Godly Musings Over Triple Espresso

Written as a study of ‘character in action’ for “Foundations of Fiction” writing course.
Also available in audio on the podcast Story Time with Darcie: Episode 8.

by Darcie T. Kelly

I try to keep a low profile when I visit the local caffeine post. I hide behind a newspaper with my triple espresso, in a shadowed corner avoiding eye contact with the humans. It’s completely understandable to wonder why I come. In truth, I enjoy people watching; listening to snippets of inane conversations and hearing the thoughts that lurk behind. That woman in the red rain jacket for example. The one who accidentally dropped her change on the muddy floor. Her words apologize to the baristo, she even pulls off a convincing blush, but her thoughts are a string of curses. Among the fucks and shits she’s thrown in a couple of ‘god damn its’, but I’m not taking it personally. Even if she is a god-fearing woman, chances are I’m not the god to whom she refers.

Do you see that young man who just walked in? He mutters to himself, too low for the humans to hear. Do you see him? Even with my omniscience, his thoughts are garbled, chaotic, incomprehensible. It is rare that I do not immediately know every detail of a human’s life at first glance. This is a welcome mystery.

He takes a seat on a bar stool without ordering. The patrons settled near shift in discomfort. To say their thoughts are unwelcoming would be very kind. A sideways glance. A crinkled nose. And … yes, one leaves the café and, there … one changes seats. So predictable these humans. All but him.

The young man struggles with his thoughts, shuffles them in his mind, tries to make sense of them. I could easily reach in and provided him a framework, a grid perhaps or a flow chart, but that would cost my anonymity. I wouldn’t be able to come here again.

I open my mind fully to his, intrigued, absorbed. Trying to see deeper, to find the current buried under tossing waves and churning waters. I want to know the un-knowable.

It’s a complete shock when his thoughts suddenly coalesce into a blinding light, throwing me back in my chair. He screams; an animal cry of panicked agony. Occasionally I wish I could experience human emotion. Love for example. I’d like to know what a human considers love. Or surprise. Well, I guess this is close. I am thankful, however, to not experience human pain, for the lightening bolt sizzling through my head has me shuddering to imagine the agony this young man suffers.

The café patrons and staff are dumbfounded for a moment, a silence of both sound and thought, before the entire room breaks into action. A frightened baby wails in fear. Some teenagers skipping class giggle. A CEO on a call with his corporate lawyer throws a disgusted look and exits the café. The baristo rushes to the back office to collect his manager who will not come, but instead calls 911. A dozen other people react in a dozen other ways.

An off-duty paramedic abandons her date (a first date no less) and lets her training take over. Approach with slow, non-threatening movements and gentle comforting words. She does not know the young man has lost all contact with his senses. Cannot see her careful approach. Cannot fear her proximity. Cannot experience anything beyond the blinding thoughts that have become his entire experience – his entire existence.

Sirens wail in the distance.

I see everything at once. Hear every person’s thoughts. Anticipate every person’s reaction. Forecast the innumerable ways this scene can play out.

In one, the young, suffering man is tackled by police and spends the next twelve years of his life in a mental hospital. In another, he is killed by an over-stressed, over-caffeinated patron with a gun hidden in his duffel. In yet another, it is the paramedic who is shot. It takes the mind of a god less than an instant to understand every eventuality and their consequences for years to come.

I decide.

Tossing the newspaper aside, I shed my humble mantel. I stand before humanity in all my Olympian glory, large, shining, sparking with electricity. They cower before me. All except the young man whose mind is separate.

“You’re safe.” My whisper thunders through the room as I remove my quiver of lightning and place it on the ground beside me. Their thoughts are agonizing. I wish I didn’t scare humans so. I wish I could forever listen, unseen, unfeared.

Some people run from the café, abandoning coffee, purses, and books. “You’re safe.” I barely let air pass my lips as I assure those who remain, and still the sound rattles cups on tables and shelves. With softened eyes and exaggeratedly gentle movements, I calmly approach the young suffering man who is pulling his hair, scratching his eyes, trying to free the blaze within.

I take his hands in mine. They are so slim. Long, but narrow. The hands of a pianist. Delicate. Like him. He settles, though does not calm. He looks at our joined hands. The delicate and the powerful. The confused in the all-knowing.

“May I?” I ask. Above all: consent. Even in a moment of such chaos and suffering, consent above all. I peer into the inferno of his thoughts for an answer. Permission. He struggles.

“May I help you?” I ask again. A distant corner of his mind shimmers. Relaxes slightly. A corner that relinquishes a pinch of control. Consenting. Happy to relieve itself of even a small burden. I nod, close my eyes and allow his forehead to rest against mine.

I reach into his mind, not just to listen now, but to merge. Our thoughts as one. I provide the framework, grids and flow carts. Together, we map memories, relive events, acquire knowledge, and achieve understanding.

Our thoughts return to the café and separate.

His eyes meet mine. “Thank you.” He still carries the storm within, but his eyes reveal focus, clarity.

I nod. “You know?” I limit my words in a vain attempt to limit my impact on the people still present, holding up their phones, capturing photos and videos.

“Yes, I know I can’t stay.” He has seen into the mind of a god. He must return to Olympus with me. I nod.

At the slightest movement, my lightening and quiver flash across the room into my hand. Café patrons gasp and cell phones spark. There is nothing I can do to erase their minds, but this will ensure I remain a tall-tale rather than a viral internet story.

I glance around, sad to leave my favourite café for the last time. I tip my head to the baristo, smile to the paramedic, and offer my silent thanks to all the people I’ve watched over the years.

As police arrive, I look to the contented man, place a hand on his shoulder and in a flash …