Joe Perk

OTHER BOOKS BY JIM YOAKUM

Bad, Like Jesse James (Novel)

The Bloviator (Novel)

The Greatest Living Englishman (Novel)

The Myoshi Effect (Novel)

Bastardo! (Novel)

The Banana Massacre (Novel)

We Are Not Amused (Compilation)

The Man Who Killed Paul McCartney (Essays)

Da Yeller Brick Road

Meta-bleedin-morphosis

Madhattan (Novel)

ICE (Novel)

The Bettor’s Club (Novel)

Dinner With The Don (Novel)

Birdbrain (Novel)

MEDIA

Looks Like a Brown Trouser Job (DVD)

Looks Like Another Brown Trouser Job (CD)

A Six Pack of Lies (CD)

Spot the Looney (CD)

FILM AND TELEVISION

Twisted Fortune

Queen of Media

The Waking

Supercops

"I love coffee, I love tea,

I love the Java jive

and it loves me."

Part One

WHERE'S THAT DAMN JOE Perk? That was the question on everybody's lips: Where the hell is that damn Joe Perk?

Tammy, the waitress at the Café where Joe worked, asked it of Ralph, who worked in the kitchen, and Ralph asked it of Luis, the Mexican busboy. Where the hell is that damn Joe Perk?

Even Papa Perk, Joe's father, stopped his tractor long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow and ask Cliff, Joe's brother: Where the hell is Joe?

Joe Perk was in the den of the family home, reading the latest issue of Cupping, a magazine devoted to the art of preparing and drinking coffee. It had just been delivered that morning. Joe loved coffee. He loved everything about coffee, from how it was grown and harvested, to how the beans were roasted and ground, to the different types of beans and roasts and grinds. He loved how coffee was brewed, and everything that went with the ritual of brewing and drinking coffee, from the different methods and types of machines used to extract the flavor, to the variety of cups and the spoons, and the myriad sugars, flavorings and creams—he even loved how the taste of the coffee could be altered by using different types of filters and waters, and the fact that you should never use distilled or softened water.

He loved knowing that Sumatra Lintong, for instance, was only grown in the Lintong region near Lake Toba, in the north central region of Sumatra, and that it was a medium boiled coffee, low in acidity, and sweet with a complex earthy aroma; that Ethiopian Harrar was complex, with spicy tones and a fruity flavor that resembled a dry red wine. He loved coffee culture too, and all that went with it, from the smell of roasted coffee, to the social atmosphere of a coffeehouse. He even loved the smooth jazz music that was played in coffeehouses, and the conversations that he overheard.

He loved the way that the windows steamed-up on cold winter days from all of the hot coffee. He loved that fact that coffee was sometimes referred to as Joe, and that he shared that moniker... It's safe to say that if it had anything to do with coffee, then Joe Perk was interested in it.

Cliff and Papa Perk entered the house, slapping the plow dust off of their overalls. Papa saw Joe sitting in the chair reading his magazine. He frowned.

"What the hell are you doing inside this house? There's work to be done boy," he said.

I'm sorry Pa, Joe replied, I lost track of time.

Cliff grabbed Joe's magazine and regarded it with disgust. "Cupping? What's this some gay fag mag?"

No it's about coffee.

"Coffee? You're getting your rocks off to a coffee magazine? You're weirder than I thought..." He threw the magazine on the floor.

"Never mind all that, Papa said. Joe, you get your ass in gear and help us get that crop in, or else we're going to lose this farm."

Joe hung his head and said: "I can't Pa. I got me a job, over at the Sunday Café. Been working there nearly a week now. Fact is, I'm late."

You mean the 'Sun GAY' Café, Cliff said, and then he laughed. And then Papa swatted at Cliff.

"Never mind that... You got a job right here Joe, he said, helping us make this farm go."

And then Joe said: No Papa, I understand that, but I got a dream Papa, a way to a better life, away from the hardscrabble of farming and plowing and sweating your balls off...

Joe... I want to hear you out, said Papa Perk, I want to hear about your dream but, before you tell me, bear in mind this: Unless we make the mortgage in less than one months time, we'll loose everything... The farm, the house, all of our savings...

"But Papa, I got me a dream."

Papa Perk sighed. "Okay Joe, what’s your damn dream?"

Well... okay... Joe said, and then he drew a deep breath: I want to win the International Coffee Making Competition.

...The what?

"It's called the International Coffee Making Competition. It's coffee Pa. Everywhere, baristas from all across the world, get together to compete in making lattes, espressos, cappu..."

Papa grabbed Joe by his collar and shook him like a rag doll. You stupid idiot! We're going to lose everything!

"Hit him in the balls Pa!" Cliff shouted.

And then Joe said: "Papa, the grand prize is worth thousands!"

"You stupid, stupid moron!" shouted Papa.

"I know I can win Pa—I got a talent! I'm a barista!"

"Yeah, you’re a bastard alright," Papa said.

"No Papa, a barista: One who prepares and serves espresso-based coffee drinks. I’m a coffee artist."

Joe pulled away from Papa and said: "I got a talent for coffee Papa, you got to understand of all people... I mean this talent, it came from somewhere—you or Ma—aleha ha sholem."

There he goes, talkin’ that weird space language again, Pa... said Cliff. Stupid outer space 'doptee...

Cliff, shut your mouth! Papa Perk shouted.

What... What’s Cliff mean? What's going on, Papa? Joe said.

Papa Perk collapsed into a chair and wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. "Look... Joe... he began, I don't know where your coffee talent comes from boy, maybe it did come from your Pa but—it didn't come from me, or from your Ma..."

"...What are you talking about Pa? You're my Pa."

And then Papa Perk hung his head and said: "Look Joe,  I been meaning to say this for some time but, well, the time never seemed right... First there was the Vietnam War, then Nixon resigned, then there was the break-up of the Go-Go’s... Look... I ain't your Pa, Joe."

...You ain't my Pa, Pa?

"No. You're a foundling Joe; a 'doptee. I ain't your real Pa, and Cliff here, he ain't your real brother... Now Joe, look at us: We're both as white as a Mormon meeting and you, you're a swarthy sumbitch... Surely you must’ve suspected something..."

"Suspected I was a 'doptee? Why would I suspect something like that? Oy gevalt... My whole life ain't nothing but chai kock. Vey is mir... So... So who are my real parents, Pa?"

"Damned if I know boy. Your 'dopted Ma and me, we found you on our doorstep one night with a note pinned to your blanket written in some sort of... space language. Here..." He reached in a drawer and handed Joe a yellowed note. It was written in Hebrew.

What does it say?

"I don't know what it says Joe. I don't read space language, but it don't matter none because, well, even though you ain't my boy I still, well, I... I still think mighty highly of you Joe."

"Who am I? What am I going to do Pa?"

I don't know Joe but... I got to ask you to stop calling me 'Pa'... it don't seem right no more.

And then Joe looked up and wailed at the heavens. "My whole world's farshlugginer! It’s been turned upside down and shook like a cheap souvenir snow globe!"

Papa Perk nodded and said: I’m glad we had this little talk Joe.

So Joe went on to work, at the Sunday, a little bit down, a little bit late, and a whole lot confused. He was immediately confronted by the owner, Fred Blasie. Where you been Joe? You were supposed to be here a half-hour ago.

I'm sorry Mr. Blasie, said Joe, but I just got me a truckload of problems home-delivered. See, I just learned that my Pa ain't my Pa, and my Ma weren't really my Ma and...

"Problems? You want to talk problems? I got problems, kid... Did you know I only have one testicle? Yeah, that's right, I'm a mono-baller, a uni-nad! I’m one McNugget short of an order!"

Oh, I’m sorry to hear...

"And that isn’t all, I also have hemorrhoids. You know what those are?"

No.

"They’re a painful swollen irritation on my ass—just like you. Now you get your ass behind the counter and get busy before I pry it open with my boot!"

So Joe put on his apron and stepped behind the counter. It wasn't long before Gail, a pretty waitress that Joe had his eye on, handed him a short order.

Hi Joe, she said. I need you to flop two with Murphy for table two, gimme a hockey puck on the hoof and a blonde with sand for table five."

Although it sounded like gibberish, Joe knew that what she needed was two eggs over easy with fried potatoes, and a rare hamburger with coffee—cream and sugar. Shoot, thought Joe, any grease monkey can make coffee with cream and sugar... So Joe took a coffee cup down from the shelf, and then poured in some coffee, and then whipped the cream into a frothy mix. He then poured the cream on top and, using a coffee straw, he began to draw a picture out of the cream. It was a perfect likeness of Gail.

"What's that?" Gail said. She stared at his creation as if it was a cup of puke.

"Why, that's a picture of you, Joe replied. That's called 'painting the cup.'"

...Uh-huh, Gail said. "It's... nice. She smiled, although the rest of her face betrayed her doubt. You're so... artsy, Joe."

Fred Blasie was less reticent to express his displeasure at Joe's creation than was