"Dipped In Caramel"
Thursday, April 15th.
5:15 A.M.
It was only early in the morning just yet and young Octavius was in the shower room down the hall, ridding himself of last night’s handshake and box-moving activities.
He could still feel the warm skin of Mr. Osborn’s hand locking with his, how the skin between their thumbs and index fingers fit perfectly against each other like puzzle pieces. All he could do was wish another handshake situation would startle him and he could earn some sort of physical touch again, even if it was formal and meaningless.
Otto hummed to the memory of a Michael Bublé concert his parents had taken him to in Chicago when he was 16. Bublé had performed a rare showing of “Blue Moon” by Frank Sinatra on a whim, and my, was it magical.
Blue lights set the stage, illuminating the evening fog that had built up and dissipated on and off throughout the day of waiting in Chicago. Otto had done overtime for school and brought home several +A’s and a B on his card, winning the deal between himself and his parents; he earned a trip to Chicago for his first concert. The rising red moon behind Bublé and his stage crew and the orchestra, the mixing of blue and red hues that somehow never made violet, how Bublé’s voice crackled between smooth baritone notes in the microphone like a soothing vinyl on his mother’s record player. He could still taste the exotic fish and rich chocolate from the restaurant they’d visited afterwards, the unique sweet-salty mix of an aftertaste… He swore up and down that night to his journal that his plugged up ears from the loud music boxed in the memory of Bublé’s voice in his brain for good, and he didn’t mind. It was such a savory memory, such a soapy memory… Wait, soapy?
The runoff of shampoo in Otto’s hair ran down from his forehead, the tip of his nose down to his upper lip, making him cringe. He frowned and cupped water into his hands, splashing the lower portion of his face before continuing on with the rest of his shower.
‘Lord, if I spend any longer than ten minutes in the shower, the school’ll probably charge me for it.’ He scoffed to himself mentally.
Otto Octavius wasn’t a pretentious man, nor was he ungrateful, but he valued his shower time indefinitely; it was his stage, his library, his movie theater, anything he wanted it to be when his creativity went into overdrive.
With that nagging mental backtalk, Otto shut off the shower head and stepped out, wrapping the first hung towel in sight around his waist.
“Hey, lard-ass!”
Otto froze in his wet tracks, whipping his head around with a lost expression.
“I’m talkin’ to you, don’t gimme that clueless shit.” The guy who had bellowed the previous insult from across the shower room (more of a locker room you’d go to in a gym, really) stared straight at Otto, frowning like an angry pitbull.
If he was an angry pitbull, he definitely had rabies. That guy’s face scrunched up like he was eating pure citric acid- he was ugly, inside and out.
It would have amused Otto if that off-guard insult hadn’t nicked his skin so harshly.
“Yes-” Otto replied, not sure what else to do but respond politely, only to be cut off.
“You. You better keep to yourself, don’t go rubbin’ off your nerd shit on Norm. You’re nothing to him, stay outta his lane.” Mystery Prick-Man sneered.
‘What the fuck…?’ Young Octavius could barely process as Prick-Man walked up and past him, his head barely bobbing above Otto’s shoulder as he brushed by forcefully.
“What the fuck…” Otto repeated, looking down at his feet.
His hands trembled, his heartbeat thumping through anxious tremors, his brows furrowed. Why did his body need to express his feelings like this? He had minor anxiety issues as is, and this didn’t help.
Otto sighed down at his folded clothes that were knocked onto the damp floor.
He was going to need a new outfit.
This wasn’t going to be a good day.
-
This day is going to be amazing.
The weather was a clean and cool 52 F° outside, people taking each and every fashion route- the warmth and the cold of each and every body part, embraced by fabric or not.
Otto swayed behind the front counter in Blue Owl Coffee, where he had landed a job again. He had previous experience here; he stayed for a summer between high school graduation and his freshman year of college with a family friend, scoping out the area for Michigan State University.
It was unprofessional, but he let his hips rock behind the counter, bouncing a knee in place, humming under his breath to the sound of “Fly Me to the Moon” by Frank Sinatra as it played throughout the front room.
Otto tapped his pen against the yellow notepad he was given to take orders; his manager, Serenity, told him he needed to complete two weeks of waiting tables at the cafe before he could get behind the counter to brew again. That didn’t bother him though, he could wait tables all day if it meant the music selection stayed consistent.
And by God, just as his day was getting good, here came his dream girl, his “Miss Rosalie”.
She was simple, well-read, short and sweet in every way but vocally. When Otto got her to sit down and talk about her favorite author, T. S. Eliot, she wouldn’t stop until the sun went down and the cafe closed.
Otto loved everything about Rosalie.
There she was- standing at a perfect five-foot-seven in the entrance of the cafe, with- you guessed it- a copy of T. S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Man” tucked under her left arm. She waved an arm as Otto looked in her general direction, catching his eyes in a web of adoration.
“Hey, Geek!” Rosalie called.
A bitter term of full-hearted endearment.
“Rosie!” Otto called back cheerily. He ignored the name.
Rosalie snaked between semi-occupied seating areas to the front counter with a grin.
Otto offered a lopsided smile. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So… you want to buy me coffee?”
“Always. Whatcha got there?” Otto motioned to the book harbored between her hip and her wrist.
She glanced down, doing a double-take. “Caught me, red-handed.”
“Oh god, another?” Otto squawked in delight- this meant his lunch break would be with Rosalie; he would get to listen to her ever-excited ranting again.
“Another!” Rosalie chirped.
Lovebirds.
“You know,” Otto paused and leaned onto the counter on his forearms, crossing them against his chest, “Maybe I’ll just write you a T. S. Octavius book you can read.”
Earning a kick out of Rosie, “Yes! Oh my God, please do! I was just thinking about how I wrote you a-”
“Octavius! I don’t pay you to flirt, I pay you to take orders!” Serenity hollered from the kitchen.
“Ah- Yes ma’am..” Otto submitted disappointingly, raising his notepad alongside his spirits, “So, about that coffee?”
Rosalie giggled sweetly, glancing at the menu hung up behind the man.
“Can I get a tradi-”
“A traditional Jasmine tea, two sugar cubes and a swirl of cream?” Otto chipped in.
“I… yes please, smart-ass.” Rosie snickered.
Her face was beginning to turn a shade that suited her name well.
‘Today’s the day. You saw her over the summer, you’re moved in. Tell her. Ask her on a date. Give her that letter, in God’s good name Octavius, give her the letter, it’s been waiting nearly a year!’ Otto let out a whine as he fought with himself, scribbling down Rosalie’s order on the paper before clipping it to the string of thread in the window to the kitchen. For being a cafe, it functioned more like a family diner.
-
11:31 A.M.
“So you’re telling me,” Otto sipped his matcha tea, “That they’re living here, but… they’re dead? Like zombies?”
“Sort of- Otto, love, you’re missing the point. It isn’t that they’re actually dead people, it’s that they feel dead. Y’know, ‘Hello darkness, my old friend’ kind of stuff.” Rosie corrected him, cupping her hands around her second mug full of tea.
“Oh.”
“Hmh, this is wonderful, you know. I could get used to this, coming to see you in a cozy little coffee shop, and all.” Rosie hinted, nudging his toe with her own.
“Oh..” Otto couldn’t muster much of an answer- he was growing red in the face.
Soft jazz filled the air, its subtle sound reaching the table in the corner they sat at. Together. Their shoes were touching, their knees were touching-
‘Oh quit being a fool, she isn’t trying to come close, your legs are too long.’ Otto scolded himself in silence. He was beginning to lose track of what Rosalie said, and she was growing unsure of the conversation.
“Otto?”
“Oh- right. I’m sorry, I spaced out. Yes?”
“Um, this was nice and all, but…” Rosalie lifted up her bookbag, setting it on the table. “...I don’t want to keep you from your job. I’m sure I talked long enough-”
“Wait.” Otto canceled his thoughts, staring back at her. “Please, I… augh. Look, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Rosie raised her head in confusion. Did she not just make him uncomfortable?
“I- Well, I wanted to tell you, and- I’ve been thinking,” He paused, shifting in his seat, his hand enveloping the letter in his lap, “I mean, I know you’re probably not interested, but would you like to-” Otto’s face dropped, his mouth hanging open a little.
His doe eyes traveled over Rosie’s shoulder.
Norman. Norman Osborn. Norman radiant and ravishing Osborn.
The pale figure contrasted against the late morning sun beaming through the shop windows, standing with natural confidence. Otto could spot every freckle he wanted to kiss from across the room, almost forgetting his Rosalie was there, four feet in front of him.
“Otto?” She asked, her voice giving way for despondency.
“I- um, I don’t feel very good, I think I drank something bad. I’m sorry, I-” Otto stuttered, hesitating with pure guilt. “-I need to go check stock, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
He apologized a third time with lack of self-control as he stuffed the letter back into his pocket, snagging his apron from the chair’s back as he scattered from the romantic scene, returning to his hidey-hole in the kitchen.
Rosie left with her smile flipped upside down.
What did she do wrong?
-
“Otto Octavius, it’s nice to see you here. How are you?” Norman Osborn greeted Otto, and to his surprise, it was a kind take on things compared to the super-prick he ran into that morning.
“I’m alright, I apologize for you having to see me here working. Uh, can I get you anything?” Otto replied, using the same polite tone he tried to use with the man from this morning.
“Mm. I’ll take a coffee. Can you make that a twelve ounce, straight black?”
“Yes sir, right on it.”
The gentle giant’s unexpected politeness and formality entertained Norman greatly.
He strolled over to the “PICK-UP” counter, glancing over at the sight of Otto stringing up different orders and pacing around the lobby, refilling other customer’s drinks and checking in to make sure they were thoroughly satisfied in whatever short amount of time he could.
Within two minutes, a perfect cup of coffee steamed across the counter, but not via Otto’s broad hands.
“Excuse me, do you know Otto? Could you call him over please.” Norman asked, sounding more like an order with hints of authority in his tone.
‘I get so lonely I forget what I'm worth. We get so lonely we pretend that it's worse. I'm so ashamed of myself think I need therapy. I'm sorry I'm not more attractive, I’m sorry I’m not more ladylike…’ The voice in Otto’s head sang a SZA song as he cleaned off the back counters in the kitchen, re-organizing everything from yesterday’s messy shift he heard an earful about from Serenity.
“OTTO!” Serenity howled from the front counter.
Otto nearly dropped the roll of paper towels he held, juggling it a few times before securing his catch. He set it beside the sink with a sigh and walked out to the front as quickly as he could.
“Yes ma’am?” Otto stood over Serenity, the gulp in his throat obvious and weary.
“He asked for ya. Take five.”
Otto stood in shock, stunned.
‘Take five? Holy shit, she must be high.’ He thought to himself, only involving himself in Norman’s image once Serenity cleared the room.
“Um, hello again..” Otto trailed off nervously. Wow, what a start.
“Yes, hi.”
“Did you get the right order, is there something else I can get you?”
Norman peered into Otto’s eyes with his head tilted at an upward angle, his jaw falling open to let his unfiltered thoughts run free. “Your eyes… it looks as if they’ve been dipped in caramel. Hm.”
His observation caught Otto off guard.
Norman snapped back to reality from his moment of distraction. “Um. You can see me around back since you’re taking five.”
Otto’s blood ran cold. Before he could debate or refuse, Norman walked out, just like that.
He fumbled with his apron before turning on his heel, obeying Norman’s request despite his mental resistance.
Through the kitchen, past the steaming sinks, through the hall with the staff bathroom, out the back door. Norman stood against a cement pole that met his waist’s height, befriending the curb that befriended the beaten-down lot behind the cafe. Otto could only worry he looked like a hobo, like he was cheap, like he was pathetic to Mr. Osborn in front of him.
“So, Norman…?” He asked, expecting ridicule and harassment.
“So, I was thinking about your community post-it on the bulletin. I’d like you to tutor me; I’ll pay you too.” Norman proposed, much to Otto’s relief.
“Oh.”