CoffeeShop Blues
“Boss,” he said to Sim, “Raja he say me bloody genny be fix soon
soon.”
Gemma smiled into the sweet black coffee. The shock at the free use
of swearing amongst all the crew had initially rankled but she had
soon found herself aping their speech. It was the first time she had
worked with Brits and she found the easy humour in grim moments a
surprising stress reliever.
“I don’t know how I’ll manage with bagels, and butter, and jam
when I get home,” she said as she bit into the dry saltines that were
their staple breakfast fare.
“Yeah, well don’t get too fond of those luv,” Sim said nodding to the
packet on the table, “if the supply truck doesn’t get through soon
they’ll be rationed too,” and draining his coffee stood up. “Come on,
let’s get cracking! Get as many through the doors before the sun gets
too high, otherwise we’ll have ‘em fainting left, right an’ bloody
centre.”
Gemma spluttered as the dregs hit the back of her throat. “Ugh,” she
said following Sim into the blooming dawn, spitting coffee grounds
into her hands before wiping them on her shorts and reaching for the
hand sanitizer clipped at her waist.
Threading their way to the main tent identified by the Red Cross
flag, they dodged meagre awnings sheltering listless women and
grizzling infants. Some of the older, stronger children were nursing
precious containers filled with a few inches of water as they returned
from the tank, fiercely presided over by Martin, a Sudanese of
immense proportions and a prodigious memory. Educated in
Baltimore, he was the camp Scrabble champion.
“Bloody hell, look at them Gemma,” Sim said, nodding at the line of
scrawny men and women as they neared the dispensary tent. “They
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