We were on the roof and he shouts: “I’ll jump.”
“No, no you won’t,” I held out my hand though he was some way away. Some people are just a step away from psychotic. All it takes is an excuse, just a little, tiny push. His hands were shaking like he’s all java’d up, the latte froth playing around his mouth.
We stood on the roof of the café where, not ten minutes earlier he had been eating a BLT and was almost ready for me to serve him his first refill. Almost.
You see, thing is he’d caught me when he first came into the café. It was raining outside then and he shook himself off as I was carrying a tray of empties past. Every day he came in and every day all of the girls tried to avoid serving him. I didn’t say anything, just smiled politely, cursing him in my head then he said, “Macchiato soya decaf and BLT on that table there.”
He whipped his umbrella up, pointing with it and launching a jet of water straight at my blouse. Typically the uniform blouse was white so the wet patch instantly became transparent and I just knew he was trying to get an eyeful. This was exactly why we all tried not to be the one to serve him and that’s why I always go for sensible bras at work – there’s no trusting these perverts.
When I got back to the table with his order he started to apologise, I just tuned him out and smiled. At least that way I might get a decent tip out of it. It was a shame he kept apologising to my chest.
“Do you have problems?” he said.
I stared at him, tray in hand and he met my gaze.
“Well, I suppose.”
“We all do don’t we?”
I nodded and took half a step backwards.
“Nothing wrong with that is there?”
“I guess not. Unless…”
He shook his head and stared at his coffee, like maybe it had some answers.
I left it at that. He was creeping me out and there was a queue forming so I went to help Sandie out until it quietened down. I was about to go over when I saw him head for the fire exit – the toilets are back there. You walk down the corridor – kitchens on the left, toilets on the right and up the stairs three floors straight up to the roof. I took the opportunity to go and top up his cup but he hadn’t touched it. Or the sandwich. So I ran after him.
“Don’t come any closer – I swear I’ll do it!”
There was sweat on his upper lip and he waved a finger loosely at me, it was long and bony and reminded me of my grandmother before she died.
“No – really, it’s alright,” I edged forward. “Don’t you want your refill?”
He laughed but stopped too soon.
I was less than a metre away now and I could smell his scent wafting towards me unfamiliar in the damp air, a musty, sweaty smell battling against the wind.
“Come on,” I said. “I can help, really – I want to help.”
“No you don’t,” he replied, his body turning to face mine.
Within striking distance now, my eyes were wide, my hand on my chest and I was saying yes I want to help and come on it can’t be as bad as all that and we’ve all had days like these, believe me you should try a day in my shoes.
I glanced down at the road behind him then moved my left hand from behind my back in a big arch, the empty coffee pot in my hand making sharp contact with his temple and knocking him off balance just enough to tip him off the ledge and speed him on his journey to the pavement below.
Somehow still intact despite its brief encounter, the coffee pot had sustained some injuries. A crack ran through the glass from top to bottom, it cobwebbed out and made me think of a bullet-hole sticker my Dad had got from a packet of Corn Flakes when I was eight. I remember it was a promotion for the latest James Bond film. He put it on the windscreen of his car and did Sean Connery impersonations when we were on long journeys.
Walking back towards the stairs I smiled at the thought of his impersonation. What can I say? He came in every day and never tipped.
