What Happens Next
by Chad W. Lutz
The barista yells across the crowded coffee shop that my order is ready.
“Large Colombian, no room!”
The announcement sounds like a threat, and it might be anywhere else, but here it slides like the sleeve on my cup. Everyone looks up, as is customary in this type of setting, and then quickly glances down, as is customary in this type of setting, except you. You keep your eyes on me as I walk up to the counter where my coffee is steaming, lid set next to it, already an afterthought to the barista, who’s moving and shaking with the espresso machine, an order for another customer.
I see you, and, for a moment, we make eye contact. I look away, trying not to let on I saw, but when I inevitably look back, I find you glancing at my laptop, but not long enough for you to notice I notice.
“Everything alright?” the barista asks, and for some reason I think about simulation theory, but I’m not sure why.
I laugh.
“Colombian, right?”
“No room,” they say again, but they seem amicable enough when they say it and don’t tell me to get lost or even move aside.
“Yeah,” is my only reply, and I pick up my cup of Joe. I head back to my table, where three paragraphs fill a Word doc on my laptop with the cursor blinking, and take my seat. You’re sitting at the next table over, and when I sit down, I notice that you notice. I notice you notice I notice, and we make eye contact again.
“I read what you’re writing,” you tell me, holding a pocket-sized book in your small hands, holding it close to your chest, like a secret you’re trying to hoard. “I like how you write about what’s happening as it’s happening. I always write using the past tense. I find it hard to focus on the present moment.”
“That’s the real miracle,” I say to you.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing,” I tell you, and then I get crazy. I say, “You wouldn’t want to sit with me, would you? I see you in here all the time, but we’ve never spoken, and I have this funny feeling we’d get along.”
I smile.
You smile back, move your stuff to my table, and take the seat across from me.
“So, are you writing a book or something?”
“You could say that,” I tell you. “In one form or another.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
You take a sip from your coffee and press your lips together, clearing your throat.
“I don’t really have an idea of where I’m going. I’d love to start on another book project, but right now I’m just writing to see what happens.”
“Sounds like life,” you tell me. “So, this is just practice?”
“Isn’t it all practice?”
“What?”
“Life.”
“You’re funny,” you say, and while I’m afraid I’m turning you off, there’s a spark in your eye when you meet my gaze again.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Not supposed to be here?”
“No, I’m supposed to be home right now; or, rather, at my doctor’s. I have CF, and my dad is overprotective. He doesn’t like me going anywhere. Calls me one of his assets. You know I’ve never been able to spend the night at a friend’s house? The only sleepovers I’ve ever had have been at my parents’. Isn’t that crazy? I’m almost twenty-six.” Staring into your drink, you say, “I always tell them the appointments go over and come here for an hour; usually no more than that, or else they get suspicious.”
I don’t say anything, because I don’t know what to say, but I feel like I’m making you self-conscious, so I clear my throat and say something like, “Uhhh,” and then follow it up with, “I’m not supposed to be here, either.”
“Really?” you ask.
“No; well, yes, but I’m not supposed to be doing what I’m doing. I’m supposed to be looking for jobs.”
“You don’t have a job?”
Sheepishly, I tell you, “No.”
“That’s ok. I don’t have a job, either. My dad thinks it’d be too risky. That someone would just get me sick, and I’d end up in the hospital more than I already am.”
“What’s CF?” I ask.
“Cystic Fibrosis. Lung disease. I’m going to die,” you tell me, as plain as saying you had eggs for breakfast. “But don’t worry. I’m not going to die today or anything.”
“You don’t look like you’re going to die at all.”
“Does anybody?” you reply, pointing at a cloth band wrapped around your left arm. “This is my med port.” There’s a bump under the cloth. You pull the cloth down to expose a nodule. “It’s a catheter, like a docking station for my treatments. I hook my meds up to it twice a day. Acts like a drip. Cool, right? It’s like I’m in The Matrix.”
“I love that movie,” I reply.
“Me too,” you tell me, and, again, the conversation stalls, but only for a second.
“Have you ever been in a relationship before?” you ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean like a romantic relationship. I’ve never been in one. My dad won’t let me. Says there’s no point. He gives the same reason for us not getting a dog. Too much attachment, too much heartbreak. or something like that.”
“I have,” I tell you. “It lasted almost three years.”
“Three years?! Holy crow! Are you married?”
I look down at the table, shaking my head.
“Sorry,” you say. “I know it’s none of my business. I’m just curious. I’ve never been in love before. Or at least not the way you see it in books or on TV.”
“It’s a lot like what your dad says,” I say, cynically. “A lot of attachment, a lot of letdowns.”
“What do you mean? It can’t all be like that. Look at the people in long-term, committed relationships. There are tons of people out there like that.”
When I don’t say anything, you ask, “Aren’t there?”
“There are,” I tell you. “There are plenty of people out there like that. My parents, for instance. They’ve been married over forty years. I’ve never once seen them fight, walk out, or even threaten to leave. I’ve never seen them kiss either, though. So, there’s that.”
“Do people have to kiss to be in love?”
You mark your place in your book and set it down on the table next to your drink.
Simulation Theory: A Brief Introduction.
“We fought all the time,” I say, almost tripping over the words. “Once, my ex and I, she was cooking chicken and kept using her hands as the spatula, and I shoved my hands in her face and asked how she liked it. She pushed me away and then got in my face and started yelling like I’d hit her. That was a year into the relationship.”
When I look back up from the table, you’re staring into your drink, maybe considering leaving.
“That’s not anything to be ashamed of. Who cooks with their hands? She could’ve burned herself. Did she at least wash them?”
I shake my head.
You smile, as if clearing my name.
“It could’ve stopped there, but I walked out and slammed the door behind me. Apparently, some stuff fell off the walls, and she came roaring out with her hand cocked back and punched me in the shoulder. She punched me again and again, so I pushed her, and she fell to the ground.”
“Oh, my God,” you say, covering your mouth with your hands. “What did you do next?”
“I got in my car and drove off as fast as I could, with her kicking my tires, screaming, ‘How dare you! How dare you!’
“I made it to my house, but no sooner did I get out of my car, heart pounding in my chest, sick to my fucking stomach, then she comes roaring down the street and pulls into my driveway like she’s a stunt driver on a movie set. And she doesn’t slow down, she just keeps coming, with this look in her eyes like she’s ready to kill me. I have to jump out of the way, so she doesn’t hit me with her car.”
I sigh.
“I’m sorry,” is how you follow my monologue. You tell me, “That’s awful.”
“Awful, shmawful. You’re literally dying.”
“So are you,” you say, flatly. “But that doesn’t mean you deserved what happened. Maybe you shouldn’t have shoved your hands in her face, maybe you shouldn’t have pushed her or slammed the door, but you didn’t deserve to be punched, and you definitely didn’t deserve to be hit by a car.”
The barista calls out, “Matcha latte, extra whip!”
Everyone looks up.
“Thanks,” I say. “She had schizophrenia; not that that means anything. Lots of people with schizophrenia lead perfectly manageable lives. I’m bipolar, though. The combo was explosive, as you can plainly see.”
“Wow,” you tell me. “It’s amazing to think you’ve been through all this and you’re about what? Twenty-six?
I nod.
“Twenty-seven.”
“Chicken,” you say.
“Chicken,” I reply, with a smile.
“Oh, shoot,” you say, checking the time on your phone. “I’ve got to get going. My parents are going to—yup. They already texted me like ten minutes ago. Shoot.”
“When’s the next appointment?” I ask as you get up to leave.
“I have one next week. We’ll see if I can stay late after today, though. I already have a feeling my dad’s going to kill me.”
I muse.
“At least we’re all dying, right?”
Thankfully, you laughed.
Chad W. Lutz is a speedy, bipolar writer from Akron, Ohio. They graduated from Mills College in Oakland, California, with their MFA in creative writing in 2018. Their first book, For the Time Being (2020), won the Malcom J. Lowry Award. Other recent works appear in Quibble Lit, Magazine1, Pa’lante, Saturn in Gemini, LEVITATE, and Hive Avenue Literary Journal. Find more on them @chadw.lutz on Instagram or on their website: https://chadontherun86.wixsite.com/chadlutz.