Barista - Draft III

Three men entered, grabbed their drinks, dropped 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. She faithfully made their drinks daily, but that Thursday she wanted to leave. She wanted something new. The men turned to their papers and read different sections after they finished talking. They grunted at an article here or there and glanced sideways at each other. She couldn’t make out the headlines, but heard Latte say something about ‘Those damn kids.” 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?” he said.
“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, a six-block radius. 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 awkward grey bag he carried each morning. She shoved the silver pitcher of two percent milk under the spigot.
Her mind wandered while she prepared drinks, and she frequently looked outside. She focused on a mural of street graffiti and imagined the act as it took place. She saw the kids with hoods up as they shook their spray cans and sized up the wall. She looked down at her watch – 8:17 – and then outside again. A man was now blocking two of the three large nautical stars made of red spray paint. 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. Summer wondered what he was doing in a city like Valentine. 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 knew her smile 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 glass. She searched through the tray of mugs and failed to find an unstained one. She dusted it off and went through the tedious motions of preparing his order. 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. She felt slightly embarrassed, her hair sloppily tossed into a bun, which rested on the highest point of her head. She only had enough time to put on mascara. She should have been more thorough, but reminded herself that she will probably never see this guy again.
“You got a bike shop?” he said.
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, confused. 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 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; a look of determination. Her head hurt. She needed another cigarette. She felt sick, and she was annoyed by each movement the man made. She knew the withdrawal signs of nicotine well.
He 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 raised a Susan B. Anthony dollar and looked at him. “I thought they stopped making these,” she said. Despite herself, she smiled.
“Keep it,” he said and looked through his bag for more change: three dimes, two quarters, one nickel, and 15 pennies. She thought he winked.
She continued looking towards the guy 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. She thought of the Rock and Roll museum in Cleveland – where he actually talked with the members of the latest inductee – and wrote a story with excruciating detail of the arcs and arches in Cleveland; and the steel workers from Pittsburgh, telling him stories about Andrew Carnegie and how poorly they were treated, and him writing the story for a national magazine; and South Street in Philadelphia, where the hippies would smoke marijuana with him while he would wrote descriptive verse about the mosaics. 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. She didn’t believe it, and she doubted the poet did either.
After every few lines of the poem she glanced up at the man. He stared wide-eyed in her direction. She noticed a small chunk of hair that looked like it had been pulled out, probably by his insane ex-girlfriend from Austrailla. They met in a coffee shop just like this one, she imagined. She shook her head in a failed attempt to clear her mind. 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?” he said.
“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.” She glanced back at him. He was playing with his hair, unaware of conversation. “PS, you sound 12.”
“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 recalled the actors and their lines as accurately as she could, but she could not remove the image of the new man from HonneyBunny. 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 startled her.
Dave looked at Summer with a mild concern. “Want some coffee, or are you just here wasting space again?” she said. 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. She remembered the morning and how she rushed through all of her spots to be open before Al tried to walk through the door. She rolled from balls to heels of her shoes - still sticky from the spilled syrups – and tried not to fall asleep while he talked about economy and stocks. When this didn’t work, she dug her fingernails into her palms until he left. She showed her middle finger to Al’s back.
“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, clean every crevice of her body and properly wash, rinse, and repeat her hair. She could call her friend, Stacey, and take a day trip to The City. 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. The phone rang.
“He likes you too.” Jon said. Summer sighed at his fifth grade vocabulary.
“He told you that?” she was doubtful. “What’s his name?”
“Gotta go. Your bike will be ready tonight sometime. Maybe.” Click. She cursed and felt herself, blushing as she slammed the receiver down.
“You break that phone, you’re buying a new one.” Dave said. He returned with 2 brown bags, one with her name in bold black letters. She thanked him and sat at a table with her fourth cappuccino. Two more hours and she would be done. She half smiled thinking about the stranger and the fascinating things he saw when he traveled; the rivers and monuments, the people and different styles.
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 o’ clock. Dave involved himself in 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 – cigarettes, check; lighter, check; book, check. She was about to leave when she saw the cyclist again. She dropped her purse and knocked over a cup filled with coffee. “Back for more?” she said, grabbing a rag. The man smiled. 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 smiled, guarding her with the cappuccino machine. 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 sized him and finally looked into his eyes. He was about a foot taller than Summer, but he still shrunk back a little. “I might not come back.” She heard Jones mumble under his breath and scoff. She didn’t truly believe her last words, but after she heard Jones’ audible doubt, she considered it.
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?”
“What, Jon didn’t tell you?” 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 watch under the table and eventually removed it. She didn’t want to be restricted by time, place and formality any more.
“What time is it?” she said.
“You from around here?” He looked distracted, and she began to smile: A small victory for her. He looked into her eyes, and she looked at his forehead, his drink, and the small spider. She looked at everything to avoid his eyes.
“Yeah,” she said. She now looked at the intricate patterns on the tabletop. She wondered why Dave chose these tables for the coffee house. She traced the swirling pattern with the tip of her middle finger.
“Where’re you from?” She looked into his eyes.
“ Around. I just came from Philly.”
“What brings you to Valentine?” She folded her hands on the table in front of her.
“I won a contest. On to New York.” She perked up. She wanted to go with him, but was not sure of how to approach the subject. She did not want to come off as needy or assertive. She looked at the spider and wandered what he would do. Skyler explained how he won, and that he needed to get to New York City by Friday afternoon. He had about 24 hours. “Jon said it’s only a couple hours riding. I’m gonna try to get there tonight sometime.” She drank the last of her Cappuccino.
“I gotta go,” Summer pulled her pack of cigarettes from her pocket. “You smoke?”
“I’m trying to quit.” He looked around and leaned closer into the table. “My prize is plus one. You should come with me.” She was taken aback and more surprised by that than his offer. “What do ya say?”
“I need to take care of some things,” she needed to change and collect some things from her apartment, her toothbrush, hairbrush, and some makeup if she were to go around with this random man. She thought briefly that she would look better in comparison, but that she would grab the beautification tools regardless. She grabbed her purse, made Skyler another triple shot, and said goodbye to Jones.
Outside, She lit a single match, grazed the flame over two cigarettes, and passed one to Skyler. He unchained his bike from the front of the shop and Summer saw that it would not be possible for two people to ride on it. “How am I gonna get there?” she asked.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We need to stop by Jon’s.”`