Page 1 of Café Diablo

1

Ned

“I’m not coming!”

That’s a direct quote. A simple quote. One that leaves no margin for error or misunderstanding. It will hold up in any court of law for its directness and clarity, and no jury would ever contest my side of the story.

It’s exactly what I said to my younger brother, Conner, this afternoon when he suggested for the umpteenth time that I come to his girlfriend’s restaurant, Flambé,tonight, which he also works at. But the plethora of phone calls and text messages on my phone seem to imply he doesn’t understand English.

I’m not coming!

Three words. Uncomplicated. Elegant.

He should really know better than try to win in the argument department, a truth proven by the fact that he abandoned a career working in our family’s law firm to sling cocktails for a living.

I’m not coming, which means I don’t want to come, which means I’m notgoingto come, which means don’t be upset when I don’t show up.

It may be my birthday, but that doesn’t mean I need to drink myself into a stupor like a heathen.

Yes, it’s my birthday.

Yes, I’m working late.

Yes, I’ve been told multiple times in my life that I have a stick up my ass the size of the General Sherman tree in California. I don’t really care.

Birthdays are for children. Balloons, streamers, cake—these are all frivolities you only need to stroke your ego when you’re eight. Every self-respecting adult stopped celebrating the fact that they’ve been on this earth for another year the second they were old enough to vote. Fine, I’ll make an exception for when you’re twenty-one, but only because you’re celebrating the fact that you can legally drink, not the fact that you need to eat cake and be showered in confetti.

Thirty-two years on this planet does not constitute a celebration. It does not need copious amounts of alcohol. It does not need my brother and his friends telling me what a jolly chap I am. What itdoesneed, is for me to finish this case brief, so I’m ready for court next week! The judge doesn’t care if I’m hungover and unprepared. I’ve told my brother Connor several times that flaming cocktails and Mai-tai’s are designed for those on vacation in Hawaii, not for those of us who actually live here and have jobs.

Point being—some of us have to work.

My phone buzzes and I roll my eyes as another text message from my brother flashes across the screen.

Connor:I’m coming to get you.

I shake my head, thoroughly annoyed at this point. He can drive across town all he wants. The answer is still no.

Ned:I’m starting to think you were dropped on your head as a child. Please re-read the previous messages that make my position about hanging out tonight quite clear.

Connor:This is not a negotiation. I’m not a jury you need to convince. The ruling is already out. You’re coming. I’m getting you drunk. End of story. Now, change out of your suit and put the work away.

Ned:I’ll have security escort you off the premises.

Connor:I doubt that.

Ned:Are you calling my bluff?

Connor:Yup. And you’ll understand why when I show up in 10 minutes!

Ned:The doors will be locked.

Connor:I’ll knock politely. 9 minutes.Go change.

Ned:It’s a free country.

Connor:For the record—see exhibit A, this text message thread—in which I told you to change and you ignored my warning. I’m not paying for your suit when it gets ruined.

Ned:I’m REALLY not coming if my clothing is getting ruined.

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