The Dark Roast
Volume One
Dedication
To coffee, what a wondrous drug.
Table of Contents
Doppio Dave Dances
Hello
White Trash Trysts
Mealtime in the Mall
Pottie Time
Trophies Sporting Mullets
Flowers, Flowers, Everywhere
Into the Lioness’s Den
No, It’s Mine
It Takes Two
Hog Shocker
Dirty Little Secrets
Dating Dilemmas
Pictures, a Thousand Words Please
Extra! Extra! Read All About It!
Busted Up and Feeling Good?
Please Pull Through
Don’t Go to Ecuador
E Street
Lackluster Lobster
This isn’t my drink.
Mother, May I?
A Shit Barcode
Into Thin Air
Rejecting Reality
Bitter Beans
A Nice Touch
Next
It’s Not Fair
Eenie Meenie Miney Mo
A Shitty Ending
Doppio Dave Dances
Doppio Dave approaches the counter with his plastered down bowl cut, jutting brows shading empty green eyes, teeth and gums mashing lips, hands pushed down hard in his trouser pockets and a green track-suit jacket zipped to the top. He pulls out one hand, leans his head to the left and unscrews his face while holding his finger up for that international sign “just a moment please”. He gains his composure and then looks at Kisha like any “normal” person you’ve ever met and kindly asks, “May I have a Doppio Espresso please?”
A look of uncertainty crosses Kisha’s face as she replies, “Sure thing sweetie. What’s your name?”
“Dave.”
Kisha smiles and says, “That’s $1.75 dear.”
Dave’s composure begins to slip and he quickly slides back to his normal state and awkwardly places $1.75 on the counter. Stepping back, he pulls his other hand out of his pocket. He extends his arm out, quivering like he’s holding an enormous weight. His face contorts into a look of worry, teeth biting into his lip, beady eyes darting back and forth. What follows can only fully be experienced by hearing the sound it makes.
He slams his hand into his head with the kind of strength reserved for only giants and retards. The impact is stunning to see. The first time you see it, you need to see it again to believe it. Every time after is just as mind-blowing. His entire head and neck become bright red right as he braces his dome for the onslaught. The sound rivals that of a gunshot. Flinching is unavoidable. Customers are halfway to duck-and-cover before they realize what is happening.
Immediately after the amazing blow, there is a rapid succession of softer blows he rains down on the topside of his head. All the while he repeats the words “Doppio Dave” in a dopey voice. Next he waltzes over to the door, customers giving way as if before Moses, and gently touches it with his index finger.
I lean in close and say, “You see Kisha, if you don’t get him his Doppio by the time he’s done with that door, you can fully expect this exact scenario to reoccur over and over again until he does get his Doppio.”
He has days where he will cruise on in for six of these, each time performing the entire sequence over and over again. The customers react like spooked cattle every time.
“Oh my goddess. What’s wrong with him? How can he do that to himself? Should we ask him to leave?” asks Kisha.
I laugh as I walk toward the back with my coffee and reply, “No, we’ve tried that before. It doesn’t work and in the end you’ll have a frothing crazed super strong mentally-challenged person and four or five cops attempting to restrain him. It’s easier to just put up with it once and get him his Doppio. Look, here he comes.”
And I walk on back to the backroom sipping my go-go juice to the sounds of the grind.
“Doppio Espresso for Dave!”
“How can I fulfill your needs?”
“Does mocha have sugar in it?”
“Quad tall almond mocha for Lance! Have a terrific day Lance!”
“Can I get that non-fat?”
Hello
My name is Jason. I work for the largest corporate coffee chain in the world. I’m your smiling, friendly, cheery-eyed barista making triple grande two-pump hazelnut non-fat no-foam 180° high-maintenance lattes for more than half the working force of America. Real estate agents in ill-fitting suits march alongside doctors holding keys to Mercedes, sneering at dentists with toothy grins for secretaries in high heels who smile insincerely at business executives that cheat on wives who push their strollers in through the doors of my store. I interact with over 200 different people each day, five days a week. I know a third of these people’s names and their favorite unique coffee beverage.
I know how many kids they have, what they do for a living, what their favorite TV show is and the basic moral belief system that motivates them. I’ve worked in eight different stores among a variety of environments. I can walk down the street and pick out people in the crowd by what they drink in my stores.
Coffee is good. A great many people love coffee. Some people simply cannot start their day without their special handcrafted cup o’ Joe. I know. I’ve seen you.
Walking to work today, my mind ruminated on what the day would hold for me. I had a good idea of how it would progress from start to finish. The stress levels reached are familiar friends. The hectic speed and chaotic crowd seem essential. The masses await me as their slave/savior. I have what they need: caffeine and the ability to dress it up with whip-cream and a stylish jacket made of cardboard. I have control over their need and am, in turn, completely controlled by it.
I must smile and be cheery. I must exude a sense of warmth and well-being, even to those who are rude and demanding. I'm to be accommodating and knowledgeable, without being condescending or exhibiting “baristatude”. Though some come searching for confrontation, I must turn the other cheek. For many, we are an acceptable outlet for their pent up aggression. A punching bag, a receptacle for the self-loathing angst they’ve built up from their frustrating lives. The symbol I wear to alert all of this fact is a green apron.
Walking in through the doors, I glanced around and took note of who was working. I spied Kisha, Jeb, and Stacy on my way to the back and my stomach sunk as my expectations were fulfilled. It left me wondering if my cynicism has any correlation to the shit droppings fate rains upon me or if maybe fate has fallen asleep on the job and regardless of any petty human emotion I can muster, the world is just going to shit. Whichever it may be, it hardly matters now because I just saw the Cow as I turned the corner into the back room.
I’m not even sure how I can still be rocked by the initial feeling of doom I get when first seeing her. She works five days a week. Well, maybe work is the wrong word to use in her case. It’s more like she’s going to sit on her ass in the back and distract the staff with her weird theories while drinking as much free coffee and eating as many pastries as she likes. We usually stand in line to order our drinks before the start of our shifts. The Cow however, waits until a task brings a barista into the back where she will then ambush them, asking them to quickly make a drink, grab a pastry and deliver to her desk where she hardly ever leaves. This is her motivation in speaking to me when she notices me walk into the back.
“Hey there Jason! How are you? Listen, could you go grab me a peppermint mocha and a cinnamon roll?”
My mind has a multitude of things it wishes to express at this request, but I tell her simply, “I’m not on the clock yet. Get it yourself.”
My needs come first Cow, and I’m definitel
y going to need a cigarette before I begin the pain-filled day of meeting other people’s needs.
Her mouth opens in disbelief and her three chins smash down together to form the perfect image of gluttony. “What is your problem mister?” I hear her ask petulantly through the bathroom door as I put my stuff away. On the way out I shake my head, grab my smokes and make for the exit. I’ve got six minutes before I start. Time is precious at the moment because when those six minutes are up, I’m no longer a free man.
Outside by the magazine rack I light up a cigarette. My store is located within the confines of an elaborate community known as the urban mall. Here in this structure are hundreds of people milling about spending money on things cleverly packaged and presented to them as a commodity they simply can’t exist without. Consumers are like packs of wild dogs or pools infested with sharks; they can be dangerous if you get in their way. They have needs and time limits and specifications for their tailor made lives. Those of us who work in the mall eventually form an ‘us versus them’ mentality.
Once mall employees become acquainted with one another, relationships are formed, boundaries drawn and levels of acceptable human behavior are established. The mall is the single best place to find anything you need. By being an employee of the place you are then shown what I like to refer to as the black market stalls of the mall.
Aimlessly looking about, I spy the chick at the flower stand. For those that like flowery herb, she’s got some of the prettiest purple hair chronic you can find. She sells her little flowers to over fifty percent of the mall employees. The other half get theirs from the watch buckle kiosk and when the season’s out, the cleaning crew of illegal Mexicans can always help a pothead out.
She waves over at me and smiles. She’s always nice when she sees me, which makes me suspicious. She’s probably one of those girls with the notion that beauty equals free shit, which unfortunately is often the case. To her, her smile has value. And maybe she thinks when she smiles at me, she’s given me something to which in exchange is worth a free cup of coffee. What she doesn’t realize is that as soon as I give her one free cup, she’ll be back the next day to try it again. And the day after that and the day after that.
Eventually she will come to need the coffee and if I’m not there she’ll try to whore her smile to another male barista until the day she comes in and there’s only female baristas working. They do not like girls smiling at their male co-workers. This will lead to hostilities and drama that can be quite trying. Or maybe my mind is on a slippery slope. Who can say? So I merely smile back and look away continuing to smoke.
“Hey there sir! Sir. Sir. Do you have...do you have a cigarette!” shouts a bum that’s stumbled up close to me. He looks as if he’s been wandering the streets for twenty years. His nappy black and grey eight-inch beard has a collection of oddities including cigarette butts and bits of paper. His odor has a physical presence.
“No. Go away,” I reply and look off in the other direction.
“What! Mother Fucker...you think...hey! Gimme a cigarette!”
His sense of entitlement eclipses reason, believing I should comply with his request simply because he asked.
Stepping away from his haphazard approach I spy Chris the security guard standing by the hot dog cart. “Hey Chris! Come take care of this stupid fucking bum!”
The bum looks at me and scrunches up his face and yells, “You wanna get sprayed!” Oh yes, please, please do so immediately. I simply cannot start my day without bum spittle dripping from my chin.
He spits on the ground and I see Chris walking up, drawing his baton. Chris stands at around five feet and three inches. He’s a little tough guy that looks like a Marshall Mathers replica. The seriousness that he puts into his job is comical. His gear is the same high-priced stuff that outfits the cops. His shades were bought from the kid’s section in Macy’s because they were the only aviators that wouldn’t fall off his face. Loudly chomping his Trident he asks, “Are we having an altercation out here?”
The bum shuffles awkwardly to face Chris. His arms spread out, long grimy fingers splayed out wide, he screams with his back arched drunkenly, “You! You think...you think you the police! I was in Vietnam motherfucker! I’ll show you what authority looks like you son of a bitch!” screams the bum.
I glance at my watch. I have another two minutes until go time. This should last another few moments and be quite good.
“You need to lower your voice and calm down sir or I will be forced to escort you off the property and call the police,” Chris says with all the sternness he can muster, readying his stance.
The bum dashes quickly at Chris, shoving him and stepping left then right before he loses his balance and falls forward, face-planting onto one of the magazine racks, taking the whole thing down with him. Chris gets all Miami Vice and rolls from the shove and then darts forward and places his baton down on the back of the bum’s head and yanks back the bum’s left arm and pins it with his knee. Out come the cuffs and one, two, three the bum is shackled with a puffing Chris adjusting his belt and looking satisfied. I know he’s standing there imagining he’s a police officer on the T.V. show COPS after subduing the bum. I have to admit however that it was done pretty fast and efficiently.
And I now have thirty seconds until the abuse starts. I sidestep the latest conversation piece and roll on in.
White Trash Trysts
“Grande breve no whip mocha for Julie!”
“Do you have soy milk?”
“That’ll be $3.75.”
“You’re out of half & half over here.”
“Absolutely.”
“Can I get one of those cardboard thingies?”
She looks back up at the menu for the seventh time. And for the seventh time, I cannot help but stare up the deep caverns that are her nostrils. The face we make when we glance heavenward isn’t pretty, especially in her case. “Okay. So. Can I get it sugar-free?”
Continuing to stare, I reply, “Of course.”
“Miss I told that young man I did not want whipped cream.”
“No problem Ma’am, I’ll be happy to take it off for you.”
“I CAN HELP THE NEXT CUSTOMER OVER HERE!”
Again with the staring up at the menu boards, “Well...can I get it cold?”
Glancing over at Stacy dealing with an irritable elderly customer, I assure her nostrils that she can most definitely get it cold. She returns to her comfort zone—the menu boards three feet above us—completely oblivious to how long she’s been holding up the line. Other patrons are emitting sighs here and there. I get a feeling in the pit of my stomach I imagine people running in Pamplona must get right before they release the bulls.
“I do not want you to take it off. I want a NEW one.”
“Okay dear. I’m sorry. It’ll take me just a moment.”
“Alright, I’ll get the latte. With vanilla. Make sure it’s sugar-free. And soy. You got the soy right?” she asks.
“I sure did. Sugar-free vanilla soy latte. What size did you want?”
“Oh, I’m not sure,” she says.
I can never understand how someone can want something so specified and complicated yet be completely in question as to how much of it they want, when it is the simplest part of the whole thing.
She visits her comfort zone once more and asks, “How big is the grande?”
“Yeah, can I get uh, one of those chocolate things?”
“Um, yeah. Are you asking for a mocha that comes with espresso?”
“I can’t believe she put whipped cream on it Fran, I tell you...”
I pull a grande off the stack and show it to her.
“Okay,” she says.
“Great, so just to make sure: grande sugar-free vanilla soy latte. Correct?” I ask more sweetly than I truly feel.
“No.”
“No? No what?”
She huffs and says, “I want a tall, cold. And I want extra whip cream.”
“Double tall cap
puccino on the bar! Thank you so much Graham! See you tomorrow!”
“Your total comes to $6.95.”
$6.95! That’s highway robbery!”
Putting the grande cup back, I grab the tall iced cup instead and merrily write her drink on the cup. I yell, “Stacy! Incoming!” and throw the cup to her. She catches it and places it onto the bar. “Your total is $3.25.”
She plops her purse down on the counter with a loud thud and I swear that if I tried hard enough I could fit four bowling balls inside the thing. The guy behind her in line is starting to crack a little and sighs loud enough for her to hear. She turns to him and says quite nastily, “Get over it.”
“Hey Cheryl! How’ya doing!”
“Uh, miss...can you put extra whipped cream on those chocolate drinks there please?”
“Sure thing sweetheart.”
“I’m good! How are you? Triple grande non-fat latte. And make sure it is extra hot dear.”
She continues digging in the giant bag, searching for her Coffee Card, that magic ticket to coffee delight. The man behind her is starting to breathe loudly through his nose at a rapid pace, clearly displaying his annoyance with her antics. His eyes seek mine with an angry plea. Looking down the line I see tension spreading, quicker than the plague. Soon the air itself will get nasty.
“Hello to you.”
“Yeah, Hi. I need a medium coffee and—are you out of blueberry muffins already man?”
“Sure thing Cheryl! How’s the P.T.A. campaign going?”
I know that if this woman doesn’t hurry up and find some method of payment, people are going to frenzy into some seriously pissed off over-worked customers. I look past the bent down head of the snail lady and quietly ask the irritated man, “What can I get for you?”
Somewhat placated but still annoyed he replies, “Small coffee, that’s all I want.”
“No problem. Do you want space for cream?”
He shakes his head in the firm negative and I turn around and speedily pour his cup of coffee while maintaining my attention to the snail still digging around in her enormous bag. The line tension is becoming more and more palpable as I notice Jeb with a stalled customer inquiring about blueberry muffins.
The Dark Roast Page 1