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Act 1. The Cafe
Ice.
Coffee.
Sugar.
Milk.
Applause!
“Wherefore art thou,” Nikolai squints at the sloppy handwriting melting away on the cup, “Adam!”
“Adam” shuffles up to the coffee bar, and Nikolai slides his drink down the counter with a flourish. The customer immediately picks up the drink and turns tail without another thought to the maniacally grinning Nikolai.
“Come again!” he hollers after the leaving customer.
Coffee.
Hold the milk.
Sugar.
Applause!
Nikolai pops open a cardboard cozy against his hip and slides the Americano in before handing it to the next waiting customer.
It’s been a slow day at the cafe, much to the benefit of Nikolai, who found himself with several props that had to be painted for his production.
A can of red paint sat open on the floor, more of it ending up on his makeshift tarp of paper towels than on the large wooden sun resting on the kitchen door.
“Nikolai!” calls Sigma, flinging the kitchen doors open, knocking over the sun and red paint.
“Sigma!” Nikolai cries in turn, flying to pick up the prop and turn it 90 degrees, propping it against the back counter to free up door clearance. “Warn a guy next time!”
Sigma, with his panties in a bunch, picks up the fallen over paint bucket and relocates it to the counter. He grimaces at the spilled paint all over the floor. He’d make Nikolai scrub the panels till his fingers cracked later, but currently he found himself with more pressing news.
“Oh, you need a warning? I just got off the phone with the health inspector. We’re expecting him in a few, so make sure you clean all of this,” he gestures to the paint project in the back of the bar, “ before he gets here, Nikolai.”
“Got it, boss!”
“I am dead serious, Nikolai. I’ve heard the new inspector is a hardass, and I just spent the past six hours cleaning out the fridges and ovens. If this cafe gets any less than an A rating, it’s so over for us.”
“Sigma, darling, when have I ever let you down?”
Sigma puts a thoughtful finger on his lip, deliberating on whether or not he should let Nikolai have it today before giving up with a sigh, “Whatever, just don’t kill anyone before we close and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Act 2. Nikolai Kills Someone
Sigma grabs an ice scraper before he leaves for the back kitchen to clean out the freezers, but not before giving brisk orders to Nikolai to clean up his craft project, tie up his hair, and organize the syrup bar.
The moment the kitchen doors stop swinging, Nikolai turns to the mess on the floor. No one can argue that open paint isn’t allowed on the cafe floor, but from his barista training, wet paint in particular would be a problem. So, Nikolai cracks open a wet floor sign from behind the counter and floats it right over the spill. He’ll scrape it off later once it’s dry. For now, though, he squats over the puddle of red paint and continues painting.
The front door jingles just as he finishes the first coat. Nikolai pops out from behind the counter and practically flies across, simultaneously curling his braid into a bun, setting his paint on the counter, and stacking the syrups on their respective shelves.
“Mister Health Inspector?” he asks the customer, aware of how disheveled he looks, and continuing to adjust his counter, hair, and cash register.
“Ah, no,” the customer shakes his head profusely, “Um, could I get a Dead Eye? Large with simple syrup. Whole milk is fine.”
He gets right to making the customer’s order.
Prepare the espresso machine.
Simple syrup.
Coffee.
Espresso.
Espresso.
Espresso.
Red paint.
Foam the whole milk.
Pour.
Applause!
“One Dead Eye!” He presents the drink at the pickup counter.
The man downs the drink in one go: three espresso shots, milk, and paint down the gullet.
Wait.
Paint?
Nikolai watches the man burp, turn, stumble, collapse, and die.
Act 3. Sigma Takes Care Of the Rest
“What was that noise!” Sigma rushes out from the kitchen and pauses at the scene.
Sigma looks at the body in front of him.
Then he looks at Nikolai.
He looks back at the body.
Then Nikolai.
Then the body.
Then Nikolai again.
Nikolai holds his breath in anticipation for Sigma’s ever-leaderly response. Sigma takes a four-second breath, holds it for seven seconds, and exhales for eight.
“You deal with this without me.”
“Huh?” Nikolai gives him a look like a deer in headlights. He falls to his knees and scrabbles to grab Sigma’s pant leg, suddenly kowtowing to him. “Why, Sigma-kun, why? Aren’t we besties?”
“I’ll be lucky if I even remain the manager tomorrow, so for today,” Sigma gives a strained smile and singsongs, “My shift is over. Sigma out.”
Act 3 (Reprise). Sigma Nikolai Takes Care Of the Rest
It’s Nikolai’s turn to stare at the body.
He glances upward to see if by some miracle Sigma returns with a mop, a body bag, anything really.
So he stares.
And stares.
And stares.
But Sigma doesn’t come back.
Maybe if he ignores it then it’ll go away…?
So he ignores it.
It doesn’t go away.
Gah, he was wasting time, the health inspector could come at any moment! Maybe he should run from the country? No, In times like these, Nikolai remembers the wise words of his employee handbook: the customer comes first!
Yes, yes, the most rational thing to do currently would be to hide the body, preferably somewhere cold and somewhere where the health inspector wouldn’t check.
The freezer, the freezer should do just fine! Sigma just cleaned it out, didn't he? There should be plenty of room for a, he squints through a finger viewfinder and estimates, six foot something in there, yes, plenty of room if he took the old ice cream out. They don’t even serve affogato anymore!
With conviction, he hauled the body up by the shoulders with great strength that’d been trained into him from his years in the troupe. Oh, but a body is so much heavier than the props and ropes he’s so used to, and a dead one even heavier so; it drags across the floor.
He opens up the counter door, then kicks open the kitchen doors, and quickly maneuvers himself through them before they slam shut. The body sweeps past the paint spill he has yet to clean up and leaves an incriminating trail, but he has time to scrub the floors, he lies to himself (Why didn’t he clean them right away? Bad Nikolai! Lazy Nikolai!). Not a blood stain! (It isn’t!) He didn’t drag any corpse through this establishment, no siree! (He did!) Please give the cafe a fair look! (Please!)
It won’t be such a big issue, just a little soap and water and paint thinner, and for the meantime he can stand on top of the stain, how could he explain it away? Oh, the renovators did a terrible paint job, left a terrible mess that wasn’t exactly out of code, it happens all the time, doesn’t it? Well, maybe not all the time, just enough times that it’s still ok, right? Or maybe he’ll crack a joke about Sigma (the slavedriver!) making him carry things that weigh more than fifty pounds into the freezers, ah, he didn’t see that stain with fifty-one pounds of frozen croissants in front of him, gee the baristas really need a union, don’t they?
He’ll run with just that story: he was hauling frozen pastries to the freezer when, gasp! He happened upon a most unfortunate puddle of paint. Move on now! Nothing to see here! Stay out of the freezer!
He leans the corpse against collapsed shelves in the back of the freezer, pushing hard against the ice to make the exposed skin stick to the metal condensers. The corpse, of course, tears away from the condensers, leaning forward, wrapping its limp arms around Nikolai, who fails to close the door in time.
He stifles a screech, quickly pushing the body back into place and slamming the door shut with all his might.
Nikolai turns the freezer lock shut with a great kerchunk! just as the greeting bell rings.
Act 4. The Health Inspector
An unsuspecting man enters the cafe, and settles coolly on one of the loveseats. It’s been a long day for this man, but he has a feeling that he might still be entertained today.
He checks his watch. He adjusts his tie. He clears his throat. He straightens out his report checklist. These proceedings are boring, usually, especially when the managers are late, fixing up things last minute or screaming at employees to look presentable to him (not that it helps their rating, but the fanfare is always appreciated).
He chews his knuckles as he pretends to study his checklist. He pens off some preliminary items: fire extinguisher, AED, Heimlich maneuver poster, check, check, check.
Sigh.
Where are the people who were supposed to meet him? He’s this close to marking down a C and calling it a day.
The charm of the cafe keeps him from getting up right away. The atmosphere is warm, and it isn’t just because the thermostat is cranked comfortably high or because the milk steamers are still irresponsibly on. The place exudes an excited energy, and if he didn’t see the obvious calm in front of him, he would have turned around to see what kind of commotion is going on.
From where he sits, he notices a spilled cup that used to hold some kind of red drink. Thai tea perhaps? It looks good, dark, just how he likes it. Maybe he’ll come here on his off day. The poor hygiene is a violation, but he can let this one slide if it is such a fresh spill. The economy can’t afford to lose any more honest overworked baristas.
The small cafe space is venerative, if the dear reader may bear with him, the energy flow made slow and spiraling by the immaculate feng shui. Though likely unintentional, the houseplants and decor are placed almost exactly in the way that many a guru has written. Perhaps it is a monument to the success of the local cafe, and its greatest strength against the Sisyphean battle against Big Coffee: a human touch, if the reader may, an honest sympathy to the chaos of modern society and a balm to the turmoil of the living spirit. For this reason it is clear why the common customer might choose to come here, if greeted by a bright barista who is passionate about suggesting their drink mixes to satisfy a daily desire for adventure, or perhaps a brooding character with taste in alternative music and penchant for theatrics.
The menu selection is nothing to scoff at as well, boasting well over– he counts them– one hundred eleven drinks made possible by the wall of flavored syrups. Undoubtedly, one might be discouraged to try all the flavors if one were sugar-conscious—but wait— each syrup also comes in a sugarless option. Not to mention, the milk options include trendier vegan milks and have recently expanded into nut-free and gluten-free rice milks as well. Truly, the possibilities are endless.
Reader, please imagine such a cafe, the kind that welcomes you home with a steaming latte at everyday competitive prices.
He’s running out of filler comments for his notes section.
…
Seriously, where is everyone?
He gets up to look for an employee, and just as he does, a disheveled barista bursts through kitchen doors to meet him.
The inspector takes note.
Act 5. The Health Inspection
No one can argue that Nikolai appears picture perfect of kitchen hygiene to the health inspector. His braid is curled into a neat bun accompanied with a hairnet. His red and calloused hands betrays vigorous scrubbing and smells faintly of soap. He’s changed his apron as well, and the garment is free of paint and human fingerprints.
Likewise, the health inspector meets him with similar professionality: pressed tie, neat hair, and an orderly clipboard. “Dostoyevsky” flashes across his name badge in bronze embossing.
They exchange a polite handshake and force toothy smiles at each other.
“Off bunburying, you know how it goes!” Nikolai laughs nervously.
“I hadn’t asked anything,” Dostoyevsky remarks amusedly.
“You must be the health inspector. Pleasure to meet you! I am Nikolai,” at this moment he bows, “actor in our town’s troupe, and part-timer at this lovely establishment. The manager Sigma is out, but you will find I am just as sweet by another name, so please allow me to show you around the premises today.”
“Very well, why don’t we start with the kitchen?””
“So the man wants to start with the kitchen!” Nikolai jabs the air to punctuate his declaration. Then, his finger drops limply. He asks meekly: “Are you sure about starting with the kitchen?”
“Quite.”
He gives a nervous chuckle: “Ahaha, Sigma told me you were new, you must understand…”
Now here is the task at hand: he is to use his superb people skills to lead Dostoyevsky away from checking the freezer and discovering the corpse, which would surely tank the health inspection grade.
In the state that he had left it, there were currently 10 gallons of ice cream sitting outside melting and 17 gallons of corpse in the freezer. Thus, there is a whopping 27 gallons of matter he must dispose of without tipping off the health inspector, somehow, if he wants to leave with Sigma’s perfect score.
All given, he deliberates on his next words very, very carefully.
“… how very odd this must be to us! The old inspector insisted I brew him a fresh cup before he took a look around. He would tell us our rating was five stars, A double plus! Come, you’ll see, come, sit, and let me brew you something.”
“The old inspector was also ousted for taking bribes. Now, I have no such plans to go the way he did. Allow me the kitchen.”
“Why the big hurry?” Nikolai argues. He picks up a cup as if to tempt Dostoyevsky into sitting the fuck down and enjoying a coffee. His efforts remain fruitless as Dostoyevsky continues his approach, much too close for comfort, now at the bar door.
“You must understand, the more you try to lead my attention away from the kitchen, the more I would like to see the kitchen. Don’t think of white bears and such.”
It is then that Dostoyevsky notices the red stain on the floor and the subsequent trail that leads suspiciously through the kitchen doors.
Act 6. White Bears
“You must realize how strange this looks,” starts Nikolai, “but there is a perfectly sane reason behind all of this.”
“Perhaps I would like to hear it. Then I would like to see the kitchen.” Dostoevsky doesn’t look up as he begins vigorously jotting down who knows what in his signature inspector shorthand. He nods to the stain, “And kudos to you for putting up the wet floor sign. You’d be surprised at how many spills I see unmarked.”
“I can only imagine,” replies Nikolai halfheartedly, inching his way in front of the kitchen doors. If he’s quick, maybe he can barricade himself on the inside. Fiddlesticks, the doors on this side are pull doors!
“I confess my thoughts on the strangest thing about this particular stain…”
“Which is?”
Nikolai’s heart pounds. He can keep his story straight; he recalls: one faithful day, Sigma ordered in pastries in bulk and had Nikolai take it to the freezers, but Nikolai had a particularly rough arm day that day… gah, but if Dostoyevsky opens those kitchen doors he’ll see the most incriminating red trail leading right to the freezer. But, oh right, he put the pastries in the freezer— swear it as he lives and breathes! But what if Dostoyevsky insists on checking it anyway? What will he see?
Pastries, Nikolai decides. He’ll see pastries.
Even if there is a corpse (which there is not, because he clearly remembers that Sigma had him drag a particularly heavy bag of mixed tarts and croissants to the fridge, indeed, he certainly would remember such an arduous labor), Dostoyevsky would be seeing things wrong, perhaps he doesn’t recognize that brand new innovative packaging their supplier is using? No, Nikolai doesn’t think it corpse-like at all! It may look like one, feel like one, bleed like one, but it couldn’t be, there simply was never a possibility.
“Does your manager routinely make you carry things that are heavier than you can handle? Say, more than fifty pounds or so?”
There couldn’t be harm in telling the bit of truth that is true.
“Just the one time, today, before you came, in fact. Just an unfortunate coincidence that our bulk order came today of all days.”
Dostoyevsky streaks the fresh stain with the tip of his shoe, doubting the composition of the stain. He jots down a note with one long pen stroke. Nikolai’s this much closer to exploding, but to any outsider, he remains professional and composed.
“I’m worried large packages historically do not freeze well. Have you heard of the volume to surface area problem? It is a basic high school concept, but it bears repeating in this particular context that the bulkier the bag, the less evenly it will freeze, potentially spoiling the food in the center or leaving frost on the edges. Proper unpacking and freezer temperature is required, which is precisely why,” he taps his clipboard with his pen impatiently, “I insist on seeing your kitchen.”
“Just a moment,” says Nikolai.
There’s only pastries in the freezer.
Nikolai dashes to the back and peeks at the body to see if it had miraculously disappeared on its own. It had stayed put, just like an obedient corpse should.
Oh god. Dostoyevsky’s going to open the freezer and find the body. He’s busted, he’s so so busted. Can he phone a friend?
Code Ice Cream, Sigma!
There’s only pastries in the freezer.
Everything’s okay, why’s he so nervous, everything’s to code! He’ll let Dostoyevsky in with open arms; he’s that confident!
His story checks out, totally and completely. There’s nothing to worry about because:
There are only pastries in the freezer.
Act 7. The Daughter of King Agamennon and Clytemnestra is Punished for Her Father’s Sins. This Story is Not About Whether or Not She Deserves to Die. This Story is About a Dead Stag and the Irony that Agamennon’s Particular Trophy Happens to Belong to Artemis. In All Iterations, His Only Sin is that He is Caught. This Story is About Her Sacrifice at the Port City of Aulis; Her Virgin Blood Spills Upon the Altar In the Name a War that She is Born Into, One Which Neither Side She Ever Offended, but is Destined to be Victim of Regardless. Up Until the End, She Knows Her Duty, But She Can Not Know What Form It Takes, Nor Can She Know That It is to Repay Her Father’s Sin. This Story, Told Countless Times by Euripides, Homer, Ovid, the Taurians, the Etruscans, and Into the Modern Age, Has Always been Told as a Tragedy. Is This a Cautionary Tale about the Victims of Chaotic Forces? Can She Be Any More Than an Unfortunate Answer to an Unfortunate Truth? What of King Agamennon? Does He Grieve? And If He Grieves, Does He Grieve Enough? Well, None of This Matters Because All We Know is That There is One Dead Stag and One Dead Girl.
Dostoyevsky , finally in the kitchen, follows the red trail to the fated freezer.
Act 8. All This Trouble For One Favorable Wind.
He reaches for the handle.
Act 9. (The Story is Told in the Present Tense Because It Happens Again and Again.)
Nikolai interjects.
Act 10. Oh Crazy, He Didn’t Know That Was There! Wild!
“You clearly told me that you were the one who took care of this particular package. Are you telling me now that that’s a lie?”
“N-no, not at all! Well, see, the truth is:”
Act 10.1. (Reprise). But He Didn’t Kill Anyone!
“I never said you did, but now I am curious.”
“I did not,” Nikolai slashes a finger across his heart twice, “I swear it upon my life. Do I look like I could ever murder someone in cold blood?”
Dostoyevsky looks him up and down, but does not entertain him with a response.
Act 10.2. (Reprise Reprise). But Even If He Did, Who’s To Say He Did it?
There’s no proof, no proof, he tells him. Not guilty. Innocent! He was only doing his job!
He grabs Dostoyevsky by the shoulders and shakes him. He has to believe him, please!
“The evidence is all circumstantial. You’re setting me up! I’ve done nothing wrong… well, that would be true if you hadn’t shown up! Oh, can’t you forgive a man for protecting his cafe?”
Dostoyevsky , noticing the gallons of ice cream left to melt, notes down a health violation.
Act 10.3. (Reprise Reprise Reprise) But Why Are You Doing This To Him?
“Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris, Mephistopheles,” grins Dostoyevsky back at Nikolai.
“Like from Cats ?” Nikolai whimpers back.
“Was there ever a cat so clever?” Dostoyevsky sighs.
Act 10.4. (Reprise Reprise Reprise Reprise). But Who’s to Say the Man Died?
“Death can be quite the subjective thing,” Dostoyevsky agrees, “While there exists some objective measure of life as set by the government, I wouldn’t say the health bureau deals particularly in interpreting these definitions. There is always the possibility that he was whisked away by a wild goddess. I wouldn’t know, not in this life, not in this body, anyways. I’ll return points for that and bring it up to my supervisor later. Consider me stumped in that regard,” he chuckles.
He crosses something out on his list with a smirk, as if satisfied that some impossible task had finally been fulfilled by Nikolai, of all people.
What the hell is on that list?
Act 10.5. (Reprise Reprise Reprise Reprise Reprise). But Who’s to Say There Was a Man At All?
“If he existed,” blurts Nikolai, “then where is his Soul?
“Where, indeed,” Dostoyevsky’s eyes brighten in curiosity.
“Therefore, you must conclude there was never any man. He sits there currently. He was never there at all. Observe him now, I dare you! He may cease to exist the moment you take your eyes off, so look carefully and be certain before you make baseless accusations!”
“So says the clown. Unfortunately, I know how this trick works already. In the vanishing birdcage trick, one dove dies for the illusion for the other to be free.” He leans in close to Nikolai’s ear as if to hide his magician’s secret from prying ears. “We both know there’s a dead dove under your table.”
Act 11. But I’m a Cheerleader!
“Wrong media,” Dostoyevsky chimes.
Act 10.6. (Reprise Reprise Reprise Reprise Prestige). But Who’s to Say Death Exists At All?
“Remember,” says Dostoyevsky, “The point of the trick is to see one free in your hand.”
“Delightful,” grieves Nikolai.
Act 12. I Think I Love You (This Act Is Told in First Person Because It Happens to Me)
Otherwise, why would you torment me so?
I love you, Dos-kun. I feel I always have, even before you met me. Call me crazy, but I know I have been made to feel such things for you, that you exist to love me, and that I exist to love you.
You shake your head at me. You tell me that we are in a tragedy.
Ha! The greatest comedy is that I know so too.
Act 13. But Comedy Will Always a Return to Basal Value
“Though you have been great fun, one tires of comedy without a punchline. Now tell me, what is the truth?”
Act 14. Iphigenia
“I put poisonous paint in that man’s drink and dragged his corpse into the freezer,” he confesses.
“Now isn’t that the truth?”
Dostoyevsky jots something down on a slip of paper and sticks it to Nikolai’s sweaty forehead. The greeting bell chimes again as he leaves without another word.
Nikolai checks the slip.
“Pass.”