Barbarians at the Cafe, by Charles Dickey

The sorority barbarians came in at high noon, their voices raised and in need of a fix. Their leader was a scratchy-voiced junior with a 3.0 and blond hair and a puffy face who talked very loudly and always ordered a large water in a to-go cup. They ordered egg sandwiches and milkshakes and espresso drinks and were very particular about their orders. Legend had it that, years ago, one of the barbarians had ordered egg whites, cheddar cheese, and bacon on rye toast, but then refused it and demanded her money back when she discovered that there were no little plastic packets of ketchup available.

“I just can’t eat it like this,” she had complained seriously. She always kept a straight, humorless face, as if her entire existence was a game of poker. “I don’t want it.” The words were flat. Her eyes held no emotion.

They all wanted large waters in to-go cups. The leader was leader for a reason. She had set the bar at a large water in a to-go cup. Water was free. Some days they didn’t buy a thing, but sat at a table, studying for classes together very loudly and drinking water from large to-go cups.

But today. Today they were in rare form. They had taken over the table closest to the counter. They were leaving their straw papers crumpled and torn, littered on the floor. Crumbs fell from their plates, hands, and mouths, and piled in tremendous heaps on the floor. Honey mustard and balsamic vinaigrette stuck to the walls. Great clouds of smoke arose from their pipes. They called for another plate of mutton, and ale. They did shots of espresso until their voices became so pitched with excitement that the vibrations of their very loud words became waves of force that moved small children. Entire families were separated in this way.

At the other side of the café, an old man wept. The terrible showing of the sorority barbarians had caused him to fall, and he struggled to push himself up from the floor, but he was stuck in a puddle of his own gooey hot cocoa and whipped cream. A compassionate barista rushed to his side while the patrons fled the café.

The sorority barbarians laughed and laughed. They didn’t notice the old man. They didn’t notice anything beyond their table. Their focus was narrow and self-involved: milkshakes, to-go waters, and pipe-smoke; ale, cigarettes, a game of poker; biology, calculus, Italian, philosophy; cell phones, texting, and facebook. They were the decline of Western Civilization.

The sheriff arrived. Every other sound except for the very loud voices of the sorority barbarians had been neutralized. People were dead. Garbage piles of half-consumed mutton, dressings, straw wrappers, espresso grounds, and digital data had buried many of the bodies. It was a scene of carnage, half-covered up by mass graves that were in actuality just the by-products of massive, hasty consumption. According to the clock on the wall, fifteen minutes had passed since the sorority barbarians had arrived.

The sheriff cleared her throat and threw the circuit breaker. The music stopped and all the machinery. The lights went out. Natural light from the noon-day sun shone through the front windows. It was nice.

The sorority barbarians faltered and complained. The serious one stood up and stared at the sheriff, demanding a refund for the missing light and music and machinery noise, and for the sudden uncertainty which had caused the sorority barbarians’ conversation to falter. The sorority barbarians collectively twitched. They were not accustomed to being disconnected from sight and sound and spectacle, and now they were uncomfortable.

“There’ll be no more refunds,” said the sheriff.

Outside, a tumbleweed blew by, and spaghetti western music stirred on the wind.

A child sobbed and looked for his mother. The old man, now standing, brushed off great globs of chocolate goo and whipped cream.

The sorority barbarians paled and blinked. They saw the scene around them for the first time.

“Well, this place is just a mess!” exclaimed the leader. “They should really clean this place up.”

“That’s where y’all come in, sweethearts,” drawled the sheriff.

“We have class,” said the serious one.

“No you don’t!” yelled a barista. “You have no class!”

The sheriff nodded and smiled grimly, and placed a booted foot on a pile of the barbarians’ filth. She leaned forward. “No more classes today, girls. Now you have community service. Get a mop.”