A reply to “Burning down the Tea House”

It was a beautiful, warm afternoon but business in the cafe was slow. A scantily clad lass working the tea bar leant on the counter waiting for punters. It was then she  first saw you, striding through the door.

“Not a real young’n anymore,” she thought to herself but then her eyes darted to your bulge. It did look promising. She licked her chapped lips, adjusted her “My name’s Sheila” tag perched on her bosom, and walked up to you.

“What’s it to be handsome fella?” she purred, face so close you could smell the Hubba Bubba cotton candy she was twisting with her tongue.
“Crickey you’re a beaut!'” you said, reaching for her hand.

Just for a second she flinched. “Never mind, there’s the bulge,” she thought and looked straight at you with her lightly bloodshot eyes.

“Gimme some tea, will ya Sheila,” you hollered, bringing your fist to the table with a thud. “Gimme the loosest, da finest two bucks can buy. Including the tip!”

Sheila’s false lashes began to twitch. Two lousy dollars. Two lousy dollars for fine tea, with tip. What a douche. A small line of pink gum juice trickled down her mouth.

“You got that? Loose tea, lassie! Ya hear me? Loose with a capital L.”  You formed an L with two fingers.

Oh, she got it alright. She got the type. They were always the same. Coming in here, big ol’ padded wallets with nothing but coins stuffed inside. They always wanted the best, the best little money could buy. And there was no tip. There never was.

“Sure Mr Tea. I got all ya ever want right here, in my tins.” She pointed to an arrangement of dusty cans kept on a shelf behind her. “It’s the best Mister, it’s the best. You’ll love it.”

“The Silver Needle,” you demanded waving your hands in the air.

“Don’t have it, sugar,” she pouted, “we’re out.” Fellas rarely asked for proof. Or course she had some, a new order from Beijing had just arrived.

“The Ginger Peach then,” you shouted, “but let me check it first.”

Funny how they always asked for Ginger Peach. ‘Course that was the tin they filled with tea bags, reserved for guys like him.
“He’s tough this one,” she realized when you did not retreat. She brewed up the tea and you drank it.

It wasn’t til she handed you the bill that you finally paled. $6.40 it said, for a bag of tea. She bit her lip, as she watched your face. She could barely stifle her giggle.

“I don’t have it,” you mumbled, fumbling in your package.

Your face turned crimson. Sheila waited, as you counted the pennies.

“2.98, Sheila, is all I got.”

At that moment, at that very moment, a beautiful lady and six firemen burst through the cafe door.

“Robert,” a stern voice said. “How did you escape again?”

You looked up. There she was. The lovely Mrs Devotea.

Mrs D turned to Sheila:

“I’m sorry sweetheart, he’s run away from the home. Restraining jackets just aren’t what they used to be.”

With that, she placed ten dollars on the table and firmly grabbed your hand.

“We’re going now Robert, back to “Inner Peace.” It’s such a pleasant place.”

“Hold on right there,” a burly voice thundered. “Not so fast. He’s not going anywhere with you!”

A firefighter, who – Sheila and Lady D couldn’t help but notice – much enjoyed working out, grabbed you by the scruff off your neck.

“He’s wanted you know, for arson. Suspected in at least six fires ’round here. We call him the Tea Bag Petrol Boy, been hunting him a long time.”

What happened after that, I do not know. Last I saw, both the fireman and Mrs D were pulling you in opposite directions, and Sheila was grabbing the money.

I’ve been told you’re locked up securely now, whereabouts unknown. I did notice bars in the background when we last “hung out.” I know you’re still writing, and I know you always will.