by Cody Ryder
“For me? Oh, why thank you, Sunny,” my mom said, grinning. Sunny placed the remains into her hand, and she popped it into her mouth. Sunny giggled.
“They were both really well behaved today, weren’t they?” I said to my mom as we all walked down the dirt path together towards the hammock area. “Considering the amount of excitement going on.”
“They really were,” she agreed. “Sunny really seems to love the attention of the cameras, doesn’t she?”
“She’s very dramatic,” Dakota said. Sunny looked oblivious.
“Can I go down?” she asked, and when Dakota set her down, she ran to chase after Rosie.
Back at the hammocks, my dad was dozing with his hands folded over his chest, an empty glass of beer on the metal table next to him. We’d long replaced the stacked milk crates and the old lawn chairs with more proper backyard furniture.
“Look at him,” my mom said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a good thing he didn’t start snoring while the TV crews were around. I told him not to drink.”
At that, my dad snorted awake, sitting up and stretching his arms with a yawn. “I heard that,” he said. “Dakota’s home beer is just too damn good. Sorry, Dakota, I might just drink up your whole supply if you keep having us over.”
“That’s alright,” Dakota laughed. “I’m glad you like it.”
“There’s my grandson,” dad said, holding out his arms. Mom handed Lucas over, who looked around with wide eyes as he sucked his thumb. She leaned over and gave my dad a kiss before scolding him with her eyes. She then picked up a straw basket that sat on the ground by one of the trees that held up the hammocks.
“I’m going to go do some maintenance,” she said. “If there’re cherry tomatoes ripening, I think I’ll pick them.”
Dad swung in the hammock with Lucas, cooing baby talk at him and lifting him high in the air. Dakota and I sat together on the wooden bench we’d brought in to replace the old weathered chairs, and I wrapped my arm around his shoulder and pulled him close.
“You did great today, Dakota,” I told him, and kissed him on the side of his head. “I’m real proud of you.”
He smiled up at me and kissed my lips. “Thanks, Roy,” he said. “We both did.”
Birds chirped and sang, water chuckled in the fishpond, and a cool spring breeze danced through the trees around us, making shifting patterns of light with the leaves that gave us shade. I closed my eyes and felt it all, and felt the warm presence of the man I knew I’d spend the rest of my life with, surrounded by the healing power of his garden, and by the soothing presence of my family.
A Cup of Joe
One
Three Years Later
Bruce worked with the deft speed and muscle memory that came with thousands of hours of practice and experience. He threw a dash of roasted coffee beans into the grinder—which he had personally calibrated to his exact preference for coarseness—then dispensed the grind into the portafilter and locked it into place on the machine. After hitting the button to start the brewing process, he quickly moved over the stove and flipped the spicy chicken melt that was grilling there.
“How are those tomatoes coming?” he called over to Julia, who was leaning over a cutting board and slicing up a pile of fresh tomatoes for the sandwiches. Julia had been Bruce’s classmate in high school when she’d been hired for a part time position at the café, and her energy and friendly attitude had endeared her to Bruce’s mother, who was always flexible with Julia’s hours when she got into university. She became Bruce’s closest friend and his biggest support when his mother passed away.
“Just about finished,” she called back. “How many orders of spicys do we have now?”
“Seven more orders after this. Got three iced teas, two capps, and a vanilla latte. It really got busy today!”
“Hey, you’re all doing a fantastic job back there,” said Frank, a squat older man who was both one of the café’s regular loyal customers and a boxing instructor at the local gym that Bruce attended. “For having to cut down on the staff, seems like you’re doing well.”
“If only it could be this busy every day, Frank,” Bruce said. “It feels like it’s been a while since we’ve had a lunch rush like this.”
Marcos, the café’s remaining full-time employee asides from Julia, was manning the register. He’d been hired at the café when Bruce’s father was still alive and Bruce was just a little boy, and had experience doing nearly every job there was in the place. “Thank you, sir, self-serve water is right over there, we’ll have your coffee and sandwich out to you in just a few minutes.” He turned and slapped the order sheet onto a board. “Another spicy chicken melt and one Americano,” he shouted.
“Thank you!” Julia and Bruce returned in unison. Bruce glided back over to the cappuccino machine and frothed up a cup of milk with the steamer. In a motion so precise and smooth it seemed like the cups were floating through the air, he dashed the milk into the coffee, purged the milk frother with a quick blast of steam, and then clapped a cover onto the cup.
“Your cappuccino, Frank,” he said, setting the hot paper cup onto the counter. “And…” he went back to the stove and flipped the sandwich onto a paper plate. “Your sandwich. Have a great day.”
“You too, Bruce,” said Frank, wrapping the counter with his knuckles. “Will I be seeing you at boxing tomorrow? You’ve been out of the gym the last couple weeks.”
“I’m gonna try to make it,” Bruce said with a guilty smile. “Things have just been a little crazy, with everything changing so fast here…”
“Hey, I understand. Taking care of your business comes first. But you can’t put a price on the stress relief that comes from beatin’ the bag, you know? And I can see it. You could use it.”
Bruce gave him a nod and a little salute. “I really could. I’ll do my best to make it in.”
Frank pointed at him with a look that said, “you’d better,” before heading to his usual table. Bruce laughed and turned back to the coffee machine after making a quick glance at the order board. It felt fantastic to be going at full steam again, or what Julia liked to call “hyper-tasking”. Over the past six months, LeFlorette’s had been experiencing a steady decline in patronage, and Bruce had noticed that even some of the café’s regulars had stopped showing up for their usual coffee. The reason for the slump was no mystery—four months ago, a hip, brand new coffee “atelier” named The Standard had opened up a location in the neighborhood just a few blocks down from the café.
The Standard was a fairly new company, formed only six years prior in San Francisco. Through a perfect storm of exposure through clever marketing and online viral hype, the small shop exploded in popularity, and there was lots of eager anticipation about when and where they’d be opening their second branch. When they announced it would be in San Diego, even local news stations reported on it. Bruce had heard about The Standard when they were first finding success—there were several interviews with the company’s founder and CEO published in some of the coffee and entrepreneur websites that he frequented. He’d read them with a mild interest in what people were calling the newest contender in the “third wave of coffee”, a movement focused on producing high quality, artisanal options of the drink.
After the lunch rush died down, Bruce and Julia grilled up three turkey pesto melts for their and Marcos’s lunch, and the three of them ate them behind the counter. Bruce looked out over the mostly empty café and thought back to when they had a full daily staff, and everyone took a full lunch break to themselves. These days it sometimes felt like the breaks lasted longer than the business day.
He let out a slow sigh and took a bite of his sandwich. It was a difficult reality to swallow, but Bruce knew that although they were still making enough business to stay in operation, he couldn’t expect it to continue. They were teetering on the edge, and if things slowed down even more…
“Felt like normal, didn’t it?” Julia said cheerfully. “Hyper-tasking, getting into
the zone. People still love our coffee, and the spicy chicken melts sell as well as they ever did.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Bruce said absently, staring across the café and out the big front windows that looked out at the street. Their single customer sat in the corner, hunched over a laptop as he sipped on an iced tea, and Bruce could only think about when every single one of the seats and the two couches would’ve still been filled during this time of the day.
Julia shrugged, Bruce’s sober demeanor ricocheting off her peppy disposition. “Okay, but people still come here just for them, right? Your recipes are still killing it with the regulars. I’ve been watching Yelp too, and we still get new reviews about both our coffee and our sandwiches.”
“As long as that place is there,” Marcos said, jerking his head in the direction of their competition, “it feels like things will keep getting worse. Hate to say it, you know?”
Bruce took an irritated chomp of his sandwich. “What is up with this ‘artisanal’ coffee hoo-hah anyway? Good coffee, good food, that’s all that should matter. People shouldn’t have to be bashed over the head with details and flavor profiles and things that they can’t even taste anyway.”
“You’re right,” Julia said, nodding. “That is all that should matter. But I guess people do really enjoy that kind of thing. Makes it seem like they’re getting more for their money, maybe. And they’re willing to spend more.”
Marcos laughed. “So what you’re saying is that we should slap some labels on our coffee telling people what it tastes like and then we can charge more for it?”
“We are not doing that,” Bruce said solidly. “We can let the coffee speak for itself.”
Having worked with the LeFlorettes for so many years, Marcos was as entirely old school in his thoughts towards the café as Bruce was. Good food, good coffee, and a warm and homey environment—just as Mr. and Mrs. LeFlorette had done when had first started there. He nodded with staunch agreeance; the shop was perfect how it was.
Julia looked back and forth between the two of them. “I don’t think we should charge more either, but Jordan’s coffee is actually really good! I went and tried—what? What is it?” Both Bruce and Marcos were staring at her.
“You went to The Standard? Into enemy territory?” asked Marcos flatly.
“I didn’t realize it was forbidden,” she replied, and turned to Bruce. “You’ve been, right?”
Bruce looked offended. “No, something about them stealing all my customers kind of put me off of them.”
Marcos chuckled.
“Well,” Julia said, “I’m not happy about it either. But I had to know what the hype was about, so I went in.”
“Was it as stuffy as I imagined? Do all their coffees have ridiculous and exotic names?” Bruce wiggled his fingers in the air for emphasis.
“Are all the baristas tatted-up hipsters with gauged earrings and an overinflated sense of self-importance?” Marcos asked, grinning.
“No! I don’t know. What’s wrong with tatted up hipsters with gauge earrings? You’re a tatted-up hipster, Marcos.”
“I’m too old to be a hipster,” he said quietly, almost as if he was trying to reassure himself as he crossed his tattooed arms across his chest.
“The place was cozy in its own way,” Julia continued. “It’s not like our store, it doesn’t really have that at-home feel, but I can see why people are attracted to it. I think people like being in a place that’s comfortable, but feels…I don’t know. Better than home? Sleek, modern. Filled with things that they couldn’t normally have.”
Bruce shrugged. “Okay. And the coffee? How was that?”
“It was good. You know, Bruce, you should really check it out for yourself.” She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a look. “I mean, our business is suffering. Wouldn’t it help to check out the competition?”
He let out a little snort. “There’s nothing wrong with the way we do things here. People want quality coffee brewed by talented baristas and delicious homemade food. We have that. The things we serve are here only; you can’t get it anywhere else.” He spoke with stubborn confidence that completely clashed with how he was feeling inside.
Why haven’t I gone to check them out? he thought. There’s nothing wrong with the way we do things here, but I guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at the competition. Am I just…scared of seeing just how badly we’re outgunned here?
“Well, their food is for sure not their strong point,” Julia said. “I didn’t order any, but it didn’t look like they cook fresh to order. But people were still buying it.”
“People settling for less or not caring. Or not knowing the difference,” Marcos grumbled. “Figures.” He took their empty plates and went into the back to wash them.
The little golden bell hanging above the front door chimed as a group of customers strolled inside, and Bruce and Julia, both stewing in their own thoughts about the fate of the café, perked up.
Keep pushing on, Bruce thought. That’s all I can do.
The April sun made its way down towards the rooftops of the neighborhood, throwing shadows and golden light across the asphalt. Bruce was outside, and he stuffed his key into the brass lock of the café’s forest-green front door and turned it. A mourning dove called from its perch on the power lines hanging above, just loud enough to be heard over the steady bustle of early evening road traffic.
Bruce’s house was just south down the street from the coffee shop, the same quaint two-bedroom place his parents had purchased when they got married. He turned down the sidewalk to walk home, when his legs started to slow down. He stood there as still as a statue, and a dog going on a walk took a moment to sniff at his ankle before his owner tugged him away.
Fuck it, Bruce thought, and turned heel, walking north up the street away from home.
The Standard was just a ten-minute walk up from the café, and from a block away, Bruce could already see the tables out in front still occupied with patrons. He jammed his hands into his pockets as a slow burning sensation of annoyance bubbled up inside him. Not too long ago his place would’ve still been bustling enough at this hour, but ever since the decline he’d made the decision to close two hours earlier every day except weekends.
A group of college students filed into the shop as Bruce crossed the street. He could hear the bustle coming from inside the store, emphasized as a party of chattering sorority types opened the front door to leave. Bruce neared the entrance, came close to reaching the door…and then passed by. His legs kept on going and he continued down the street without as much as a glance into the window.
What am I doing?
He stopped among a small group of people waiting to cross the street at the end of the sidewalk, and awkwardly fumbled with his cell phone in one pocket and his keys in the other.
Just go inside. Order a drink, check out the place, leave. That’s all I need to do.
The crosswalk sign changed, and the group began to push around Bruce to cross. He sucked in a breath, turned around and walked back down the street towards The Standard. He reached the front of the shop and stood a few feet away from the door, watching as people continued to go in and out. Every time the door opened, the warm aroma of freshly ground coffee beans washed over him.
“It definitely smells excellent,” he mumbled to himself.
The sun cast a sharp reflection on the windows of the coffee shop, preventing him from getting a good look inside. The front door continued its beckoning routine, breathing out its fragrant, inviting breath, but Bruce stayed locked in place. He hated the idea of confirming everything he suspected about The Standard—that it was newer, fresher, more desirable than LeFlorette’s and there’d be nothing he could do about it other than abandoning all of his family’s philosophies. Even then, it was probably too late.
He slowly exhaled and moved towards the door, reached out with his hand to grasp the vertical chrome pull bar—and stopped. It was as if his fingers were repelled away, and
he was unable to bring himself to go in. This feeling had paralyzed him from coming for all the months that The Standard had been down the street, and it wouldn’t let him go in now.
Back home, Bruce tossed his keys onto the worn wood countertop that sat at the end the compact foyer and flicked on the lights. He pulled himself into the kitchen, brought out a bottle of 12 Year Yamazaki whiskey he had received from one of his regular customers as a Christmas gift from Japan, and poured a glass. Bruce needed to be in a specific mood to drink straight whiskey—very good or very bad—and right now Bruce’s spirits were teetering southward. He brought the glass into the living room and plunged onto the sofa, sinking into the cushions. He felt like shit. It wasn’t just the inability to bring himself to do the simplest thing and investigate the shop that was killing his business, it was the culmination of everything he’d been had to go through over the past months. Letting go of his employees—some of which his parents had hired when he was young—watching the shop’s decline, and knowing that the thing he loved the most was slowly slipping away.