WHY ARE YOU SO SERIOUS? DO IT KAFE CASTRO STYLE!

This wild and crazy ride is dedicated to anyone who likes to have fun. While the attitude/antics of the characters here may seem far from who you are now, take a moment to remember a time when making good decisions might have been a challenge...don't go too far back...I don't want you to break anything...just retreat slowly and purposefully...ahh...there it is! If you're smiling and blushing, you've hit pay dirt! Now raise your glass and CHEERS to the freedom and silliness of youth! *clink*

Author's Note: While most of this short story is based on real events, names and situations have been altered and/or combined to protect the privacy of those involved.

KAFE CASTRO: THE SNEAK PEEK

                     What is this song?  

   I recognize it. The name’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t focus. It’s because of that tube. The one that no one ever knows the name of when I ask what it’s called. The dentist hooks it over your teeth to suck all the fluid from half your mouth, while the other half fills with thick spit that overflows onto the bib they drape over your chest.

   The bib is useless; it’s like wearing a tissue.  

   Yep. There it is. My saliva soaks through and leaves a permanent yellow stain on my good white silk blouse. My favorite blouse; the one that I leave unbuttoned for Sten, that cute intern. He turns red every time I lean forward and it falls open a little bit. I spent fifty dollars on that black bra at Victoria’s Secret in the States. Watching him quickly shift the mail from his chest to his crotch is worth every penny. He starts to sweat when I keep him from moving onto the next desk. 

     “Um, Sten? Did my Angel Body catalogue get lost somewhere in the shuffle? It’s the one with the lingerie in it, ya know, panties and such…”

   He stammers and knocks several envelopes off of the top of the mail cart, “I’ll uh check  for you.  It…it’s no problem at all.”

   He’s so adorable that when he’s done making a mess, I bend over to help pick it up. I’m sure he sees the red thong I have on.

   You’re welcome Sten.

   It all starts with the blouse. My ultimate weapon, the one that drips with feminine power, now has a big wet spot on it that looks like baby spit up. The discoloration starts at my rib cage, then pools up at the peak of my belly fat... Attractive.

    If I try to cover the stain with a blazer, a loose button will surely pop off, exposing my dirty secret.  

    Danica will say, “I didn’t know Gucci was designing Rorschach ink blots. Is that a new American trend? Aren’t they usually black? Yours look more like…what’s the American term for vomit?”

     Danica’s English is very good. She constantly reminds me that although we hold the same position on the job, this is her homeland and she will always have the upper hand. And now because of her, I’m too tense to think straight.

      This is why I can’t solve my musical riddle.  

       My eyes cross. I'm watching the curve of the tube rise up over the tip of my nose. Am I moving it with my tongue? I’m not sure since I can’t feel it. Wow! It could be levitating by itself or via some unseen force! The silliness makes me laugh.

       I drool while cackling, wide mouthed and exposed. 

       Suddenly, I remember the title to the song. But why does the identity of the tune end in a question mark instead of an excited to have finally figured it out exclamation point?  

     I mull it over for a moment and my confusion clears. I’m left with a startling revelation.  Although it seems impossible, someone has taken this once popular hip hop tune and converted it to light music! Despite the tempo, the lyrics I memorized during my last summer as an unemployed student mooching off of my parents fit perfectly. The elevator version of “My Humps” plays hypnotically and an intoxicated feeling comes over me.    

   My mind sways rhythmically as I plot, “I’m gonna get you love drunk off my humps…”  I feel weightless, floating on a soft cloud of ambivalence.

**********

I’m back in the clubs, letting guys with breath that reeks of salami buy me drinks.  The one with the leather vest thinks I owe him more than one dance, but Silly Gold Chain Guy is waving at me from across the dance floor. It’s time to move on. I approach him and his jewelry, leaving the other to contemplate his mistakes. He’s ready to jitterbug with me to the next heavy bass hip hop song.  He smiles and his diamond encrusted gold teeth look huge through the champagne glass he holds up like bait to lure me over.  When I reach him, I look away quickly, afraid I might turn to stone, as he is the male equivalent of Medusa.  But I take a big swallow of Cristal and suddenly the tiny flies I spied circling his dreadlocks are friends, joining us for a dance.  I let him put his arm around my waist.

**********

     The man fog lifts and I realize that I’m high. My cavity pain, my reason for being here, is gone. Apparently Europeans like to overdose on sweet air.

     I rest my head heavily on the cushion of the dental chair. I feel so relaxed that I think I might take a nap. I start to drift off, dreaming that my mother is telling me to find my own place.

**********

   “You’re a mess!” she screams at me. 

     I roll my eyes at her. This is not the first time I've heard her say that.

    “I can’t take this anymore!  You’re an adult, so act like one!  I want you out of here now!”

   She seems serious this time.

**********

     I probably would’ve begged for another chance if I was able to close my right eye and fully engage with my dream mom.  

     Wait, what?  I can’t close my right eye?

     And just like that, I sober up.  

     I look around at my immediate area. I need a mirror. This has to be confirmed. Supplies are limited here, so I’m forced to peer at my distorted likeness in the spittoon hundreds have used to empty blood and other bodily fluids into. 

     I close my eyes…no, I close my eye.  Even the chipmunk cheek taking up most of my reflection is not fat enough to push my right eye closed. I wink at my fun-house image a few more times before I give into the terror I’m feeling.  

     I’m panicking just like the time I woke up in that guy’s yard. My stomach turns at the thought.

**********

     I’m in the car. The guy’s back door faces the parking lot of Coco’s and if I think really hard, I remember imagining that it was my house. I’m happy that my parents moved so close to one of my favorite bars. The drive home will be a cinch, even in my condition. 

     After a few tabs of what I mistakenly think is Ecstasy, I pass out. When daylight hits my pale, makeup smeared face, and the yard comes into focus, I see the actual owner of the house having coffee on his back deck. He tips his mug towards me and smiles. His teeth are a cramped, crooked mess, but he's almost cocky in the way he smirks knowingly at me.  I almost wave "hi" to him, until I realize that he's a stranger I've never met...or have I?

     He looks slightly to the right, and my eyes follow. I feel nauseous. My neon pink thong is tied around the car’s antenna. He winks at me and lets his robe slip open. Memories of the night before start rolling in and I jump up in the seat. I turn the car keys in the ignition so hard that it makes that awful grinding sound. I u-turn sharply, ripping up patches of his backyard grass, and almost take out one of his kid’s bikes when I tear out of there. I don’t pull over to grab my undies back into the car for five blocks. 

**********

     My heart pounds hard. The horror at my loss of control, both then and now is palpable.

     The affected eye wells up with tears and becomes irritated. I try to wipe them away with my right hand, but I can’t lift it to my face.  It twitches lifelessly on the arm rest of the chair.  

     Is it possible to be even more panicked?

     I struggle to move my right leg, but it’s also useless. 

     Am I numb, paralyzed, or after years of abusing my body, completely brain damaged?  I’d never know unless I tried out my left side.  

     With trepidation, I start small. First my pinky. Check. Then all five fingers. Check. I’m hopeful.  I raise my left arm and wave at my reflection in the glass that protects the painting of Frederiksborg Castle. It hangs across from my seat.  I let my breath go, aware now that I’ve been holding it.

     I kick my left leg up as far as I can. It doesn’t extend very much, but it’s functional.

     My left side seems to work, and I’m somewhat relieved. I wonder which part of the brain controls memory, but I can’t remember what I learned in Psych 101. It was an 8:30 am class and getting up for it was next to impossible after the nights I had.   

     What about language? What if I can’t yell for help? 

     As if my one sided paralysis wouldn’t be bad enough, I might also be mute. A temporary resident in a foreign land, I may not be able to translate my problem into Danish. How would I warn everyone about the blatant misuse of drugs at this dentist’s office.

            Images of my move from New York to Europe come flooding back to me. They’re fragments, but sharp and painful enough to paint a picture. 

**********

     A gay dancer publicly proclaiming his love to me at the Savoy. He hands over the keys and title to his Porsche five minutes after meeting me and announcing said love to everyone around us. I leave him halfway through a song for a blond, the gay dancer’s keys still in my hand. 

   The blond, Lars, happily transports my new car over to Denmark…but in his name instead of mine. His invites me  to come live in Europe…but when I get there, I find out the invitation was not to live with him. 

     My frantic job hunt in a foreign country. Mixed feelings; I’m ashamed to go home and admit that my mother was right about Lars and my tendency to act without thinking, and at the same time I’m grateful to her for pushing me into finishing my degree in Computer Technology, no matter how close I came to failing. 

**********

     Now, wishing that the laughing gas had impaired my ability to remember things, I wonder how I got here; a prisoner in a dentist’s chair.

     It’s the benefits.

     Healthcare is free because anyone who works in Europe gives up half their paycheck to taxes that provide for these perks. After getting over the initial shock, I decide to go all out and repair any damage I may have done to myself, starting with my teeth.  

     But how long will my overhaul last?  I feel like I’m hanging onto my job by a thread.

     The memory makes me uncomfortable, but I sit trapped, unable to squirm out of the dentist’s chair. My emotional state is enhanced by the medication. Alarm pushes forcefully on the inside of my head, threatening to break out and wreak havoc on the office. I imagine that my anxiety is a cartoon, zipping around, bouncing off my cranial walls like a child hopped up on too much sugar, and I become terrified once more of the lack of control I have over myself. I try to focus my mind. Painfully, I relive my last meeting with my Danish boss, Morten Jensen. 

**********

     Morten tells me to be at his office at 9:30 on Thursday morning.  I’m ten minutes late only because the coffee machine stops working in the break room. Someone <Me> unplugs <trips over> the cord, but no one notices that the plug has come out and is wedged between the counter and the wall. Unaware that all we need is a little voltage, four of us fiddle with the appliance, trying to figure out how to fix it.  

     Without caffeine, problem solving and coordination are difficult. Luckily, I trip over the cord again, and the plug is yanked out from its hiding spot.  In a moment of inspiration or OCD, I put it back into the outlet and when the power light springs to life, I’m a hero to the staff.  

     I stare at my watch, not believing how much time has passed. Then I race across the building, trying to get to the meeting with my boss. 

**********

     Taking a deep breath, I inhale the sterile smell of the doctor’s office, an aroma that appears to steady my nerves. I summon all of my energy and 1-2-3!  I will my arm to move. 

     Nothing.

     It just lies there, accepting whatever fate is in store for me.  That’s the same thing I felt as I waited to see my boss, Morten.

**********

     Unaware that I'm late because I was busy raising the morale and energy level of the workplace, Morten sentences me to twenty five minutes of sitting in silence across from his sluggish assistant, Daphne.   

     She is furiously typing away at her computer, and I begin to wonder if I’m being called to assist on a major project; maybe for the government or a celebrity. Morten has probably dictated a detailed contract outlining my compensation and need for confidentiality, and has told Daphne to type it up immediately, so I can sign it by the end of the meeting. He’ll want to lock me in right away out of fear of losing me to a division in Paris. I hear rumors about an unscrupulous manager in France wining and dining superstars in an effort to steal all of the European talent for himself. I decide that I’ll stay loyal to Morten, since he trusts me with such a big account after such a short time on his payroll. 

     I pull my cardigan around my camisole and button up. I need to get serious about taking responsibility for this account. When I get up to toss my gum in the garbage can, I  peek at Daphne’s screen. 

     She’s on Facebook  chatting with Carl Ericson from the mail room. 

     Daphne turns the computer away.  She sucks her teeth and stares at me.

     “Mr. Jensen will be with you in a few minutes.  You should sit back down.”

     Her voice is cold.

     I come from around the back of her desk and return to the couch. I plop down on it and sulk.

**********

     Drool stretches slowly from my half open mouth before snapping off and landing on my right wrist.  

     My daydreaming is interrupted.

     I reach across my body with my working hand and wipe it away. I’m not impaired enough to have forgotten what disgust feels like.

     As I smear the slimy spit on the bare skin below my shorts, I suddenly remember my fully functioning left side.

     I begin rapping softly on the arm of the exam chair with my one good hand. Sure that my knocking sounds like Morse code for SOS, I feel empowered, so I rap harder and faster...

Order the book and finish the story at:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004SUOUT0

Then read the rest of The Coffee Break Series!

 CF Winn is the author of The COFFEE BREAK SERIES, a hilarious group of short stories meant to be read while on break or in the waiting room of the doctor's office. Her first novella, SUKI, has been grabbing hearts and hugging souls all over the United States.