First, let me explain the infraction against the rules in the title: do not mention names. Although not explicitly a rule, there are no names. That’s easy enough to understand isn’t it? I mean, point the finger and someone’s bound to lose an eye. However, Tony isn’t a real person, more myth than flesh and bones. And the legend doesn’t state if he only has two fingers on the one hand, or if the sum total of his digits on both hands is two. But details of non-existing people can be overlooked. We don’t even know what non-existence looks like. Does anyone?
For the sake of clarity I need to add the pre-rule to the list; the zero rule of never mentioning names, only colours.
The Rules (clarified) of Coffee Club
0: No Names only Colours
1: Do Not Admit You Have a problem
2: Don’t Wake from Your Delusion that Things Will Always be the Same
3: Watch the all Exquisite Cognitive Dissonance
More important than Tony’s non-existence, he has never frequented Coffee Club. And that’s a good thing.
We have to travel back in time to when the colours were few. A primordial deep time when the very soup of the universe was still bubbling and hissing from the initial expansion. Mr. Brown was a squished hornet on the windscreen of some far-off drug-fuelled nitro motorcycle blazing across the horizon. While Mr. Pink and Mr. Purple had not yet been snared by the gravitational pull, but red-shifted to far off hues by the rapid expansion they glowed supernova. Mr. Red was shielded by the matter altering conditions and remained untouched.
A time when 50-feet tall women roamed freely, and the legend of Two-Fingers Tony was born.
If you whiff a level of supersaturated testosterone and gather a gender bias is woven through the words, that’s deliberate. During these early days it wasn’t uncommon to see 50-feet tall women walking around. You had to be careful what you said and how you behaved for fear of breaching rule no. 3.
Not to say the colours are a bunch of neanderthals. Our colours love women. Most colours are married. In fact I think we all are. And some love women so intensely they’ve been married a few times, so they have that extra sparkle about them; they’re called Rainbows.
Our New Colours
Mr. Green’s colour has bleached in the sun – that rare individual who broke free of the Coffee Club. Always needing to be in communication, Mr. Green carried on him as many phones as numbers in his vast contact list. He used to live in a large fruit and has such street savvy it is said that if you stand close enough to him, lead could rain down from the sky and will never touch you. He introduced Two-Fingers Tony. A hard man who settles scores and provides muscle. We don’t know what happened to Mr. Green or Two-Fingers.
Mr. Blue is a founding member–a lifer you could say–of such reliable frequency, the National Bureau of Standards measures the resonance of caesium 133 atoms decaying from his first sip of coffee to measure time. Subtle differences by the femtometer are adjusted every year because he can’t escape the ageing process no matter how reliably he turns up to coffee. He once ran the entire foot of the Italian coastline and dabbled in the perplexities of the housing market. Now he’s peddling fantasies and escaping life one paddle at a time.
It is no small coincidence Mr. Red and Mr. Blue sit at the extreme ends of the optically visible doppler frequency electromagnetic range.
The 50-Foot Woman
No one recalls exactly who it was. We all agree she was at least 50-feet tall and held such presence all colours muted when she sat. Words failed. We knew our conversation was firmly planted in the inappropriate camp (even by our debaucherous standards we can say things and make ourselves cringe). A murky silence engulfed. But like Artemis the Goddess of the Hunt with her 50 hounds and 50 dryads, she paved the way for all women who dared to follow.
Who are you 50-Foot Woman?
Next in the final instalment: The Truth is Stranger than Fiction Pt.3: Mr. Fruit Tingle and the Electric Light Scooter.
Also published on Medium.