“Al, Ally,” calls mother, but I’m already out the door. Out, off, away, to another day of school – no, wait, not quite. I would be off to another day of school, if I ever went to school. I hate it when they call me Ally. I’m no girl; I don’t want a girl’s name. I’m gone out the door and she’s left wondering why I never answer, no doubt. She thinks I take the bus to local PS45, public school/living hell. Little does she know where I really go: Little Coffee.

I’m thirteen. Let’s get that straight; I’m no little kid. It’s too bad though, because I have great memories from when I was six. Six or sixty, that’s what I want to be. I don’t want my body to change; I don’t want to grow up. All this responsibility coming up, and I guess I’ve made a great start already. Skipping school every single day to go to the coffee shop? What am I thinking! They say middle school doesn’t really matter, though. I don’t know.  All I know is that the 43F bus comes in the morning (7:17 + 4 minutes late = 7:21 give or take) and comes back at night (9:41). I leave in the morning and come back at night on that bus. Does this mean that I am somehow linked to the bus? That because I spend so much time and depend so much on the bus I am somehow part of it? I don’t think so. The bus just isn’t that important to me. I never even notice the 35 minute ride. I don’t really wake up until my second cup.

The bus goes right past my school on the way to the shop. Little’s Coffee is downtown, but it’s tucked on a side street, on a dusty lonely corner, under a faded sign. It has its share of customers, but I think I’m the most frequent. I go every day.

-God, rereading that, you must think I'm a lunatic. Honestly, it's really just the caffeine. It'll wear off, I promise. 

Today I pass by the school as always. They never seem to notice; they never seem to care. It is weird, I’ll admit. No one sees me stay on the bus after it stops at the school. The bus driver is supposed to keep an eye on these things. I definitely don’t look any older than my age. If that weren’t enough, the school never calls my mother. No one ever notifies anyone. This has always been a mystery to me; I like to develop elaborate explanations for this omission. Maybe a teacher meant to mark me down as absent, but got mixed up with her acronyms and wrote that I am a terminally ill little boy, relegated to the hospital for the seventh grade. All the other teachers would have been forced to follow suit. Maybe my family will get a bouquet of condolence flowers in the mail and my little game will come to an end.

Another idea – maybe I don’t really exist at all…

            So today I continue past the school, of course, and before I know it I’m downtown. Pay the man, pay the man – the bus driver is easy to please. And then I’m here, at Little’s. The coffee shop is safe, the coffee shop is secure – the coffee shop is home. I get there at eight sharp most days, which is when they open, so I’m almost always the first one. That’s the way I like it. It’s my coffee shop, after all.

            Little’s has been in business since 1974; it says so on the sign above the door. It was first opened by some man named Little, evidently, though it has changed hands a number of times. I’ve been attending Little Coffee since the beginning of last year, which means I’m actually senior to most of the employees here. I know every nook and cranny of the shop, which isn’t your standard coffee chain. No, Little Coffee, the one and only, is in the first floor of a house. The second floor gets rented out to boarders, so I rarely get to go up there. I have gone up there, I have – but I’m not supposed to tell anybody about that.

            Entering the shop, I look around. It’s the standard action, like when you enter your home – you like to look around, make sure things seem right. I’ve been going to Little’s for so long that I know where everything is. And, of course, I stay until closing every day, so not much happens when I’m not there.

            Oh, sure, I know what you’re thinking – you think that I think that I’m pretty big and important because I’m a regular – that the hired help is somehow inferior. Well let me tell you something – I’m not so big. Besides that though, you’re right. One develops something of an inferiority complex when one’s chosen home is a coffee shop.

            Today I go in, and first I sit down; I have a routine. It’s 8:02, so the employees are getting things clean, up, and running. They all say ‘hi’ when I come in, of course – “Hi Al, morning Al.” I eat three meals at Little’s every day, so they must like me a lot.

            It’s weird the way I’ve grown to love this dingy little house. The living room is for the customers, the kitchen holds supplies. The walls are painted yellow, but the yellow is faded to grey. Every armchair has its own story and unique smell and feel – I always sit in the big comfy green one, the one your older brother probably has in his dorm or apartment. I found it on the street nearby when I was taking a walk last year. Everybody was delighted at the donation.

            The music is also familiar because I supply it. Long ago the management realized that my tastes and CD collections were far, far superior to their own, so they made me an offer. Now I get two free cups of coffee a day in exchange for each day’s soundtrack. It’s great. I get to choose the music that everyone listens to – I get to set the mood. If I’m upset the night before, well, believe me – everyone will know the next day.

            Today I’ve got trip-hop and bluegrass – Nightmares on Wax and Bela Fleck; Thievery Corporation and The Mammals. I’m young (Little), I’m eclectic, and I’m in charge.

            And that’s the thing, really – I’m in charge. I know where everything should be, from the never-sold rack of ugly pink slippers (when the then-manager decided to branch out into some Little Merchandise) to the stained and retired coffee pot hanging on the wall in the corner. I know when everything happens, from when I buy and eat each part of each meal to when the employees break for lunch and get off work. That’s why it’s so hard to understand – I go in today, and I know, I just know that something is a little off.

            It isn’t a complete surprise. I’ve been feeling pretty weird these last few weeks and I can’t say exactly why. I’m actually glad that something feels off at Little’s, in a way, because now I know why I feel weird. If your home felt strangely different you’d feel weird too, believe me. It’s not that the feeling of safety and security in my home has been compromised; this is more subtle. I think about this.

            Throughout the day I think. It’s what I do anyway, I mean, there isn’t that much to do at a coffee shop. I’ve got it down to a science.

8:02 – I arrive at Little’s.

8:03 – I claim my spot, drop my stuff, survey my domain.

8:06 – I approach the counter for some small talk and friendly greetings.

8:07 – I get my first cup of coffee, strong and hot. I like it black.

8:10 – By now I’m leaning back in my armchair, drinking cup one, settling my brain.

8:15 – 9:15 – This is the busiest part of the morning, obviously. I also get my second cup now. I drink it and watch the people who come in. I watch what they drink, I watch what they wear, what they say, how they act. I like, as my grandmother says, to peoplewatch.

Until lunchtime – I read. I read everything I can get my hands on. You might have wondered how I get my education, so now you know. The Little employees lend me plenty of books (college textbooks included) and I miss nothing.

12:00 – Lunchtime! Little Coffee has a nice selection of sandwiches and other nourishment, and everything is cheap. If I feel adventurous I go out for lunch, but I really do like coffee food.

After lunch – I practice my drawing. I’ve been drawing for as long as I can remember. I like to sketch the people and things in the shop. I think I’ve sketched every thing at least three times, but new people show up a lot. I also drink cup three.

The rest of the day is more varied, so I don’t know whether you could still call it scientific. I enjoy myself, which is what counts.

            Today is the day I notice that things are different. Nothing I can put my finger on, at first. I consider the shop, my home, and I soon realize (during cup two) that something obvious has changed. I sidle over to Ben, the assistant manager, who takes care of these things.

“Ben.”

“Al. Hey man.”

“How are things?”

“Great man. Did you notice?”

“That’s right, I had to come and ask for myself. They’re gone.”

“Yup. Those ugly things will never again see the light of day.”

“Where are they?”

“Slipper heaven my man, slipper heaven.”

“I hate pink.”

“Me too.”

            That done, I return to my chair. The pink slippers are gone! Maybe that’s the only difference. Unfortunately that doesn’t explain my weird feelings of late, so I reject that notion. There must be something more… subtle. I need to keep looking. I read my current book for a while (Intro to Micro Economics) but I feel fairly distracted.

            At this point I feel tired, drastically tired, which isn’t like me. I get so much caffeine every day that I really don’t sleep until 10:30 or so at night. I do feel very relaxed here in my chair though, and I know nothing much is going on, and my legs don’t want to move right now. They’re sending emergency break requests brainward which I find myself unable to ignore. I put my head down and

            Where am I? Good old Little Coffee. I’m right where I was when I fell asleep and my stuff appears to be right beside me where I left it. I don’t know how other people feel but I’m not a very trusting person. I don’t easily fall asleep in public – I don’t know what came over me just now. Outside is bright and sunny. At least it’s not night time already. Ben comes over and says hi.

“Al.”

“How did that happen?”

“Are you sick, buddy?”

“Don’t think so. Tired still. My muscles hurt and I don’t know why.”

“Maybe you have AIDS.”

“Get out of here. Don’t you have work to do?”

            I’m left with no choice but to continue my day as if nothing happened. This is true, in hindsight, except that I never fall asleep at Little’s, and that I still feel weird about this place. Is my own home changing with me inside? Needless to explain, the rest of the day is a total waste. I’m still completely distracted, even distraught, by these unsettling emanations. Now before you go and tell me that every day spent at a coffee shop is a total waste, remember all the cool things I do here: music, painting, reading, studying, peoplewatching, eating, chatting. Today I only mope. The chair feels like it’s too small, the table too close to me. My colored pencils keep slipping out of my hand and I keep banging my knee. Why does everything here feel so different? At closing time I go home.

            I get into the house and go to my room, directly, of course. Sometimes I stop to say hi to mother, or as is more often the case she stops me, but not tonight. My room is not my home, though you might think my sleeping there gives it some claim. Really though, I only store stuff and crash there. I spend as little time at home as possible, as you might have noticed. Again, I fall asleep quite unexpectedly easily.

            I wake up to my alarm but I feel as though I’m still sleeping. It’s strange; usually I wake up easily but take my time falling asleep. I don’t know what’s going on right now, but I don’t get it. Last night involved some strange dreams, I can tell. I don’t know what they were, but I’m tired, physically tired. I must have been moving around. I’m also pretty sweaty. None of this is normal for me. I guess I need my coffee right about now. Good thing I’m off to Little’s, then.

            In the bus I assure myself that everything will be back to normal when I get home. How could it not? Little’s can’t just change like that. Really, a few missing slippers – but I know this is rationalization. Something is different, and my suspicions are confirmed when I walk in the door at eight. The whole dynamic of the place has shifted – things look indefinably awkward. Where before the shop exuded a chic, cute mentality, it now looks positively off. The employees know it too, though maybe they don’t want to admit it yet. I sit in my chair, I go through the motions – at least the coffee is still good.

            My music for the day is the Tin Hat Trio and the No Neck Blues Band, mixed in with some Bjork and Sonic Youth. Mostly avant-garde stuff. The music eerily fits the day, too, and again I can’t settle in. I’m not as tired, though I feel kind of unbalanced. By lunchtime I’ve had enough of this lonely wondering, and I decide to consult Ben. Just as I look in his direction though, he starts to approach to me. He has a big bandage around his left hand.

“What happened to you?”

“I was opening a package and I sliced up my hand. It’s gory. And the blender’s on the fritz. Let me tell you, man, I feel really off today. Maybe those slippers were important…”

“It’s not the slippers, Ben.”

“I know, but something’s definitely off. You think so too?”

“Yeah. I feel almost…”

“Transitional.”

“You know, maybe that’s,” I start to say, but my next word is cut off by a kind of squeak. I stop.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Your voice.”

“What?”

“It cracked.”

“What does that mean?”

“What?”

“Why did it do that?

“Oh. I guess you’re going through puberty, buddy. Happens to the best of us.”

At this point Ben seems to have forgotten about the shop’s awkwardness and wanders away, so I’m left to consider. Puberty? I do feel kind of transitional myself, as a matter of fact. That’s a real shame. Ok, what now? The answer comes of its own accord, so I put down my head and shut my eyes for a nap.