The Tints And Shades (Frerard)

Coffee

Monroeville. No comic books. Black and white. Nothingness. But, I didn’t know that at the time. It was all normal to me. I was accustomed to the community. The lockstep of everyone’s everyday jobs and families. The constant smell of smoke. Burning glossy pages of comic books. Smoke polluting the sky. Some suspicious passers by. Obviously dealing out illegal comic books like drugs to citizens in need of the banned product.

Yes. Comic books were banned. Apparently they were “too violent” and would give citizens of the community ideas. The government feared that the books would make us all crazy and restless, which would supposedly cause the community to fill with crime and false and flawed heroes and villains causing mayhem in the streets.

I never really thought much much of it. It’s all I had ever known. It was normal.

I just went through my habitual, daily routine. I got up, showered, went to the nearest coffee shop to pick up my usual vanilla soy latte, then off to my uneventful job as an accountant. Yay numbers.

As I walked the main street of Monroeville under the cloudy, gray sky, I examined my drab surroundings and the drab citizens. It was all the same as every other day. Smog filled the dank sky the the smell of burning paper surrounded me and engulfed the community in a burning, depressing mist.

“Hello,” a man with darkish hair that glistened in the sun said to me.

I nodded in acknowledgment to his friendly greeting as he lowered his voice to a faint whisper.

“If you’re looking to buy any comics, it’s going to be tough. Lots of us have been being arrested lately,” he muttered.

“Us?”

“You know… dealers. We sell the comics to people who want them.”

I nodded again  and continued to walk, picking up the pace a bit. He continued to follow me and matched his pace to mine.

“I’m Legend, by the way.” He paused. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Gerard,” I murmured.

“Gerard,” he said, testing out my name. “That’s an interesting name, Gerard.”

“Thanks… I guess.”

“Oh,” Legend said. He had stopped walking in front of an old, abandoned warehouse.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, rushing into the ratty, old building without saying one more word.

I shook my head in confusion and continued on my way, turning the corner onto Credence road. Sana Dipendenza, the local coffee shop, was located on that familiar street. I opened the old wooden door and stepped into the warm room. There was a small fireplace in the corner of the room and a counter along the far wall with various machines, stools, booths and tables scattered around the place.

“Good morning Gerard,” Conrad Ouderling, the old, wrinkled, smiley barista smiled. He was so warm and welcoming and always so smart and knowledgable.

“Hello, Mr. Ouderling.”

“Would you like the usual, my boy?”

I nodded. “Yes sir.”

He turned around and got my vanilla soy latte.

“I sure am going to miss our little morning chats, Gerard,” Conrad said.

“Miss? Why wouldn’t we have them?” I was confused.

My chats with Mr. Oulderling were always pleasant. He’d always given me fantastic life advice and his words never ceased to amaze me.

“Remember? I told you I’m retiring tomorrow, right?”

“Oh…” I said, disappointed, remembering the news he’d broken to me merely weeks before.

“Don’t worry, son. I’ll come here as often as I can to try to keep up our little chats, okay?

Okay,” I grinned, sipping from my drink. The drink I’d had every morning for as long as I could remember. It had become an unbreakable habit, just like everything else in my life.

And just like any other day, I finished my drink quickly and tossed the empty, plastic cup into the nearest trash can before heading off and bidding a farewell to my favorite barista, of whom I thought of as a grandfather, because he always shared valuable wisdom and knowledge with me.

I hurried down Credence road and turned back onto main street, where I continued north until I hit Ziffer Avenue, where I turned right and entered the first, tall building on the corner of main and Ziffer, where I worked as an accountant.

Upon entering the brightly tinted, shiny, chrome building lined with walls of file cabinets, desks, and cubicles, I was greeted by the sound of my boss, Boris, shouting angry words at our klutziest employee.

I could never remember her name. I mainly knew her as “the clumsy girl.”

Looking at my shuffling feet, I scurried to my cubicle, which had a fresh stack of papers with a wide array of numbers and various bits of information typed neatly on the clean, light pages.

Then it would be time to go through my uneventful day of numbers and letters and then go home to start the cycle over again.