Sugar with Coffee

    Codsfellow was very much like a mechanism in a clock...except maybe he was more of an extra spring than an actual gear, something that did little to contribute to the clock's performance, nothing more than wiggle and bounce and sproing at arbitrary, but predictable, intervals.

    On the day he picked me up from school to take me on that fateful trip to Clowntown, he no doubt went to Terrance's before going anywhere else, a diner right on the border of Central Townville and Westie. According to the weather records for that day, it was unusually sunny and warm for March, without a drop of rain forecasted for days to come. And yet, despite this, I can confidently say that Codsfellow carried an umbrella that morning, as he always did. 

    Upon entering the diner, Arthur would have exercised what he liked to call "aquaintancing," a skill that he considered to be among his finest. I'm not sure if the term had been taught to him by his father, or if, rather, he himself had maybe invented it at a young age, but, no matter the backstory of the word, the craft itself was far older than him or his father or even his father's father, Grandbobitty Codsfellow. Most likely it was older than any Codsfellow, actually—maybe even older than any Clown. Gentlemanly behavior is evident as far back as the time of Pharaohs and Sphinxes, and wherever there have been gentlemen, there have been practitioners of aquaintancing.

    I can see it pristinely. Arthur wiping his feet and raising his hand in salutation to whoever looked his way. Him putting on his friendliest smile, which was always warm enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes but still sensible enough to conceal the inside of his mouth. He would have made sure to recite everyone's name and ask how was such-and-such and how 'bout them whoevers, and the regular patrons probably recognized him and politely returned the greetings. But some of the fresher faces may have been less receptive.

    "Who you calling 'Reginald,' pal?" someone might have said, someone who wasn't used to being so aggressively acquaintanced. I like to imagine a Warthogman in a hardhat, with tusks that are yellowing at the points. I'm not saying that this happened; I'm just saying that this could have very easily happened, and that if it did happen, this is exactly how it would have gone:

    "Oh, did I pronounce it incorrectly? Then I beg your pardon," Arthur would have replied. "I must have misheard you the other day."

    "Buddy, I ain't never seen you in my life." The Warthogman (being part Warthog) would snort, his body recoiling from snout to gut. "Trust me. If I ever see a stinkin' redmouth snooping around in my own neighborhood, I don't forget it."

    Arthur would have chuckled at that. "My sentiments exactly. I myself can't recall the last time I've ever seen another Clown in these whereabouts. What a splendid occasion that would be, wouldn't you agree? Obviously you do. Perhaps, if I ever stumble into another Clown on our streets, we could all three celebrate over cream soda and pie." I can imagine Arthur flattening that stubby tie of his against his chest, or performing any other of his many ticks, like reclasping his watchband or letting his fingers absently fiddle around his cufflinks. "Say, if you don't mind me asking, what do you prefer to go by these days, if not 'Reginald'?"

    "I do mind you asking, as a matter o' fact. My name's no business of yours."

    "I see. Then it's no wonder I can't remember what to call you, now is it? Fear not, old chum, I shan't forget it next time. You have yourself a sunny day, and give Dorris my love."

    And that's kind of how things went with Codsfellow. Even if you thought you knew what to expect, he would leave you stammering and confused. He had a way of turning the world on its head without warning you, then walking away leaving you to navigate this new, bizzaro perspective all on your own. 

    Once he had finished his greetings, he would have headed for the only person sitted in the diner who was more than a mere acquaintance. Per usual, Curtis would be sitting on the second stool from the end of the bar, sipping on a cup of coffee and leaning over a newspaper.

    "How fairs our dear Lollygag?" Cods would have greeted, clapping Curtis on the shoulder as he did. Lollygag was a racehorse afflicted with asthma, among a myriad of other diseases and disorders. For as long as Arthur had known Curtis, every Thursday morning the overweight man could be found studying the paper to see how the pitiful animal had performed the day before.

    "Cripples and dimes," Curtis would reply. "Cripples and dimes."

    Curtis had many catchphrases like this one, and, like with all of his other sayings, Codsfellow would have no clue what on World his friend was talking about. Though, for Arthur, this was not unusual. He understood very little of what others were trying to say. Rather, he detected in their voices the minute changes in tone and rhythm, perceived the subtle alterations in their body language, and he compiled all this data into a functional translation. By the way Curtis kept his eyes on the newspaper and by how his breathing slowed with each word, Arthur would have known that "Cripples and dimes, cripples and dimes" was Curtis's way of saying, "Not good, not good."

    "So sorry to hear that, love." Pressing his finger into his trilby's well-worn crease, Arthur would remove the hat from atop his firm mound of rose-red hair and place it by the napkin dispenser, nudging it into its precise place. By now, the handle of his umbrella would be balancing off of his thigh. "Chin up, though. His time shall come. Say, how about that surgery of his? The one to correct his sight? That's certain to better his odds. If you ask me, things are already looking up for our dear Lollygag. And in the same direction, for that matter."

    "I s'pose. His crosseyes were his biggest advantage, though. Tunnel vision. That's why all the best Martial Artists are cross-eyed," Curtis might have said, taking a sip from the long straw sticking out of his coffee mug. For him, simple things like drinking and eating were difficult; because of the bulky Alligator headpiece he wore at all times, any liquids had to be consumed through a long, flexible straw, and any solids had to be some kind of tossable finger food. (And, now that I think about it, this was probably why I had only ever seen Curtis drink his alcohol through a hose and funnel.) He was what you'd call a transie, someone who has proclaimed themself to be a different species from that which they were assigned at birth. Or, as Curtis put it, he was "an Alligator stuck in a Man's body."

    Tiffany, the barista, would have come over by now and wiped a rag across the section of stainless steel in front of Codsfellow. "Mernin, Arter." She was a Truckerlady, and her gravely accent was as thick as her forearms. "Wancher caffee fa here'r tago?"

    "I'll take my breakfast for the road, if it's no trouble." Like with Curtis, he could understand Tiffany's meaning if not her words.

    "Nahacha butty's ere, Curts, guess yer ready fersome fud?"

    "Yes, ma'am. Just the usual."

    "A'ight. An howbout you, Arter?"

    "You know," he would have said, studying the yellow, corrugated menu on the wall. "I believe I will have...the usual as well. But can you swap out the things he typically requests with the things that I typically do?"

    Tiffany would have winked at him as she said: "Erleys do, dern I?" and Arthur would have winked back, the two smiling at each other throughout. It was always my suspicion that Tiff was fond of Cods, and that she might have believed he was fond her too, though I personally doubt that very much. Codsfellow just always came across as a flirt, even though his mind was as clean and innocent as a Nun's.

    Tiff and the cooks had a unique language they communicated with, and in the morning their messages to each other would ring out of the restaurant like the songs of birds who had accidentally landed in a pit of lava. "ONEPLENCHEESY-WIROUNS-ANAHURT-ONTWOHASH-PERTATERS!" was what she would shout through the window between the bar and the kitchen. Then, to Arthur and Curtis, she would say some confusing colloquialism of hers like: "Beit quicka n'a tree-egged 'inga turkina erd n'a Sernday!"

    "There ya go!" Curtis would say no matter what, raising his mug to her, and once she left earshot, he would whisper to Codsfellow one of his numerous conspiracies. "The harder it is for me to understand someone, the more I suspect they're a Spy." His voice was always easy to hear, even when he whispered in loud places like Terrance's; the snout on his costume acted just like a megaphone.

    "Do you believe Tiffany to be a Spy?" Codsfellow would have asked without hesitation. He never questioned his friend's reasoning, and, because of this, he was one of only a few that could tolerate a full conversation with the fat man in the Alligator outfit. Those who asked Curtis to clarify any of his cryptic statements would only end up falling down an endless rabbit hole of answers spawning questions. Like, if you were to ask Curtis what the thickness of someone's accent had to do with them being a Spy, his response would not resemble anything like, "Spies's accents are not genuine, therefore a Spy tends to overcompensate by making the accent more pronounced," but something closer to: "Most Spies do their training towards the end of January, as opposed to the beginning of the month like you might expect."

    Curtis would have thought about the question before dedicating himself to an answer. "No. No, I guess she's not. I've watched Tiff use a spatula. She's definitely right-handed. Without a doubt, right-handed."

    According to Tiff's records, the diner was especially busy that morning. Whenever Terrence's gets busy, a line forms out their doorless entryway. Inside there is very little space for seating, just the dozen or so stools at the bar and the handful of bistro tables against the walls. The narrow dining room would make for a spacious hallway and nothing else. There are no windows on the aluminium walls, therefore the only source of natural light is the entrance. If Codsfellow were to turn around in his stool that morning, rest his elbows on the counter, and look about the room as he sometimes did, he would have enjoyed the sight. The restless crowd should have disrupted the sunbeams in a way that would have pleased him very much, making him feel like he was inside a tin can, one that had been abandoned in a patch of swaying grass on a sunny day.

     "Yer fud gone bewhile, hun. Ware hoppin dis mernin," Tiffany could have said from behind his head, setting down a saucer and a cup of coffee. "Havis whila wait. I'lla put it iner styfoam fore ya go."

    As was his preference, his cup would only have been a quarter filled with coffee. He liked to grab the sugar shaker and pour until the drink was almost level with the rim. With the iron spoon Tiffany kept aside just for him, he would stir the concoction. Firmly. 

    "Oh, that's the stuff," he never failed to say after taking a sip. "I feel more alert already. Caffeine sure is a heck of an upper, wouldn't you agree?" 

    "Nothing beats a penny in a light socket, but coffee does the job in a pinch." Curtis would add a splash of milk to his own mug, no sugar, and Arthur would have grimaced. ("Why anybody would ruin a perfectly-fine cup of coffee with something as spoilsome as bovine lactation is beyond me," he told me once. "Some people just can't admit their distaste for coffee.")

    When Tiff got the opportunity, she would dash past and drop a scoop of ice cream in Codsfellow's mug. "Dern thing Idda fergodden 'bout ya! Erl perchya frush caffee in ya tago cup." Then away she would go.

    "Takeout," Curtis couldn't of helped but observe. "What's the occasion?"

    "Aht! How rude of me not mention it sooner! I'm taking the boy on a trip later this afternoon, you see. Thought he might like to gaze upon the ol' family tree, in a manner of speaking. I want to prepare now so we can depart as soon as he's finished with his studies."

    "And how's that been working out for you? Fatherhood, I mean."

    "Spec-TAC-ular, my friend. Should have done it sooner. The lad is an absolute angel, and my life is already more fulfilled because of him. Couldn't have asked for a better outcome."

    "Good for you, Codsy. You've definitely earned it, as long as you've waited." I can see Curtis raising his coffee mug to Cods. "A toast," and then, once Codsfellow raised his own coffee milkshake: "To fatherhood, and long-awaited rewards."

    "Well said. Cheers." And then a respectful tink of the mugs, Curtis downing his hot drink in one gulp.

    Between the clanks and sizzles from the kitchen and the complaining from those waiting on their food, it was always loud inside the compact room. That's a pretty typical Thursday morning at Terrance's, but I also know from reading papers from that day and looking at TV transcripts, that that particular morning was a bit unusual. So, from here on out, I am taking even more liberty in painting this scene.  

    Mounted in the corner of the diner, not too far above the spot where Curtis would always sit, was a black-and-white television. It was always on and turned to Channel 4, and that morning the station was broadcasting a now-infamous court trial. At the time Codsfellow was waiting for his breakfast, the words: COURT RESUMES ON DAY 64 OF SUMOMAN MURDER TRIAL would have scrolled across the bottom of the screen, and, in big fat letters at the top: LIVE.

    Tiff remembers that morning. She can't recall too much about what Codsfellow was doing—all her memories of him kind of blend together, with the exception of the day she first met him—but she does remember that morning Hiroto took the stand. She remembers hearing a voice shoot out above the kitchen clatter: "Hey, look! I think Hiroto is actually going to testify! I can't believe it!" and, for a moment, all the sounds going hush. Murmuring rolled through the room. I can see Arthur looking around confused, out of instinct, wondering if he had done something wrong. Everyone's eyes would have been focused up high, at the TV above his head.

    Since growing older, I've seen recordings of the trial. Such things bored me at that young age, so I never cared to pay attention. I think that even if I had watched it, I wouldn't have been able to understand how anyone could be so entertained by it. It was just like your average Court TV program, except with less twists and turns, more legal mumbo jumbo, longer breaks and shorter fights, and a cast of characters that could have benefited from some more time in the Writer's room.

    But, after watching the proceedings later, I get it now. I get why it was so exciting. Let me describe to you the part that was playing during the same time Codsfellow should have been sitting on a stool at Terrance's.

    The camera focuses on a gargantuan man draped in a silk robe. His hands are cuffed, and he is gliding past his frantic attorney towards the Judge. The Lawyer is pale and sweating and furious, trying his hardest to block his client's path. But the big man no longer seems to value his attorney's opinion, and the Lawyer would of had an easier time halting a train without brakes.

    Sumoman meets with the bailiff before the Judge's bench. A pair of Geishas rise from the defendant's table and scuttle behind. With the Judge's blessing, the two women untie an intricately woven white rope from around Hiroto's substantial waist. Once the bailiff has finished uncuffing Hiroto, the two women place the thick, braided rope into the Officer's outstretched arms, and upon that the defendant swears his oath.

    Codsfellow should have at least been looking at the TV at this point, if not exactly engaged. The pair of exquisite women assisting Hiroto would have captivated Arthur like sirens. Geishas are an embodiment of Clownish fantasy, especially for the Codsfellow men. Like Clowns, Geishas are born with white skin and vibrant birthmarks, and, also like Clowns, they have an exquisite taste for rich color. But it is their disciplined manners, excellent posture, and mastery of civility that beckon to the Codsfellow heart. "Those gals are expert gentlemen," Arthur often remarked.

    If he had been watching, I believe that a memory would have floated up in Arthur's mind at that point, a memory that I have heard him repeat more than once, usually while he's afflicted with sadness or insomnia, the kind of childhood memory that reappears at odd times throughout one's life, always vivid and always distracting, the kind of memory that seems to be trying to tell you something important, but you've long since given up trying to figure out its meaning. Not that that stops it from coming back again and again, begging you to look at it closer. 

    Here's Codsfellow's haunting memory, as I have heard it recounted time and time again. Back when he was but a young Clownish boy of five or six, Arthur had gone into the city with his mother to attend the trial of his Auntie Gisabelle. His mother had dressed him up in his church suit and she had worn her feather hat and her fluffy scarf. She had also worn those green snakeskin gloves he hated so much, the ones that hurt his fingers whenever she held his hand. On that day in court, he feared his mother would pop his bones straight out of their sockets, as hard as she squeezed. She had dragged him to a row in the back of courtroom where, for three hours, he endured the proceedings with boredom and ignorance, not much different from how I had regarded the Sumoman trial. Arthur had hoped to see his aunt, to tell her the new joke he had thought of (Knock, knock! Who's there? Me!), but he never got the chance. For the majority of the day, all he really saw of her was the back of her purple-haired head. It wasn't until she took the stand that Arthur could see her face. Without her makeup, she looked like a different woman. Her skin was more silver than white, and her round nose wasn't nearly as red or as shiny. On that day, everyone who was called to testify had to raise his or her hand in the air and place the other on some chosen object. There was a Policeman who placed his hand on a badge, and a Butcherlady who placed her hand on a bronze meat cleaver. Auntie Gisabelle was supposed to put her hand on a whoopee cushion, but she refused to do so until it was inflated. Initially the bailiff denied her request, but the Judge agreed with his aunt and told the man to "just do it." Grudgingly, the bailiff did as he was instructed, and then his Aunt performed her duty as well. When she dropped her palm onto the whoopee cushion, a wet, blubbering, eternal wail of faux flatulence reverberated through the chamber. So moved was Arthur's mother by the sound, she had to wipe away tears with her kerchief.  

    Yes, that has to be what Arthur was thinking about as, on the television screen in the diner, Hiroto finished repeating the oath and was escorted to the stand and had one of his wrists cuffed to a bolted ring on the bench. Even though it may not look like it now to you, I am realizing that much of the Sumoman's testimony is very pertinent to my own story, so I'm going to continue to transcribe it to you, even if Codsfellow himself never paid attention to it, perhaps losing interest the moment the camera panned away from the two Geishas.

    "Alright, Mr. Sumoman," says the prosecutor. He is a rather handsome Badgerman, with streaks of silver running through his slicked-back fur. "Before we continue, if you would be so kind as to take this opportunity to inform the jury that it was indeed you who murdered Ms. Pixielady."  

    Hiroto faces his examiner with his palms on his knees, his elbows out. His face is wide and sharp. The tight bun behind his head seems to hold his sternness together. If someone were to remove the needles from his hair, I fear, the man's entire face might slide into the folds of his many chins. 

    "No," the defendant says.

    The prosecutor snaps his fingers and mumbles something under his breath. "Fine, fine. We'll do it the exhausting way." He shuffles through some files on his desk and produces a packet of paperwork. "I would like to return the court's attention to Exhibit C." He paces the floor, holding the papers above his head. "If you recall, these are the transcripts pulled from Mr. Sumoman's cellular device from the night of the 23rd, approximately fourteen hours before Ms. Pixielady's reported disappearance. Page seven, line two, is what intrigues me the most. It is a conversation, of the textual variety, between the defendant and Mr. Ninjaman, whose testimony we heard earlier. Mr. Sumoman, if you would be so kind as to read aloud what you wrote that night."

    The prosecutor plops the papers on the witness stand. Hiroto looks unamused, but he reads the words anyway. Like his demeanor, his voice is heavy and deliberate. He speaks like a man declaring sacred law to the masses.

    " 'Yo bro. Pizza bites and video games tonight my place? Yeah dude can I―"

    "Aht-aht-aht!" intrudes the Lawyer. "Just read your lines. I'll portray Mr. Ninjaman." The attorney loosens his tie and untucks half of his shirt tail. He leans on the jury box and grins at the folks behind it. " 'Yeah...dude,' " he reads, snickering and sharing a cocky eye roll with the jury. " 'Can I bring Holly? Is Trixie going to be there?' "

    " 'Sho bring your boo. But Trix is out,' " Hiroto continues. He looks up from his script and gives the prosecutor a dark glare before finishing the text. " 'She's shopping again, LOL. I hope it kills her.' "

    "Ah ha! There we have it ladies and gentlemen of the jury! So you did want Ms. Pixielady murdered, did you not? Did you not? Did you NOT? You did, didn't you? Know what, don't answer that. I think the jury can piece it together without your help. You wanted her dead, and by nobody else's hands but yours. Based on your absolved criminal history and unverifiable ties to the mafia, and taking into strong consideration your gender and race and sexual orientation, isn't it more-than-reasonable for this jury to assume that you, possibly a spurned lover, in a fit of uncharacteristic rage, grabbed the as-of-yet-undiscovered crossbow from your secret safe hidden behind―what we can only assume to be―a painting of the demon Charon, ferryman of the river Styx and caretaker of the damned who once―"

    "OBJECTION! Objection!" shouts the defense attorney. "Multiple objections!"

    "Sustained. Mr. Badgerman, if you have a question you must allow the defendant to answer. Let's begin there..."

    "Fine, fine." The prosecuter smooths out the disheveled fur between his ears. "Mr. Sumoman. In this message, were you or were you not expressing your very real desire for Ms. Pixielady's death?"

    "I was not."

    "Then how do you explain 'I hope it kills her'? Your own words. How do you explain that?"

    "It was a joke. Continue. Read the next line. Continue."

    "What Mr. Ninjaman had to say in response was irrelevant. You are the one on trial, not him."

    "Objection! The prosecution is presenting incomplete evidence."

    "Sustained. Mr. Badgerman, please reveal to the jury the line in question."

    "Fine, fine." He traces a claw around the page, searching for the correct line. "Ah, yes, here we are: 'Rawful.' And that's all it says. I think the jury can agree with Mr. Ninjaman's response that Mr. Sumoman's previous message was indeed 'rawful,' horrifying in fact."

    "That is not correct!" says Hiroto. "It is R-O-F-L. An acronym. It is an expression of laughter. Ask any out-of-touch adult."

    "Oh, really? You honestly expect us to believe that anyone could find something as sick as that to be funny?"

    "Objection, your honor. Argumentative."

    "Overruled, actually. I, too, am curious if Mr. Sumoman can explain how something such as the death of a loved one could be considered humorous. By anyone."

    Breathing deeply, Hiroto meditates on the question. As he thinks, his head sways from side to side. "I do not know," he admits. "It is simply...humorous. She was always shopping. And I am...always not. Ricky and I are serious men. Murder. Love. Mortality. These are silly things to worry over when compared to the grand shadow theater of the universe. My statement reflected that. I am not like a Scientist. I cannot explain what is funny or why. Things are funny to me because...because they are. The same as to anyone."

    "Not that it matters," says the prosecutor. "We have no way of knowing for sure right now what Mr. Ninjaman meant by his cryptic response―"

    "Oh, Hiroto's right," calls out a man sitting in the second row of the audience, rising from his seat to be heard better. The camera spins and clumsily zooms in on the man. He is a Ninja, dressed in a black suit with a red tie to match his headband. "When I said 'ROFL', I meant the rolling-on-the-floor thing, not that it was, I don't know, 'really awful' or something or whatevs. It really was pretty funny. Because it was obvious to anyone who knew Hiroto that he'd never hurt Trixie. They were such a good couple."

    The audience gossips, and the Judge hammers his gavel. "How did he get back in my courtroom? Would the deputies please remove this man. Again. He should only be allowed to return if he is called to testify."

    The Lawmen enter each side of the row. The Ninjaman sinks down out of sight, and when the deputies reach the middle where he had sat, they fall to their hands and knees to try and locate him, taking turns poking their heads up to scan the room.

    By this point, Codsfellow may have already left the diner. But if he had stayed, he would have found renewed interest in the trial. For you see, he was a self-proclaimed "Laugh Lawyer"―an attorney that specializes in any lawsuits that pertain to humor. The Sumoman trial, starting at that point, began to resemble the very trials that Cods often worked on. Criminal and civil cases that hinge on the crucial question: "Is this funny?" If Codsfellow had stayed long enough to hear the trial take that turn, there's no question that he would be just as invested in the television as everyone else in that diner. But he was in a hurry to pick me up that day. And Tiff is quick―much quicker than those attorneys.

    "Hereya go, hun," she would've said, placing a foam cup and a paper bag in front of Arthur. "Ta glizzed dernuts filt wit mipple syr'p an' five carmel erple pies. Serry it tuk s'long."

    "Don't fret, love. Would you be so kind as to add this to my tab? I'll settle up when I have the time to linger."

    "Sha thin, hon," she would have said, like always, and maybe giving him another wink if she was having a good morning. "By'e way, tamerra thar do'n 'struction on this stret. We'll be on Walda Ave, by Cournt's Phamcy."

    Arthur would have returned his hat to his head and tugged the brim at her. She would have smiled before returning to her work. 

    "Alright, Curtis, old bean, I'll see you when I return? Perhaps head down to the range and empty a few buckets?"

    "I'd like that, but I've seen too many green pickup trucks on the road lately, so I don't want to venture too far from home. But who knows; maybe it'll be raining by the time you get back."

    "Understood," Arthur would have lied. "Well, off to do some packing. Farewell!"

    The crowd would have been clogging the exit, I bet, all of them still glued to the television. Arthur might have decided to give the television one more chance, though, to try one last time to share in everyone else's excitement, or at least to catch one last glimpse of the Geishas. If he had done this, he likely would have seen the defense attorney heading the examination now:

        "Your honor. We could go back and forth all week about whether this phrase was a 'joke' or not. Seeing as how this trial is overlong as it is, and taking into consideration that, due to the lack of evidence, an accurate analysis of this singular sentence could prove crucial in determining my client's innocence or lack thereof, I am requesting a motion to adjurn so as to locate an appropriate expert witness to testify in regards to the presence and validity of humor in aforementioned message at the court's earliest convienence." The Lawyer refills his lungs with a deep swallow of air.

        The Judge leans back in his chair and considers. "Agreed," he says with a clap of his gavel. "Counsel will meet with me in my chambers to discuss an appropriate time to reconvene on such..."

    Arthur would have left the diner with thoughts of gavels and cross-examinations dancing in his head. He would have walked down the ramp of the tractor trailer and around the corner towards the bus stop. The sound of the rumbling engine would have accompanied him for a block or two, bouncing off the high walls of the city streets, the air soaked with the smell of biscuits and diesel.