It's a dark, lonely night, on a campus that knows how to keep it's secrets. And still one man is looking for the answers to life's persistent questions: Paul K., private eye.
As I ambled over toward East campus dorms, I knew that every step I took was a step closer to the answers that I had sought for so long. Coffee and a croissant for a buck, it was unheard of, but I knew that East Side Cafe was becoming renowned for its remarkably fair pricing. For a flat foot, with an income that could be defined in terms of pocket change, it was one place a guy could get a break.
I took a step into the cafe and noticed that it was a far cry from my usual haunts. The place was clean and the atmosphere was relaxed; not quite the smoky, dingy back alley bars that so defined my existance as a P.I.
"What's up, gumshoe?" I was asked by the man who seemed to be the "proprietor" of the establishment and who others called "Joiner."
"Nice joint ya got here," I mumbled from beneath my fedora. "I'll take your most potent poison and something to chew on."
Joiner thought a minute. "That would be our hot chocolate with the tiny marshmallows and a croissant, if I judge you right," he speculated.
"Fine; just fine," I acknowledged. The cafe was charming in its appeal. I felt my GPA rising as I sat here and allowed my mind a brief respite. Even a detective needs to get away from the research now and again. I paid my dollar and sipped my drink.
"Hya, handsome," said an attractive brunette who I had not noticed sitting down across the table from me due to my fascination with the tiny marshmallows that seemed to undergo some rather interesting physical transitions from their solid to liquid state.
"Uh, hello," I mouthed toward the woman, but the words were choked, so I blamed it on the liquification of the marshmallows. "Look," I said. "I'd love to chat, but this story is getting long. What say we meet next Monday?"
"Give me some incentive," she said, her eyes playfully defiant.
"We'll meet back here at the cafe," I offered.
"I'm game," she smiled. With that I nodded her way and headed out into the night.
Next week, I felt lighter than usual despite my heavy trenchcoat. But as I approached the site of the cafe, I noticed that the tables were empty and there was no coffee, no croissants, and no tiny marshmallows. My sharpened detective instincts told me that the cafe was closed. The sign on the door which said, "The cafe is closed," was a bonus. Finer print on the sign read:
"The plot was getting too interesting. Besides, lawyers are jealous of private eyes because they are the subject of more radio shows. Oh, and by the way, lawyers cannot really fathom why anyone would complain about paying $3 for coffee and $2 for a stale biscotti, because their salaries are very large compared to college students and flat foots. Sorry, guy. Go drown your sorrows at Starbucks* "So, what about the brunette? She had left already, leaving only a note that said,
"Sorry, gumshoe. But until the cafe reopens, the incentive that you gave me is, at best, in limbo. Be a hero. Get the charter back, and you'll see me again, I promise."
The lipstick at the bottom of the scribbled note made me light-headed. I would do my best to see the East Side Cafe be reinstituted, and I would find out why the system saw fit to shut it down. It was all a job for Paul K., private eye.
(Daaa dwaaaa daaaaaaaaaa). *Starbucks is a registered company that likes to take over coffee shops with character and charges a price that makes college student's wallets much less weighty to carry around. Thanks, Starbucks! (sarcasm implied).