I sit outside Starbucks on Queen Street, in Auckland, at the two person table, not so patiently waiting for Mason’s arrival. As usual, his lack of time efficiency has proven to be more than apparent - I contemplate what could possibly be bringing him to such a painful, now twenty-eight minute hold-up. Beginning to get a little frustrated at his unexplained lateness, I find myself pondering possibilities that could be the cause of his delay; perhaps a bad hair day or a sudden inability to throw together a decent outfit worthy of public exposure. Typical.
After exactly thirty-one minutes, appearing in the distance I see a lean figure, towering above everyone else with height. He hastily glides through the ocean of people towards me, looking in the reflective windows of various shops, re-arranging his hair with a simple flick of his head, and shake of his hand to ruffle certain areas every time he passes by. As he is nearing, he does his usual roll of the eyes and makes that sound of discontent, “ugh” that he does on almost every arrival, regardless of the situation. This is also a hint for me to immediately remind him that it is no problem that he is late, but more importantly, to ask him what terrible event has occurred causing him such stress in his life, making him only “a few minutes late.”
After a brief hug, hello and me reassuring him that his lateness was not even a minor issue, he proceeds to place his scratched and damaged phone, which is evidence of his careless ways, on the table. He then goes inside to order his signature Starbucks beverage – a soy chai latte, and my filter coffee qith one pump of white mocha syrup. After ordering our beverages and making small talk with the Asian barista, he arrives back at the table; melodramatically struggling to carry our two beverages, and the free muffin the barista gave him. He makes simple things seem so difficult. Before sitting down, he takes a quick glance at our surroundings before finding comfort in the chair opposite me. In disgust, he pushes the muffin away from him then wraps his twig-like fingers around the cup which holds his method of stress relief. As he sips it and swallows, I can see a feeling of delight coming over him; he is now content and begins talking to me. I would say we began talking to each other, but I usually only manage to get a few words in, so it’s really only him talking to me.
He begins to inform me of his daily frustrations, like the thirty-dollar fine he has to pay for locking his key in his apartment and the fact that he keeps mindlessly splurging his savings on unnecessary materialistic desires; like the four hundred dollar pair of jeans he sits so comfortably in. While he is working himself up into a state of stress again, I notice he still hasn’t overcome his irrepressible habit of hair twisting and throughout the whole conversation he continues to twist and pull at a small bunch of hair until the ends begin to break off; kind of gross? He then begins to tell me about “this week’s plans for the future” - but as usual, this quickly turns into more of a, him devising elaborate plans to get money to support his previous plans, kind of conversation.
After speaking of himself for... I loose track of time, he comes to an indefinite verbal halt and composes himself with his usual hair flick. The harsh light of the sun is now shining brightly in his piercing blue eyes, causing him to squint; obviously pained by this, he rotates his chair away from the brightness, and after taking another glance down the street, he pulls his cigarettes out with a minor struggle from the back pocket of his exceptionally close fitting black jeans. Regardless of the two year old child and her grandmother sitting next to us, he lights up… polluting the surroundings, causing the child and her grandmother to leave, disgruntled with his rudeness. But, Mason is oblivious. He continues to puff away.
Bearing in mind that while he is indulging himself in his nicotine stick and free cloud of toxic smoke that comes with it, this will be about the only four to five minute period I will get the opportunity to speak. So, I choose my sentences carefully. However, while I am giving him a de-brief on what is happening back at home, I can see that he is more interested in watching and judging the people passing by.
After finishing his cigarette, he unconcernedly flicks the still smoking butt onto the ground; I tell him to put it out and to use the ash tray. Responding to my comment after a moment of contemplation, he leans towards me and quietly says, “Hannah, the world is my ash-tray.” He then washes down the after taste of his Dunhill mild cigarette with the last drop of his soy chai latte. I can tell this is a moment of bliss for him, because directly after he puts the cup down, he closes his eyes for a second, and says, “Mmm, that was just… unbelievably satisfying. I'm going now.”
Standing up now, he tells me how nice it was to see me, and how good it felt to let all his thoughts and plans out over a “very pleasing chit-chat and chai latte” with me. With that; he picks up the blueberry muffin, stares at it for a short time, then with no hesitation devours the entire thing. With a guilty look on his face, he then gives me a little pat and kiss on the head, reminding me to take care of myself. Then he briskly paces off into the crowds and out of my sight.
M. You'll be the first chapter of my novel. x
