It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and the Coffee House on the corner of Kostyantynivska and Yaroslavska streets has just opened. Already, though, a few patrons have settled into one of the few cushiony booths on hand at this particular outlet.
A sleepy-eyed waitress traverses the wooden floor with breakfast specials, as the customers read free copies of Kommersant, stare at their laptops, or people watch Podil pedestrians through the establishment’s large storefront windows.
In the corner booth farthest from the entrance, with a ringside seat to the sidewalk just on the other side of the glass, sits a vaguely ominous figure.
Is this a modern-day Plato contemplating the existence of truth in today’s Kyiv: “Truth? It sure as hell can’t be found in the city’s English-language media!” he seems to be thinking to himself.
Or possibly, he’s some kind of fiend, plotting an unspeakable crime against a helpless woman, child or aging expatriate journalist. “LOSSER! LOSSSSSSER!!!”
No, no, no: This is none other than The Hunched Cornish, who could very well be preparing another Checkout review for this website.
“Hey, Hunched Cornball,” comes a shout from across the cafe. It’s The Half Guinea, and he’s feeling particularly obnoxious.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
The Half Guinea (HG)
The Hunched Cornish (HC)
HG: Hunchy. Oh, Hunchy boy. Yeah, I’m talking to you, literary freak.
HC: Ugh.
The Half Guinea walks up half-cocked and takes a seat at the table just to the right of the Hunched Cornish.
HG: Enjoying your coffee and cherry muffin, which until 12:00 costs only UAH 24 at Coffee House?
HC: Go away, I’m working.
HG: Working? Is that what you call what you are doing? Working? I’ve been watching you from behind the coat rack, over there. See? No, you didn’t see me, or maybe you did and pretended not to. At any rate, the only WORKI’ve noticed you engaged in is taking peeks at the cleavage of the waitress serving you, you dirty son of a…
HC: Are you finished, Guinea? (pronouncing the word Guinea with a particularly nasty extenuation of the first syllable)
HG: Finished? I haven’t even started, Crunched Corn Bread! Hunched Whoremonger! Bunched Fornicator…
The Hunched Cornish begins demonstratively probing his molars with a toothpick until the approach of the waitress, who leans toward him to whisper something in Ukrainian out of earshot of The Half Guinea.
HC: Uh huh…
HG: What is it? What did she tell you? What are you going to write next for the Commix section?
To be continued…
The Half Guinea, March 14, 2013