Barista - Draft II

The coffee grinder jammed, two bottles of syrup shattered on the floor, and she dropped a gallon of milk, which exploded, all before 5:30am. Summer had bad days, but she knew that waking up crying was a premonition, an omen of shit. She rushed through her morning duties - counted the register, filled the creamers, stocked the sugars, mopped the syrups and milk, fixed the grinder, brewed the coffee, unlocked the doors – to be open by six. She barely made it, but she unlocked the door seconds before Albert arrived. “Happy Thursday Al,” she said. 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 hadn’t had an opportunity to have her morning coffee or cigarette, and 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?” she said, “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 said. She was not interested, she never was. He went on about the economy and New York City as if were deeply involved with what he was talking about. 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 poured her own 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, she hoped.
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 surf rock station played Beach Boys and Dick Dale everyday. She groaned while slowly twisting the knob allowing the music to flow through the speakers. 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 regulars 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 spots. 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. Decaf Latte talked about the great fate of his life, Americano said how Lucy was not ‘putting out’ anymore, and Mocha talked about rising air currents. From what little information she had of the men, she created intricate back-stories, marking key points in her mind by looking in the top left corner of the Black Bean where a small spider resided; she did not have the heart to remove it from his home. Sometimes she enjoyed eavesdropping on the patrons and listen when they waxed philosophic, 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 in Jon’s shop for over a week 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 wondered 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. 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 stranger looked around thoughtfully at each of the people at the shop; all eyes on him. “Jon, yours is up.” Summer’s curiosity was somewhat piqued by the stranger. “You lost?” She tried to sound kind despite her bad mood. She forced a smile, and by the way the corners of her mouth felt she knew it looked fake.
“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?” He broke the silence.
No, not me personally, she thought. “Jon!” she yelled, getting his attention from across the room. “Wanna fix a bike for this guy?” 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. His eyes were focused and pupils were small; the look of determination. Her headache plagued her again. She needed another 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. She tapped her foot and rolled her fingers on the counter, staring intensely at the change. When he put the exact amount on the space in front of the register, she slowly pulled each coin into her hand and analyzed it like a primary school child learning how to count change for the first time. 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. She was currently skimming over a pretentious prose about Central Park in November. She read the last line – But central, no matter the weather – and scoffed.
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. Jon’s eyes grew wider.
“You like him!” Jon said
“Shut up, he might hear you.”
“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 Misirlou at 11:00. She imagined the opening Pulp Fiction scene and closed her eyes. She imagined the lines as accurately as she could, but she could not remove the thought of the new man from her mind. She liked that he was new and exciting to her, 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 would be able to sleep in for once and curl up in the blankets on her bed made for a king. She thought about the regulars at seven and them leaning against the locked shop, newspapers under arms. She would take her time in the shower, wash every crevice off her body and properly wash, rinse, and repeat her hair. If her bike was fixed she could just ride all day, maybe to go to a coffee shop as a customer and not a barista. She could relate to the strife of a different small city and remove her own troubles for a while. She stared blankly ahead while she realized that she could take a day for herself. She planned to call 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 tired daily around 2:00. Her eyelids began to droop as her calves spiked pain throughout her body. She had been working long days since she started the job, and rarely cared. Without her bike, she was forced to walk the six blocks to the coffee shop. She had not called off since she started her job approximately a year and a half earlier. 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 Chinese 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. Your bike will be ready tonight sometime.” Click. She cursed and felt herself blushing as she slammed the receiver down. 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 noon, the minutes dragged, the seconds felt like minutes; the minutes were hours. Two more hours and she would be done. She half smiled thinking about the stranger and the fascinating things he saw when he traveled.
She spent her last two hours in the Black Bean playing twenty questions with the customers. She had a difficult time getting past question five in each game, losing interest the closer it became to four. Dave involved himself into the game, claiming to be a “thing.” Summer was going to guess Doritos on question one, but refrained herself until a customer finally guessed correctly: skyscraper.

Jones entered ten minutes before Summer was finished with her shift. He smiled and pushed his thick-rimmed glasses closer to the bridge of his nose and nodded. He went into the back room to prepare for his shift. Summer started packing up her things into her oversized purse. She was about to leave when she saw the cyclist again. She dropped everything. “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, no doubt still from the syrup she spilled, she thought. “I’m not coming in tomorrow,” she said to Jones. “Cover my shift. You owe me.” She stared holes through him and finally looked into his eyes. “I might not come back.” She heard Jones scoff and mumble under his breath. She was confident that she would be back, but Jones’ audible doubt that she could leave without remorse reminded her to contact some old friends and pull more favors.
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. Maybe Jon was right; maybe 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 timepiece 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.