Perky

by Julia Kent

  Not that I'm attracted to Raul.

  But I'm not dead.

  “Sure,” I finally say, cutting the kid off. “We take a chance on new bands once a month, on Thursdays from five to seven p.m. You get to experience the after-work rush. We don't pay, but you get a tip bucket.”

  “SERIOUSLY?” the guy says in four syllables and three octaves.

  I grin. “Yeah, kid. You booked a gig. Congrats.” And all before you even got pit hair.

  I don't say that last part aloud, though it's tempting.

  “I–uh,” he drops back to normal baritone range. “Thanks. What do we need to do now?”

  I give him the secret URL for booking, where all the paperwork for the coffee house lives. He thanks me profusely, until I finally get off the phone to hear Fiona say:

  “I just don't understand why hazelnut coffee went out of style. I really like it.”

  “That's because you are a reincarnation of some shoulder-pad-wearing woman from 1985,” I say, then shudder.

  “I am not! My quantum healer says that based on reading my past lives, I ran a camp in northern Canada and died in a polar bear attack.”

  Raul is shocked. “I died from being mauled, too!”

  “Mauled by a band of horny women?” I crack.

  “Watch it,” he says in a voice of warning.

  Fiona looks like she's eager to volunteer for that band of horny women. I flip through my memory banks to find the last time she went out on a date. Hmmm. It's been a long time.

  Too long.

  “Who was on the phone?” Fi asks.

  “Some kid.” I look at Raul. “I gave him a new-band slot in January.”

  He nods. “What kind of music?”

  “Celtic ska.”

  He laughs, shining white teeth and full lips making it impossible not to join in. “These kids. They mix in creative ways. Dad's gonna love it.” Raul's father, Thiago, opened Beanerino about five years ago, right around the time I came home from Texas licking my wounds. After a year of protesting and working on fair labor practices in the coffee industry, and being appreciative of a good pull (Ristretto! Get your mind out of the gutter!), I waltzed into the store and was hired on the spot.

  Thiago is an expansive guy with an open mind and an even broader heart. I love working here because with Raul and his dad in charge, you see the good in variety. How life gives you a richer experience when you fling open your emotional doors and let people find you.

  “But the gospel Eurotech was horrid,” Fi notes. “I didn't know whether to pray or start humping a post.”

  Raul happens to be sipping some sparkling water at that moment and nearly spit takes all over us.

  On the television, a new installation Thiago insisted we add so he could stream concerts, the news comes on. Parker is front and center.

  Every molecule in my body shifts.

  Fiona takes me, gently, to a booth, Mallory waiting as Raul starts making coffees. I stare at the screen like a robot with a depleted battery source. Time changes when you're suddenly confronted with your past on a fifty-inch television screen at work.

  Mallory appears with three drinks and a heaping swallow of regret on my behalf.

  They settle in, asses firmly planted in the booth across from me, big eyes staring over the curved brims of their black plastic coffee lids as they sip. I pick up my macchiato and chug it, the heat burning but the caffeine oh, so loving.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Two macchiatos in a row is going to be a big mistake, but I don't care. As Mallory looks up from her tall cup, her eyes fill with concern and the deep empathy you feel when you’ve experienced sorrow with another person, walked alongside them on the journey, gotten drunk with them and held their hair while—never mind.

  Let’s just say she gets it. She gets why I don’t want to talk about it.

  “You did everything right,” Fiona interjects, twisting in place to look at Parker's image as he is interviewed in the lobby of the State House in Boston, “when the picture started making the rounds and the memes were coming up in the middle of online video games, and Facebook should have been renamed Perky’s Tits.”

  “Hey!” I cut her off. “That’s doubly insulting. You know I hate that word.”

  Mallory kicks Fiona's ankle.

  “Sorry,” Fi concedes. “But when that happened, your parents jumped in so fast. That first month was insane.”

  I guess we’re really doing this, huh? Parsing Perky’s past with Parker.

  Say that five times fast without two shots of espresso in you. Good luck.

  “No kidding. I think I still have carpal tunnel syndrome from that month. Delete-delete-delete. Cry-cry-cry. Block-block-block. Ignore-ignore-ignore. It’s a blur.” I get up to grab a sparkling water from the case and pop it open, making a mental note to have Thiago take it off my paycheck. The topic is somber, but this needs to be said. Rehashing the past with Parker isn’t something I can avoid anymore.

  The past is the present now.

  “I remember when your mom reached out to me, and I told Tim what had happened,” Fiona says.

  “What are the odds that Fi's brother would be working in reputation management just when you needed it most?” Mal ponders.

  We all look at each other, the silence comfortable and deep. What are the odds? What are the odds that I would have two best friends who were there for me through the hardest time in my life, and one of them would have a brother who could step in quickly to help?

  Being naked and vulnerable in front of someone you love is an act of trust.

  Being naked and vulnerable in front of billions of people on social media, turned into an object of ridicule and scorn, is an act of war. The masses turn your picture into a battlefield, covered only in your own blood.

  “Thank you,” I say to them both, reaching for their hands. Mallory grasps mine back while Fiona just pats the back of my wrist.

  “You were the one who came up with the crazy idea to solve it, at least partly,” Fiona says. “Who knew you could copyright your own dog-humping nude picture and then sue website owners for violating your copyright?”

  “All those web hosting companies, too. Your parents were ferocious. They had so many lawyers working on it all. And you won!”

  “It was never about the money.”

  “Of course it wasn’t about the money,” Fiona exclaims. “It was about the principle. I remember Tim telling me how hard it was to get people to stop using the meme. Once you went after those big websites–once you proved that you owned the rights, suddenly the morality shift—”

  I stop her. “There was no morality shift. There was nothing about morality involved in what happened. Companies don’t act based on a moral code. They act based on survival of the fittest. I had the law on my side and my parents had deep pockets. That’s how we were able to shut down so many of those pictures of me, and so quickly.”

  “But you had to copyright a picture of your own ti–uh, boobs, to protect yourself from massive public shaming. And it took a while to figure it out.”

  “Yep.”

  Mallory snorts. “And then Parker was the one who benefited the most.”

  I give her a wry, sad grin that twists the same lips he kissed just yesterday. “He was an assistant district attorney when it all happened. The idea of running for political office at the national level was just a little seed inside his mind. If word had gotten out that he was the one who took the picture and uploaded it, it would have ended his political career before it really got started.”

  “But that’s not why your parents got it taken down, or why they kept his name out of it. That’s not why Tim did it,” Fiona objects.

  “Of course not.”

  “Instead of Parker being collateral damage from his own stupid, juvenile, jerk-faced act, his internet reputation was left clean as a whistle. So a few years later, when the congressman he was working for had a heart attack and Parker saved him, he could be lauded,” Mallory sp
ews, her face going red with indignation.

  “So he could be elected,” Fiona fumes.

  They’re both angry. I can hear the bitterness in the way Mallory is raking through the past, trying to separate the trash that needs to be discarded from the treasures that need to stay.

  I flatten my palms against the table and lean forward, my friends reflexively leaning in, too, as I whisper, “I’m tired of being angry at him.”

  “And you're wondering if he really did it,” Fiona whispers.

  “I am. I am, now. I'm so confused, guys," I choke out. "I just want the guy I loved five years ago. Before he did this to me.”

  If he did this to me.

  The phone rings again. Raul gives me a look that says I was being nice but now you need to actually work. I get the hint and jump up, bottle in hand, shrugging at Mal and Fi like I need to apologize for letting work intrude on our talk.

  “Beanerino! How may I caffeinate you?” I answer.

  “I’m calling for a Per-purse-phone Ta…”

  “I’m Persephone Tsongas. What can I do for you?”

  “Oh.” Relief fills her voice. It always does when I help someone with the mouthful that masquerades as my name. Per-SEF-uh-knee is harder to pronounce than ASS-hole.

  “This is Katie Bollinger from New Start Booking.”

  “The bands?” I gasp, unable to keep my normal cynicism percolating along. I’ve been trying for a while to get live bands from New Start to play here. They’re way above Celtic-ska-dude’s level.

  “No, sorry, not bands,” Katie says. The rustle of papers she’s obviously shuffling through sounds like disappointment. “I’d like to schedule a short appearance to announce a new fair-trade coffee bill,” she says, her voice halting and robotic. She’s clearly reading from a script.

  I chuckle to myself. While Thiago was originally reluctant to bring new music talent into the place, he’s always one for politics–especially politics involving fair-trade coffee. All of the roasting companies in New England know that if they need space for an event, Beanerino is it.

  “Is this for an author who’s written a book about coffee?” I ask her. “Or PR for one of the roasters?”

  “No.” More pages are rustled. “This is for, um, a politician? He’s a senator? Or no–wait. Some kind of politician from DC. Sorry. I normally book bands, not suits. That’s a different division.”

  Hoo boy.

  “I just wanted to confirm the date and time tomorrow. He’s not a sen—”

  Click.

  She hung up on me.

  Raul gives me a strange look. “What the heck was that?”

  I stare at the phone like it’s going to bite me. “Someone giving millennials a bad name.”

  “How is that any different from being a millennial?”

  “We're millennials, Raul,” I point out.

  The phone rings again.

  This caller could not be more the opposite of the last one. Before I can say a word, she jumps in with:

  “Hello. This is Janice Contell, with Congressman Ouemann's office. The congressman represents your district and he's co-sponsoring a fair-trade bill for coffee, in an effort to promote–”

  “I know who Ouemann is and I know what fair trade means. What can Beanerino do? Carry the coffee? Help hand out brochures? We're active in the community and internationally,” I inform her.

  Her tone changes instantly, the pivot smooth and professional. “Excellent. You obviously care about the cause.”

  “I care so much, I've been arrested and detained for it.”

  I can practically hear her lean in. “And you are... ?”

  “Perky. My name is Perky.”

  “Great name for someone in coffee.”

  “It helps.”

  We laugh together. Political staffers are like this. I should know. Parker was one of them. He didn't work for Congressman O'Rollins while we were together, but Janice is cut from the same cloth. Smooth, charming, and sharp as can be.

  Which I admire in anyone other than a guy who screws me over.

  “The congressman would like to use your coffee shop for a press conference.”

  “Oh?” This is a new one. Thiago is going to puff up like a popover when he hears this.

  “Yes. We knew Beanerino was more than just a local place to get your four-dollar shot of caffeine. And now you've confirmed it. Congressman Ouemann is preparing to announce he's co-sponsoring a bill, and would like to root it in the community. Can we use the store tomorrow, from ten to eleven? About fifteen camera crews will be there, regional press, probably a few reporters from the big papers. It'll be chaos for a couple of hours, and there's no fee, but it will give Beanerino national spotlight exposure it wouldn't otherwise get. Bring in lots of new foot traffic, too.”

  “Yes, of course!” I know I have tacit permission from my boss. Maybe this will make up for the Bluetooth-porn-speaker incident last year, the one where I accidentally made Mallory blast the audio of a Beastman porn video throughout the coffee shop. Thiago had to give ten customers free coffee for a year to make up for it, and I'm pretty sure a certain customer's four-year-old gets free hot cocoa for life.

  This could get me out of the doghouse.

  Maybe.

  “Should I speak with the owner directly? Or are you the booking agent?”

  “I am.” I give her my contact info. Within seconds, an email notification appears on my cellphone.

  See? Political staffers get shit done. Immediately.

  Like Parker climbing into bed with me back in the day, my first orgasm over before my panties were off.

  Or what happened yesterday in that coat closet...

  I cough, realizing that's not where my mind should be during this conversation. Why the hell am I thinking about orgasms with Parker while organizing this fabulous coffee-news opportunity?

  “Excellent, Perky. See you tomorrow at nine. The congressmen both appreciate this.”

  Click.

  I get off the phone and look over to find Raul staring at me, one eyebrow up as he wipes down the counter.

  “Who,” he asks, “was that?”

  “Congressman Ouemann’s office.”

  The sound of Raul's laughter is rich and full. “Ha ha. Very funny. What's the band really called? Because that’s a terrible name.”

  “No. I mean it.” Excitement gets the better of me. “That was a staffer from his office. He wants to do a press conference here, tomorrow, at ten.”

  “No kidding?”

  “I'm completely serious.” I pull up the email from Janice on my phone and forward it to the Beanerino business email. Raul's phone pings.

  “Look at your email.”

  He reaches into his counter apron, a copper-color canvas that sets off his eyes, which bug out as he reads Janice's email.

  “Holy shit!” Raul rarely cusses. “Papá is going to lose his mind!” Craning his neck, he gives me an evaluative look. “You did this?”

  “I, uh...” It would be so easy to take credit, right? “She cold called. Said she heard we were more than just a place to grab a cup of joe.”

  “We are.” A true smile, one I don't get often, flashes my way. “But don't be modest. I know how much marketing you do in the region. The open mic nights have become a huge hit and we're getting a ton of new customers. And your advocacy work for fair trade and literacy in Central American coffee plantations plants the seeds for these kinds of calls.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It more than makes up for what a crappy employee you are.”

  “HEY!”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “How am I a crappy employee?”

  “Mal? How big a tub of popcorn do we need for this conversation?” Fiona whispers as they settle in, Fiona propping her feet on a chair, both watching with the eager eyes of friends who love seeing me in trouble.

  “One: You're late for every shift.” Raul actually flattens his left palm, fingers splayed, and starts ticking off h
is answers.

  “But I stay over if needed!”

  He ignores me. “Two: You make sexually inappropriate comments all the time.”

  “I promised your dad I'd stop.”

  “Only after he made you take online training.”

  I start to protest, but he cuts me off.

  “Three: You never refill the cream and sugar station without a customer pointing it out.”

  Mallory smirks at me before I can answer.

  The giant silver ring on Raul's fourth finger glitters in the sunlight, like it's detonating. “Four: You parked in my parking spot three times last week.”

  “It's not marked!”

  “It says Manager.”

  “I am a manager!”

  “You are not.”

  “Well, I should be!”

  “Five,” he says, voice dropping. Oh, no. I know what's next.

  Mal and Fi snicker.

  “You played pornography over the sound system in the coffee shop. With customers here.”

  “It was an accident!”

  “A porn star named Beastman went ass to mouth over our speakers.” He frowns at the one in the right corner, as if it were an errant child. “Papá made me go back to canned radio in the store. Now I have to listen to Coldplay at least once a day.”

  Fiona makes a sound of mourning. “Oh, Perky. I had no idea. You're downright abusive to poor Raul here.”

  “And Raul is running out of fingers,” Mal adds.

  He opens his second hand. “Six–”

  “Okay! Okay! Got it! I'm the worst employee ever. But I got Congressman Ouemann's office to do a press conference here.”

  His eyes narrow. “I thought you said it was a cold call.”

  My turn to ignore.

  “This is going to make Beanerino a madhouse,” I chirp, giving him a grin that I hope erases the last three minutes of conversation.

  He sighs. “Papá will want to handle everything from here. You know how much he likes this.” Raul gives me a look I know. “We'll take over. Just be here tomorrow before they come. Nine a.m. sharp.”

  “Of course.” I know Thiago will fall apart at the last second, so I'll come and pick up the pieces.

  And pull the best shots of the whole crew.

  He starts tapping on his phone. “We need every barista on hand tomorrow. Start calling everyone in tonight. The store needs to be spotless. I'll make a list of extra supplies we'll need. And if we can get the deliveries increased in time, we'll...”