THE DECAF CONSPIRACY
My head is pounding and I feel very tired - I've been up for over two days now, I need more coffee to stay awake and to make the headache go away. I am almost there, the Second Cup on Robertson Road is just a few steps away. I stagger in and inhale the aroma, then shuffle toward the counter.
"Can I help you, sir?" asks the girl behind it. Her nametag says "Cheryl", she looks 19 - too young to be one of Them, but it is becoming harder to tell these days. "I'll have a quadruple espresso, please!" I gasp.
"Quadruple?"
"Yes. Please. Hurry!"
"What does quadruple mean?" She is definitely not one of Them. They are not stupid.
"Four espressos. In one cup. Short."
"Oh." She gives me a peculiar look, I can't figure out what it means, and then turns towards the deliciously hissing machine, touching it in an almost sexual way. I would ask her out, but my current work leaves me with little room for relationships. Soon, the espresso is ready and she hands me the steaming mug. "That will be 4.98, please."
I hand her a five-dollar bill, and toss the two pennies change in the "Take-A-Penny-Leave-A-Penny" jar. The cup feels so good in my hand, just holding it is such a pleasure. I stagger over to a chair next to the electric fireplace and plop into it. I bring the cup to my lips, taste the bitter liquid...
"GODDAMN!" The girl looks up as I say "Goddamn!" again. "This is damn decaf!" I shout at her. "This is damn decaf! This is damn decaf! THIS IS DAMN DECAF!" As I throw the cup to the floor and stomp on it, she looks frightened and backs away from the counter, gasping for words that will not come out.
"I am sorry. I did not mean to scare you." I pull the stop on one of those upside down coffee bins - Medium Antigua - and let the whole roasted coffee beans pour into my palm, and then pop a handful into my mouth. Its decaf. The label does not say that it is decaf, but I can tell. Emperor's Blend. Decaf. Tanzanian. Decaf. Colombian. Decaf. Sumatran. Decaf. Decaf. Decaf. Decaf! It is all decaf! My mouth is filled with the bitter taste of coffee beans, the sharp fragments of coffee beans cut into my gums and my tongue.
Oh God! I need caffeine. But They do not want me to have it. Them - the CSE, the Communications Security Establishment. Caffeine interferes with their mind-reading equipment. They keep replacing more and more of the real coffee with decaf!
The girl behind the counter is talking on the telephone. "No," she says, "he does not seem to be armed." I am wasting my time here. Maybe Tim Horton's across the street has not been subverted. I turn to leave, and as I exit I see a police car leaving the Tim Horton's parking lot, crossing the five lanes of traffic and going into the Second Cup parking lot. The girl runs out towards the officer. "It's him!" she shrieks, pointing at me. "That's the guy who freaked out!"
The sea of traffic that parted so casually for the officer will not part for me. I stand there, waiting for an opening, but it will not come.
"Excuse me, sir! Can I have a word with you!"
The voice is firm and full of authority and I turn to look at its owner. He is tall, with a number three brush cut and a mustache. He has a gun.
"They only had decaf, officer. They only had decaf," I explain.
He looks at me like I was some crazy person talking to imaginary things. When he speaks, it is with that strange singsong cadence most people reserve for children.
"Why don't you sit in the back of the nice police car here, and I will go and get you some nice caffeinated coffee from the nice place across the street, eh?" He motions at the cruiser.
"Don't talk down to me!" I shake my index finger at him. "Don't farking talk down to me!" His face is expressionless as his hand starts moving towards a canister on his belt. The canister shares the belt with a nightstick and a gun.
"Now that's what I call a hazardous waist!"
I smile. Maybe a little humor will diffuse the situation. Maybe I am being a little too harsh on him. I mean, police officers get to deal with all sorts of whacked out and nasty types, can't really blame them if their manners are a bit off. He smiles - with his mouth, not with his eyes. It is a strained, nasty smile.
"Guess you've heard that one before."
He grasps me by the arm, firmly, almost painfully and leads me back to the cruiser. He holds open the back door. "Get in!" I get in. "Got any ID?"
"No. I burned it. It was trying to scan my brain."
He rolls his eyes and slams the door shut. I try to open it but it will not budge - I guess it has one of those childproof back doors. The officer gets into the front and pulls out of the parking lot, the sea of traffic parting before him as the Red Sea parted before Moses as he turns left. We drive past the Pizza Hut, past Your Independent Grocer, past the funeral home and over the Queensway. He turns right on Carling - I know where he is going, he is going to the Royal Ottawa Hospital - it's a psychiatric hospital. The Communications Security Establishment runs it, it is there that all the political prisoners in Canada are kept.
We go into the ROH lot, and stop near the door that says "Admissions". The officer goes in and comes back with two burly CSE agents, disguised as orderlies. As I get out of the car one of them sneers "Its you again!". I can not tell if I have seen him before, all the spooks look the same, they are all identical clones, they are grown in the special labs on the Experimental Farm. "Looky here, if you don't cause us any trouble and come along quietly, we won't cause you any trouble, OK?"
I nod. There will be opportunities to escape later, but for now I have to pretend to co-operate. We walk into the admissions area, past locked doors. One of the orderlies motions to a chair - "Sit there, someone will be right with you!"
I sit down and look around me. A few more people are sitting there, waiting. One is muttering to himself, stopping only to swat away imaginary insects. An old woman is sitting quietly, rolling back and forth, lolling her tongue. Anti-schizophrenia medication has nasty side effects - involuntary movements being among the most common. Just about everyone here is obviously crazy. One girl, in her late teens, is sitting quietly, not muttering, not moving in crazy ways, not emoting inappropriately. I get up and walk over to her. "Political prisoner?" I ask.
She looks up at me - I can see that she has been crying recently. "No," she responds. "Depression." She looks down again. Depressed people are not crazy, just sad.
"If you keep reciting the multiplication table in your head," I explain, "It will make it very difficult for Them to read your mind." She rolls her eyes, and I go back to my seat. She thinks I am crazy. I am not crazy. I do not loll my tongue like a dog, or mutter gibberish, or giggle inappropriately. Does knowing the truth make me crazy? I suppose it depends on how you define it.
A girl in nurse's uniform walks in. She is young, probably a student nurse. Her nametag reads "Laurie". No last name. They do not have last names on nametags in mental hospitals. "We are kind of busy," she announces to us. "Would anyone like a coffee or anything while you wait?"
There are a few jerky raised hands around the room. "As long as it's not decaf," I respond.
She leaves and comes back a few minutes later with a stack of styrofoam cups. I am not getting my hopes up this time; there is no caffeine in this place! She hands me a cup - and there is no harm in trying it, so I bring it to my lips and take a small sip. "It is real! It is real!" I almost cry out in joy, but I realize that I must not. That would give it away.
"Thank you!" I smile at the girl. She smiles back. It's a real smile! She is in the Resistance, I can tell that, smuggling real, caffeinated coffee into the enemy's fortress. The CSE may have won a few battles, but they have not won the war. If the Resistance can operate in ROH there remains plenty of hope. Victory will be ours! We just have to be patient!
As I drink, I can feel my head beginning to clear.