The Trier-The Story of a Coffeehouse
The dead don’t collaborate.
Altonstreet was affecting his usual brooding mood as he headed for the Trier. He had to appear normal to everyone. That was vital. Everything is in the details. In writing. And in murder.
It was a cooler day than the day before as the change of season paid no mind to Altonstreet and headed for fall. He was glad the weather was cooler. He had been waiting to wear his black peacoat for weeks now. The deep pockets offered the room he needed. He clenched his fists and pushed each deeper into the corresponding pocket.
Either would easily hold a small pistol without being obvious. Hence the peacoat. But Altonstreet was right-handed. He wrote with his right hand. He would pull the trigger with the fingers of his right hand. It was still there in his right pocket, where he had put it this morning. He pushed it down under his palm. Altonstreet felt the compulsion to hide it even though it was deep inside his black peacoat. His backpack reacted and slid a bit lower down his right shoulder.
Altonstreet could now make it the rest of the way satisfied with his appearance. He wanted to look like the pensive, passionate, and aloof writer he aspired to be. Yes, the bag hanging just awkwardly enough from his shoulder would give passers-by the impression that he, Altonstreet, the writer, was merely headed to the Trier coffeehouse today to work on his craft.
Altonstreet stepped quickly along. He was nervous but felt quick-witted and clear-minded. He could not help but pick up the pace as he drew near the entrance. He had walked this path so many times over the past year that he knew every doorway, telephone pole and newspaper box on either side.
Shit. I am walking too fast. This realization hit him just as he passed the front of the combo dirty bookstore and quarter movie theatre next door to the Trier. He passed it without a glance at the bright yellow signs hanging in the windows. A giveaway. He always looked at the storefront despite his best efforts. The lurid attraction of the space had power.
Altonstreet slowed mid stride and took a quick glance back over his left shoulder at the bright yellow signs adorning the grindhouse. He reset his pace.
The advantage to this well-worn path was that it allowed Altonstreet to walk with his head tilted down in front of his body with his eyes fixed on the sidewalk. Only occasionally would Altonstreet look up to check what was ahead of him. That made it easy to resume his normal walking pace. The pace that said it was simply just another day in the life of this young writer. The easy strides and routine glance told everyone that Altonstreet did indeed have the momentary urge to visit the grindhouse but that his call to writing was greater than that other lower calling. Altonstreet had no business with the stained raincoat crowd in the grindhouse. He did not have the weakness of those men. He had no time for that today, on this very normal day. Not only that, but Altonstreet had noticed the shows advertised on the bright yellow placards were the ones he had already seen.
The cooling weather and greying skies were the perfect char for his appearance. The tastiest bit of the whole meal. Altonstreet believed he had perfected the part of the introspective yet slightly troubled young writer. His preconceived and excellently presented appearance gave him the momentum and confidence he needed to confront Philpatrick.
Philpatrick, his comrade in coffee and composition, had already arrived and was almost certainly seated in his usual spot in the Trier. Philpatrick who awaited Altonstreet. Philpatrick who expected a writerly appearance from Altonstreet. If the two of them were destined to collaborate on the great American novel, Philpatrick asserted that he and Altonstreet must look the part.
It was the beginning of their second-year writing together at the Trier. Their exchanges of wit, literary and cultural references were the first draft of their friendship. And if this friendship were to become the partnership in the writing of the great American novel, as they had declared many a time it would, then Altonstreet and Philpatrick would have to bring out the best in each other. They did this by testing the agility of each other’s minds. Steel sharpens steel. The hammer pounds against the anvil.
It had worked over the last year. Altonstreet and Philpatrick had each come up with numerous great titles for their novel. Even better was that all the Trier regulars and the baristas knew that the two were writers. Writers. Writers who were collaborating on a great novel.
Trouble was, it was Altonstreet’s turn today to have a possible title. It would be the first thing Philpatrick would ask him when Altonstreet stepped to their table in the back room of the Trier. Today Altonstreet did not have a new possible title for their collaborative novel.
Even more troubling was that over the past year since they met, Altonstreet had gradually, with a slow geologic pace, come to hate Philpatrick. Today was anything and everything but the normal day Altonstreet was pretending it was. Today was the day Altonstreet had finally come to hate Philpatrick enough to shoot him in broad daylight.
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