My Mistake

Had I known that I was about to have my own personal Oppenheimer moment and to have the means to destroy the world, I would have kept my glasses on!

But how was I to know? How was I to know that Jenny, the girl serving in the coffee shop, would be wearing THAT blouse? What made her wear that low-cut blouse today? Today of all days?

I have been coming here, to Gerry’s Tea & Coffee Shop, every Wednesday for nearly five years and never, EVER!, have I seen her display cleavage. Yes, she has changed hairstyles, worn different necklaces, even tried different lipstick colours, but her penchant for wearing over-sized T-Shirts has been unfailing, so why has she changed now?

Don’t look! Don’t look!

But the lure of them was magnetic and the conflict between brain and eyes was becoming a strain. Only one thing for it – so I removed my glasses and slipped them into my jacket pocket, all temptation now reduced to a fuzzy, out-of-focus image – Whicker’s World of the 1960s at its best.

“Hello, Malcom,” she said, the customary smile on her face as I approached the counter. “How is the world of pet food tasting these days?”

I don’t do food tasting and certainly not pet food tasting – never have and probably never will. But I had lied to Jenny when she first asked so that I might sound more interesting. Well? Hasn’t everyone? No, I fix computers, I still live at home with my parents, and I read science fiction – Boring with a capital “B”!

“Deliciously appetising,” I replied, “but not as tasty as your cakes,” and I tapped the glass-fronted display case, forcing a chuckle. Inside, I was mentally karate-chopping my brain for another, better, smoother, funnier comment.

Jenny laughed, but my vision was too soft and fuzzy to verify the authenticity of her face. In shame at my continued deceit and endeavouring to keep my eyes from straying, I turned towards the large glass plates on the countertop and grabbed one of the large biscuits.

“Here you are, Malcom, your usual cappuccino to go with your cookie.”

I tapped my bank card against the machine and, tray in hand, weaved my way through the maze of tables and chairs and sat with my Wednesday ritual food and drink at my favourite corner spot.

It was another glorious morning outside with golden sunshine flooding through the plate glass window, bathing the well-worn oak flooring in natural light, infusing the hubbub of early morning conversations with warmth. Outside, the pavement was already busy, swarms of bodies like mindless worker ants foraging the woods to appease their queen.

Running my finger over the surface of the biscuit, it was as if I was reading the braille recipe and description of the crispiness about to explode in my mouth. But when my teeth sank in, I knew immediately that something was wrong. Cinnamon! And was that nutmeg? And the texture! It was ‘squidgy’! My throat immediately started its automatic abort and evacuate procedure and saliva-coated chunks were coughed and spluttered on to the table.

My world snapped back into focus as I retrieved my glasses from my jacket pocket. The half-eaten remains of an imposter lay on the table in front of me. What vile concoction, what chameleon, had been hidden amongst the plates of biscuits?

An Oatmeal Raisin, that’s what! With my sight impaired, I had grabbed this foul morsel instead of my usual chocolate chip cookie. A classic case of mistaken identity!

I scraped my tongue with a paper napkin, coughing and spluttering as if I had been poisoned, sounding like a cow choking on a lump of sugar beet.

My mouth was raw by the time I had finished coughing and, as I reached for my coffee, I noticed that the chatter inside the shop had stopped, not just stopped, but frozen. Customers all around were frozen in time and space – cups suspended between table and mouth; thumbs petrified in mid-text over mobile phones. Had it not been in three-dimensions, it could have been a photograph of some point in time, capturing the morning routine of the caffeine-junkie.

A large circle of dull blue light materialised next to me, the sound of crackling electricity breaking the silence. Stepping through this portal, a large figure in a hooded cloak approached slowly. It was tall, its head only inches from the high ceiling. It was bulky, each step sending shocks through the wooden floor, vibrations shuddering up my legs.

“Malcom Riley!” this mysterious creature rasped as it stretched out skeletal tentacles and pulled back the hood to reveal a creature which looked something between a sloth and a pangolin – the round furry head was undeniably cute; the body, however, was covered in heavy dark-grey scales. Its eyes squinted in the sunshine and the corners of its mouth were turned up, giving the impression that it was sleepy, happy or, heaven forbid, high! “I’m sorry,” it continued, “but we have screwed up!”.

Images from every Alien film I had ever watched flashed through my mind and tales straight from the X-Files began to surface.

“No! Please!” I could feel my bum cheeks tense. “Please don’t anal probe me!” I shouted at this creature.

“What?” replied the creature, its voice now adjusted to a more child-like tone. “The very fabric of the space and time continuum is in jeopardy, and you’re worried about your backside? Wow!”

Sitting as far back on my seat as I could squeeze, I managed to stammer “Who are you?”.

“Sorry,” it responded. “I should have introduced myself. You can call me Mister Palaios.”

“OK, but WHO are you?”

“Well, I am a Guardian Angel, I suppose. I watch over you and make sure that you stick to ‘The Plan’”.

I had always assumed that, if they did exist, Guardian Angels would be sylph-like women in long flowing white dresses with bright auras and maybe feathered wings – certainly not huge scaly mammals in over-sized coats.

“Plan? What plan?”, I queried.

“Your habitual Wednesday morning chocolate cookie and coffee,” replied Mr Palaios. “Believe it or not, this simple routine prevents the destruction of the universe. Think of it along the lines of winding a clock – OK, an old clock, not one of your fancy digital contraptions, but a real wind-up mechanical job – if you don’t perform that regular task then it will stop.”

I stared in disbelief at this Guardian Angel.

“That’s why we call you the ‘Clock Key’. Do you remember the old man who used to sit in that far corner every day? The one who managed to make a cup of tea last all the way through reading his newspaper, even the crossword?”

“Who? Old Jim?”

“Yes, ‘Old Jim’ as you all called him. He was our previous Clock Key and had been doing it for nearly forty years until he was honourably discharged – you could say ‘retired’ – nearly five years ago. The Divine then chose you at random – you were young enough and not very ambitious – and then implanted with a habitual activity. In your case, your Wednesday coffee and chocolate cookie is the pendulum which keeps the planet ticking.”

Mr Palaios bent down and eased himself into the chair opposite me, his long legs crammed against the underside of the table. Two long, narrow claws extended from one of his cloak sleeves and began picking at crumbs from my discarded oatmeal raisin cookie.

“Mmm, not bad,” he said. “In fact, quite tasty. Such a pity that it’s responsible for the end of the world.”

“But just a minute,” I protested. If you are my Guardian Angel, aren’t you supposed to ensure I eat the correct cookie? What happened?”.

He paused mid-taste, put his claws on the tabletop and began tapping them, rhythmically, one at a time, as if annoyed with someone or something.

“I hate to admit it, but I took a short break to watch the football and tennis. I honestly didn’t think that a glimpse of Jenny’s Twin Peaks would be enough to turn you into a new Stevie Wonder!”.

It was ridiculous and I scoffed at his remark. I turned towards the window. The pavement was still busy, albeit that the people were frozen, but still basking in the morning sun which had not budged an inch.

“Can it be fixed?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, I can rewind time to just before you picked up the wrong cookie,” Mr Palaios explained. “But simply buying the right cookie isn’t going to be enough. To jumpstart the timeline, we’ll need a chemical reaction which generates a spark inside you.”

“Oh, please don’t tell me that I have to shove a battery up my backside.”

“What? For goodness’ sake, what is it with you and your bum?” he yelled. “No, thicko! A Kiss! You need to kiss Jenny. That should release sufficient dopamine, oxytocin and serotonin to generate the required energy.”

A shiver of dread scrambled through my body.

“Kiss her?” I stammered. “I can hardly talk to her without sounding like a babbling fool.”

“Then you had better figure it out – and quickly. We don’t have much time to fix this mess, or the damage becomes irreversible.”

Poof…!

“Hello, Malcom. How is the world of pet food tasting these days?”

It had worked. I was suddenly back at the counter in front of Jenny. Customer conversations had re-started, pedestrians were moving outside. I even noticed that the background music was playing. I shook my head in an attempt to make sense of what had happened and what was now happening.

But it all went wrong again. My eyes connected directly with Jenny’s chest. Like a glorious sunset over the mountains, that heavenly sight held my gaze. I couldn’t look away.

“Could you be any more disrespectful, Malcom? My eyes are up here!” she cried, pointing to those hazel pools on her face. Their blend of green and gold sparkled with a blend of innocence, of outrage and of curiosity.

My head shot up and my eyes widened, like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the sweet jar. I panicked, words stuck in my throat, leaving me able to only make soppy kissy lips at her.

I watched in slow motion as her hand drew back and then unleashed a resounding slap across my face. The sound reverberated against the weathered brick walls followed by ghostly silence. Once again, everyone and everything inside and outside of the café was frozen in place.

“Nice one, Romeo!” called Mr Palaios. “How old are you? Twelve?”

I turned to face him, his smile a sharp contrast with the seriousness in his voice.

“I’ve never been any good at talking to girls,” I confessed.

“Well, try again!”

Poof…!

“Hello, Malcom. How is the world of pet food tasting these days?”

I raised my head, eyes firmly fixed on a fly crawling across the ceiling, ignoring her question.

“Is there any chance of a kiss?”, I stammered sheepishly.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed a glimmer of interest on her face, but I panicked…again.

“I mean, a copy of Kiss’s 2012 album ‘Monster’. Is there any chance that you have a copy I could borrow?

“Sorry, Malcom. Too far out there for me,” her expression shifting from confusion to perplexity. “The usual cappuccino and chocolate chip cookie, then?”.

Those words had no sooner escaped her lips when her body froze, and the café was plunged into another eerie silence. Mr Palaios was again at my back and I could sense the hot breath oozing from his mouth.

“If you don’t grow a pair now, I am going to fit that cookie jar where the sun doesn’t shine!”, he yelled. “Last chance!”.

Poof…!

“Hello, Malcom. How is the world of pet food tasting these days?”

It was either the impending destruction of our world or my Guardian Angel’s threat of physical damage to my rear end, but a surge of confidence coursed through my veins. I looked Jenny straight in the eyes and let it all flow out…

“Listen, Jenny, I’m not a pet food taster. I don’t drive a fancy car. I don’t have a penthouse flat overlooking the beach. I have lied about almost everything because I’m just a boring guy and you are so beautiful. I just wanted you to think that I was interesting. But the fate of the world hangs on this very moment. I am trapped in a weird time-loop, my very own Groundhog Day, because I accidentally picked up an oatmeal cookie instead of my usual choc chip. Then a giant sloth in a huge cloak appeared through a portal and told me that I was the Chosen One and that time and space depended on me eating one of your chocolate chip cookies every Wednesday. And now he says that I need to kiss you to make things better again.”

Jenny’s eyes widened and her mouth hung open in disbelief. An eternity of two or three seconds lapsed. She raised her hands and I braced myself for another slap. Instead, her delicate fingers caressed my cheeks as she leaned in and pressed her lips to mine.

Immediately, that trio of feel-good hormones surged through me. A tingling sensation erupted in my head and a warm glow cascaded through my body like a waterfall. Invisible energy radiated throughout the café and into the street.

“The usual, then, Malcom? Cappuccino and a chocolate chip cookie?”

“Why…why did you kiss me, Jenny?” I asked, still feeling light-headed.

She smiled at me in a somewhat patronising way.

“It was very flattering of you to make up that story just to get a kiss but, the truth? My manager bet me £10 that I couldn’t steal a kiss with one of the regular customers this morning. So, thank you, Malcom, you just won me the bet!”

Malcom carried his coffee and cookie to his usual table, but this time, chose to face the café counter and, specifically, to face the counter and Jenny. Jenny had a smile on her face which he had never seen before. Was that the spark of love? Malcom returned the smile and bit into his cookie.