Work in progress: The Barista

The coffee grinder jammed, two bottles of syrup were shattered on the floor, and she dropped a gallon of milk before 5:30am. Summer had bad days, but she knew that waking up crying was a premonition of what would follow. She rushed through her morning process so she could be open by six: count the register, fill the creamers, stock the sugars, mop the syrups and milk, fix the grinder, brew the coffee, unlock the doors. She barely made it, but she unlocked the door seconds before Albert arrived. “Al,” she said. “Happy Thursday,” She kept track of days by what Al was wearing in the morning. Today was his normal Thursday attire of black slacks and shirt with a purple tie. She hated Al. She hated everybody that day.

“Where’s my coffee?” he said. She didn’t have an opportunity to have her morning coffee or cigarette. Summer was irritated with his imposition. She rolled from balls to heels of her feet. Her shoes were sticky from walking through the syrups. “Bad morning?” Al knew how she felt, but kept a cold attitude. She feigned a smile and poured his coffee.

“Is it warm out yet? It was freezing when I came in.” It was a beautiful morning. She hated talking to him but hated the awkward silence more. He stared out the window as he prepared the coffee. Summer usually had it ready before he arrived, two creams and three sugars. She did not enjoy it, but a simple act shortened their time together.

“You know what I think?” He went on rants like this, she remembered. She didn’t care, she never did. He went on about the economy and New York City as if she cared. The only thing she thought about The City was that she would rather be there than in Valentine. Her head ached from lack of nicotine, her stomach churned from lack of caffeine. She dug her fingernails into her palm to keep awake. The next regular didn’t show up for another hour, and if not for Al, she would not open until seven. She tuned him out and sipped her coffee. She stared intently at Al and enjoyed the semi-silence of her mind. He yawned and wished Summer a better day. She showed her middle finger to his back.

Summer reached towards her bag and removed a pack of cigarettes and a matchbook. She placed the box on the counter and walked outside when she was sure Al would no longer be in her line of sight. At least she could get a cigarette in before the other regulars arrived.

Outside, she compulsively checked her watch and glanced up and down the street. She did not want the next patron to see that she had left the store unattended. She disliked the job, but needed it to pay her rent. She stomped the butt out and returned to the Black Bean. She should quit smoking, she thought. She listened for the music and remembered that she needed to turn on the radio. The same soft rock station every day annoyed, and the tediousness of the songs frustrated her. Each day was the same to her, save the random person who needed a break from the New Jersey Turnpike.

After her cigarette, she began her morning cappuccino: three shots of espresso and skim milk. She continued to check her watch every five minutes until 6:55 when she walked towards the espresso machine to prepare for the crowd that showed up every morning at seven. She checked the list of drinks in her mind: Decaf Latte with two percent milk, an Americano, and skim mocha with whipped cream. She shook her head each time she put whipped cream on a drink made with skim milk or made the Latte with decaffeinated beans: they seemed like simple paradoxes to her.

The three men entered, grabbed their drinks, put their exact change on the counter, and sat down in their usual morning routine. Same shit different day, Summer thought. She often grew tired of the repetition of the morning rituals of Valentine, the older men with their New York Times. Sometimes she enjoyed eavesdropping on the patrons and listen when they waxed philosophy, complained about their wives, or talked about the weather. That Thursday she wanted to leave them all behind and find something new. After they finished talking, the men turned to their papers and read different sections. She stopped paying attention to them after they went silent.

Jon entered with his stained overalls. He looked at Summer who was now reading a book of poems she received monthly via New York University. “Where’s my drink?” She looked up.

“Where’s my bike?” Summer’s Huffy had been at Jon’s bike shop for over a month now, and she tired of feeling immobile in Valentine. She didn’t have enough money for a car, and without her bike she was trapped between her apartment and the coffee shop. Jon looked at her sadly, promised to fix it by the end of the week, and thanked her for making the drink before she began it. He walked towards the other end of the coffee shop and dropped the bag he carried every morning. She shoved the silver pitcher of two percent milk under the spigot.

Her mind would often wonder while she prepared drinks, and she frequently looked outside. She looked down at her watch and then outside again. This time somebody was there, somebody she had never seen before. He chained a street bicycle to the outside of her shop and Summer could see that he was dirty and distraught. He looked like he had been riding his bicycle through the mud and his jeans exposed his flesh in various places. His hair was greasy and just past his ears. He kicked his bike and Summer could see him mouth something to himself. She finished Jon’s latte and made a frowning face with whipped cream. The jingle of loose change heralded his arrival. The stranger looked around thoughtfully at each of the people at the shop; all eyes on him. “Jon, yours is up.” Summer was disinterested in his arrival. “You lost?” She tried to sound kind despite her bad mood.

“Triple espresso, straight. You got those little mugs?” He had a strong voice even though it trembled. She hung her head and wondered why anybody would use such a thing. She searched through the try of mugs and failed to find an unstained one. She went through the tedious motions. She pumped the espresso grinds into the handle and pressed them into a compressed pad. She twisted the handle onto the machine and turned the switch that would allow the scalding water to churn through the espresso. She did this until the triple shot was complete. She glanced up at him every few seconds. Once or twice she caught him looking at her. “You got a bike shop?”

No, not me personally, she thought. “Jon!” she yelled, getting the man’s attention from across the room. “When are you gonna open?” Jon looked up from his morning with a confused look. He scratched his temple and shrugged. Worthless, Summer thought. “He’s the one you gotta talk to,” She couldn’t see what was wrong with his bike. She wetted her lips in deep thought and hoped that he wouldn’t become stranded in the same situation as her. He looked like he needed to go places; he was on a mission. Her headache plagued her again. She needed a cigarette. The man pulled a bag of change from his pocket and searched for the change to pay for his espresso. Summer hated when people paid in all change, but at least this man stirred up her usual routine. She saw him wink.

She continued looking towards the interloper and created her own version of his quest. In her mind, he was a writer searching for his niche. He traveled the country and found characters everywhere he went. There wasn’t even anything wrong with his bike, she thought, he just liked the atmosphere of cycle shops. She became bored with her own thoughts and went back to her poetry book.

After every few lines of the poem she glanced up at the man. He stared wide-eyed in her direction. She wondered if he winked at her or if he had something in his eye. Jon came to the counter. “He looks like an interesting fellow, don’t you think?”

“Go figure out what’s wrong. He’s a writer, maybe he’ll write a story about you,” Summer took her imagination and made it fact. Jon looked at her in an analytical way. She was not used to people looking past the girl working in a coffee shop. That’s all she was to most of Valentine. His eyes grew as an epiphany struck.

“You like him!” Jon said. “Wait, how do you know he’s a writer?” Summer looked confused. She didn’t know what Jon was talking about; she forgot she made it up. “A writer, how do you know? Did you ask him?”

She wanted to scream. She wanted Jon to leave her alone. “Go help him.” She said. Jon looked at here for a second and retreated towards the table. “And fix my bike while you’re at it.”

Summer thought about what Jon had said after he and the man left. She didn’t think she liked him, she didn’t even know anything about him. She stared blankly at her book without reading any words. It was 11:00 and she could not cease the thought of the new man. He was just somebody who jarred her regimented schedule of events. She liked that about him, but she didn’t know anything about him save what she fabricated. “Something on your mind, Sum?” a voice from above broke her train of thought.

Dave looked at Summer with a mild concern. “Want some coffee, or are you just here wasting space again?” Dave owned the place and made sure to stop in once a day and make sure all was going smoothly. He generally reeked like a bag of Doritos. Today was Cool Ranch.

“Watch your ‘tude,” he pointed a finger as if she was a young girl accused of breaking a vase. Summer was not in the mood to talk to him, especially about anything on her mind.

“The grinder jammed up again. And I broke some syrup bottles. There’s a stranger in town.” Dave seemed disinterested and walked behind the counter. His face was flushed and his hair matted down, drowned in gel. She wondered what he would look like as a greaser from the 50’s, and smiled to herself.

“Were you on time?” He talked to Al, she thought.

“I opened at six.” She wondered what would happen if she did not show up one day, and pictured Al looking into a dark coffee shop, not able to get his morning wake-me-up. She planned on calling off the next day.

“Whatcha reading?” She knew he didn’t care for poetry, let alone some piece about a ghost-town citizen looking for a way out. He wouldn’t be able to relate, she thought.

“I’m going to have a cigarette. Hey, do you care if I don’t come in tomorrow?” He didn’t seem to hear the second part as he walked towards the back room. “Asshole,” she said. She hoped he didn’t hear her.

Summer always tired around 2:00, and today was no different. She had been working long days since she started the job, and rarely cared. Her logic was that there was nothing else to do, so she might as well make money. She had no bike to get her anywhere anyways. Dave left to get her some lunch from the restaurant down the street, and she enjoyed her alone time once more, sharing the Black Bean with only customers, not superiors.

Her poor mood lifted as the day went on. She was almost happy again, her headache finally gone. She forgot there was a phone until it rang. She picked up the receiver to hear Jon’s voice.
“He likes you too.” Jon prodded into her business all-too-often.
“He told you that,” she was doubtful.

“He’s not a writer.”

“What’s his name?”

“Gotta go.” Click. She cursed and felt herself blushing. Dave came back with 2 brown bags, one with her name in bold black letters. She thanked him and sat at a table with her fourth cappuccino. After 12, the minutes dragged on. Two more hours and she would be done. She half smiled thinking about the stranger and the fascinating things he saw when traveled.

She spent her last two hours in the Black Bean playing twenty questions with the customers. Just another day after all, she thought.

Jones entered ten minutes before Summer was finished with her shift. She started packing up her things into her oversized purse. She was about to leave when she saw him again. “Back for more, stranger.” Jones came out from the back room with the same black polo and slacks Summer was wearing. She felt slightly uncomfortable out of her own attire.

“Skyler,” he said. “My name is Skyler.” She nodded and smiled behind the espresso machine. She hid her smile from everything except his espresso and her cappuccino. The hiss lingered in the air with a potent French Vanilla odor. “I’m not coming in tomorrow,” she said to Jones. “Cover my shift. You own me.” She stared holes through him and finally looked into his eyes. “I may never come back.”

She set the midget mug in front of Skyler and claimed the vacant seat at the table. “Are you a writer?” she said. Skyler furrowed his brow. “Nevermind.” She took a long drink of her cappuccino and licked the foam from her lips in the sensual way her mother taught her years ago.

“What’s your name?” He knew it was Summer, she thought. Jon was sure to have told him. She unbuttoned the bottom button of her polo. Jon was right; she did like him. The thought of something exhilarated her. She wanted to be with him. He was moving; he was fluid; he had no plans. She saw him glance at his watch, but she saw the second hand was not ticking. She fiddled with her’s under the table and eventually removed it. She didn’t want to be restricted by time, place and formality any more. She wanted out of Valentine, Skyler could help her.

“Where to?” she was ready to invite herself along after he answered. She didn’t care where, she didn’t care when, the sooner the better. He stumbled around “um-s” and “uh-s” finally allowing the information: New York City.

“I have to go.” He rose suddenly, holding out his hand like an awkward school boy bidding adieu to his first girlfriend. The gesture confused her, but she obliged. “I have to get there by tomorrow.”

“Will you be okay?” He was already gone. She watched the only change of pace walk towards the door. “Wait,” she tried to call to him. He walked his bike out of her view while she reclaimed her bag from the ground. She was too late. “Take me with you.”