About that time, sirens blared and lights flashed as the cops pulled up to the curb. Greg, the Grindhouse’s owner, burst through the door, shouting, “Stop, thief!” I turned back to look at Mark and Sherry, but they were already hightailing it out of sight in Mark's parents' car. Taken aback, it took me a minute or so to ask Greg what had happened. The cops were returning their guns to their holsters as Greg said, "They filled up and took off without paying, third time this week." Still redfaced, he huffed and continued. "It's a conspiracy. You see, the price of coffee has risen astronomically, the price more than doubling what it was only a year ago. And people can't afford to pay that much for coffee, so what do they do? They order a cup, they sit down, drink, talk for a bit, and wait to sneak out whenever anyone new comes in the door. Three times this week, man, and eight in the past two months. I'm going to have to start getting their money before I make their coffee. It's that godforsaken Jose Duval, that's who it is."
"Who?" I asked.
"See? That's just what I'm talking about. Starbucks--see, they're behind this too--wanted all of us to think that it was Juan Valdez did all this, he and his National Federation of Coffee Growers in Columbia. That they held, in secret, this huge crop of coffee plants that they were hording from the rest of the world, in a greenhouse the size of this town, just biding their time till the ozone layer was depleted and all of South America's coffee plants would just shrivel up and die. Then, the Columbians would have the world's market on coffee, and could demand whatever they wanted. You follow?"
"Sure," I said, but the cops just nodded, walked back to their patrol cars, and left.
Greg continued. "Well, you see, that just wasn't the real truth. Sure, Valdez had his coffee, and he didn't treat his workers the way we treat ours over here, but there was no evidence of a secret stash anywhere, that's just what they wanted you to think."
"Who?" I asked. "The government?"
"The goverenment?" Greg replied with a laugh. "Worse. Starbucks. Though the government knew what Starbucks was doing, I'm pretty sure. Anyway, you see, Starbucks was losing profits hand-over-fist, every day, to the influx of coffee from Columbia, so they set up Juan Valdez as a fall guy, since everyone has heard of Valdez, and has seen evidence of how he treats his people. It's all over YouTube."
"Okay," I said," that makes sense, but what about that other guy?"
"Jose Duval." Greg said. "Another Spanish guy, been sabotaging coffee fields for years, but see, his father Robert was close friends with Alfred Peet, and you know who he is right?"
"Uh, no." I responded.
"Peet," Greg said, "is the man who first sold Starbucks coffee beans, supplied 'em for years. And you know where Peet got his beans and plants? That's right, he got 'em from Duval, the father, and the business has just trickled down and over from there. Once the hou-ha started over the inspection of Valdez's alledged secret coffee fields, Duval--the son, Jose--realized he had to get out of Dodge, so he took off for Brazil, and what he's doing there now is exactly what everyone accused Valdez of doing in Columbia. But Duval--with Starbucks' cooperation--now has it made, because Columbia's economy is shot and won't recover for years, so that means that the world's largest coffee exporter--ninety percent of the world's coffee--comes from where? Brazil.
"You know what else? You've seen all the press about all the immigrants lately from Mexico?"
"Yeah," I told him.
"Well," he said, "Those immigrants aren't coming from Mexico; they're coming all the way from Brazil, all because of the way Jose Duval runs things down there. He's not the president of Brazil, I know, but he might as well be. Those poor souls are running out of their country with nothing but the shirts on their backs, coming here, looking for work, and not having a very good time of it, because, of course, they only speak Spanish."
"Wait," I tell him, "didn't you just say that these immigrants are coming from Brazil?"
"That's right," he said.
"But you said they only speak Spanish. People from Brazil don't speak Spanish; they speak Portugese," I said.
Greg replied, "You see? That right there tells you Duval's not to be trusted, he won't even let his people speak their own language, making them speak in Portugese, knowing they've known nothing but Brazil their whole life. When did his workers ever go to Portugal? That--that just--that just about tears it. I'm not going to stand for it anymore. Tell you what I’m going to start doing. I’m going to start making my own coffee—organic. We’re going green. That’s right. Forget about Green Tea; it’s all about Green Coffee, now. In fact, I think I’ll change our name. The Grindhouse is dead. Long live the Greenhouse! Moonbeam [Greg's wife], where’s the paint? I'm changing this sign!"
At that, Nicholas pulled on my shirt, asking to go, and so we did.
Tomorrow, part two of our story, where we see:
- Mark and Sherry on the lam
- The tomatoes attack
- The Coreys vent their angst
- The children that see dead people
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment