So, earlier today I had some free time because my professor decided to cut me loose to enjoy at least some of the holiday. To celebrate, I decided to swing by this narrow little place called “Simon’s Coffee Shop”, which anyone living in/around Cambridge will tell you has some pretty legit coffee (protip: try their Mexican hot chocolate at least once).
Anyhow, I was lucky enough to grab one of the coveted window seats, which give ya something to look at but also put you right in the middle of traffic. So, I was sitting there, trying to read my biochem book to brush up on some stuff for a discussion going down in the Supplements forum, when all of a sudden some guy walking through bumps my table and causes my coffee to spill over my shitty, overpriced textbook. I look up to see who the wise guy was, and my jaw IMMEDIATELY lands in the puddle of coffee on my table.
Turns out, he’s actually from Cambridge (which made me want to question why his accent is so shitty in Good Will Hunting, but I decided to give him a free pass). He says he hadn’t been to this place in ages and that it’s tough to find coffee like this out on the west coast so he tries to swing by whenever he’s visiting family in the area. Guy was amazingly down to earth and made a big deal about being the one to grab some napkins for me while I sat there trying to figure out a way to act like this isn’t totally fucking awesome. He came back with napkins and two cups of coffee, one for him and a fresh one for me – he could tell from the smell that I was drinking one of their cappuccinos and that this one was on him for the hassle.
The cups were both “to go” (they usually give you mugs unless you ask otherwise), so I decided to walk out with him just to make sure I properly thank him for being so cool about everything. I decide to push my luck and tell him I’d love an autograph – else my friends won’t believe this – and he says that’s totally fine and he’s got a pen in his car just around the corner.
We get to his car, he grabs the pen and signs my coffee cup. As I thank him one more time for everything, I turn away and he stabs me in the kidney with the same pen he autographed my cup with. I’m immediately frozen in shock, my coffee splashing on the ground at my feet, and I hear the dull click as the driver door opens. Very gently, almost reverently, he guides my trembling hand into the space between the car frame and the door, just below one of the hinges. He slams the door and breaks all four fingers on my left hand.
As I fell to the ground, he kicks me once, twice, then gets in his car and starts the engine. As he’s backing away, he rolls down the window, leans out, and says, almost as an afterthought, “how do you like them apples?”