tall. He waves his fingers in the air and purses his lips but can't make himself go through with the whistle.

The flight attendant finally comes over with a severe expression. ‘I can't give you another vodka-orange, Sir. We're moving through turbulence.' She has bent over to explain and now she unfolds as though that was
that.

‘What? What kind of turbulence?'

‘Severe turbulence, Sir. The overhead light is telling you to put on your seatbelt. And you've been told to return your seats to an upright position. Could you please tell your wife to follow those instructions?' The plane bucks and the attendant stumbles forward and sprawls across their laps.

‘She's not my wife,' he tells the attendant as she struggles to get up.

‘I don't care who she is. Look after her,' the attendant says and pushes away.

‘One drink! I've been waiting for ten minutes. What about making up for lost time? I'll throw it back like a shot.' She doesn't bother replying and leaves to tend to other raised arms.

The plane drops again into flickering lights and a moment of free-fall. He feels his stomach rise up in a brutal heave. He still wants that drink. Julia is dead to the world and he can't get her seat up from the reclining position. The plane has been rattling around for the last hour. It shakes violently now and hail scatters across the small windows.

There's a boy sitting over the aisle about to start crying. His father is next to him, looking out his window, saying, ‘Oh my fucking God, that does
not
look good.' His son stares straight ahead into a laptop console, trying to focus on a film breaking up in lines of static. He has his headphones on, so maybe he doesn't hear his father say, ‘God, fucken hell, it's the end of the world out there!'

When he notices Keith staring, he doesn't disguise his fear. ‘I can't believe how much lightning there is,' he tells Keith. ‘And isn't metal a magnet for lightning?'