The Dark Roast

by Thomas Uriah Jarboe

  I can tell this hasn’t really computed fully in her mind. She looks around slowly, sending her eyes to the far corners of the store seeking something she believes should be there. A moment of indecision, then her hand drops her bulging bag-lady bag of whatever. It hits the ground with a loud thud.

  Jeb fires in, “Excuse me kind miss, the bathroom is around the corner and up the stairs on your left. Just take the escalator and all your pottie needs will be fulfilled.”

  I shoot Jeb a warning look to not spook her; we don’t want another catastrophe just yet. We haven’t finished cleaning up after the last.

  “I don’t take moving stairs...the Devil puts’em there...” she says. Schizophrenia is common among the homeless and that type of comment rolls over us without the impact it has on others. It does serve as a gauge to whether or not she’s dangerous and what sort of unpredictable behavior she could potentially exhibit.

  “Ma’am. The restroom is outside. You need to go through the door—”

  My sentence is stopped by her sudden crazed look. She snaps her head up and looks at me with eyes that truly scare me. Animal. Crazy. Dangerous. My own rationality recognizes her lack of sanity and knows her to be extremely volatile.

  “Jeb, call security. I think she’s about to flip her lid on us man.”

  Jeb senses the feeling as well and picks up the phone.

  “But I need it!” she almost screams.

  I’m frozen with shock as I watch her do the most disturbing thing I’ve seen done in my store.

  She kicks out wildly, sending her bag across the store. Her body quivers, causing rolls of fat to undulate in a strangely hypnotic way. She’s wearing a poncho over her ragged sweats and she sheds it with the quickness you’d expect from an Olympic track star. Her grimy meaty hands fly as they fiddle with the rope that holds up her sweatpants. I know that I should do something, but the spectacle unfolding before me is so beyond imagining, that I can but only watch.

  Jeb has gone silent while still holding the phone to his ear. The troll begins to dance about, gyrating grossly until her sweatpants fall down to her ankles. The sight of her naked below the waist is truly horrible and you want to avert your eyes but you can’t. Its compelling power of horror doesn’t just surpass that of a train wreck, it fucking obliterates it.

  The door opens and a couple of young corporate workers enter. Conversation and movement is stopped when their eyes soak up what’s happening in front of the pastry case.

  The troll turns her back to us and squats awkwardly in front of the case and proceeds to piss, right there. On the floor. The sound of it would be unsettling enough, but the sight of this dirty bag lady urinating on the floor sets the mind reeling with utter disbelief.

  I’m still immobilized as I cannot help but stare while she releases her bladder all over the lobby floor. The smell is overpowering and it rocks both Jeb and me out of our shocked stupor. Seeing and hearing something of this nature is horrible, but when the stench finds its way to your nose, the impact puts your body into reflexive movements designed to distance yourself from such a pungent odor.

  Smell is that sense that takes the environment straight to the brain, pulling particles through the air from breathing. It’s the only sense where the sensory organ sends its input directly to the spot in the brain where it’s processed. No need to make the mental circuit, direct route, a straight shot. These facts bring about supreme revulsion knowing that actual particles of this bum’s urine are invading my body.

  My arms flail about as I stumble backward, putting as much distance between myself and the deluge as possible. Jeb cries, “Oh God! Jason! Do something man!”

  With a look of incredulity I reply, “And just what would you have me do Jeb? Huh! Should I ask if she would like some napkins to go with that puddle of piss?!?!”

  The mention of paper must’ve triggered her next move. The sound of heels and wingtips scrambling away in a hurry fills the air as the troll duck-walks her way over to the benches along the west wall. My mind makes the leap of insensible logic to the next act, but again I’m incapable of preventing it. With piss still dripping down her legs the troll sits down on the bench and starts to scoot back and forth, side to side, using the cushion of the bench like some giant roll of Charmin.

  The door bangs open again as Kisha steps in, back from her break, “Whoa! It smells like—” The sight of the half naked bag lady pulling her pants back up interrupts her. Kisha takes in the scene and I watch as a multitude of emotions rip across her face from dismay to disgust to downright angry. Too much. Too much. Kisha hasn’t been with us here for very long and today was one of those special days racked with incidents of increasingly disturbing scope she hadn’t witnessed thus far. The impact of these combined moments of insanity has cracked her own sanity and I watch the rage build in her face from it. Her anger grows exponentially each second and finally her mind locks down in decisive fury.

  The lady bum has put herself back together and is walking calmly toward the door as if nothing of import has just happened. Kisha steps forward and points her finger at the lady bum, “Just where the hell do you think you’re goin’! What the hell is wrong with you! You think you can just pee wherever you like! Does the floor look like your own personal toilet?!”

  The lady bum looks very much like a dog that doesn’t understand what you’re saying but senses from your tone that you’re not happy. She tries to sidestep Kisha, but Kisha swiftly blocks her from the exit.

  “Who do you think is gonna clean that piss up! If you think I’m gonna do it, you better think again!”

  “Kisha. I’m pretty sure you’re talking to a brick wall right now. You should probably just—”

  She whips her head around at Jeb and interrupts with, “You should shut your mouth Jeb!”

  Kisha looks back at the lady bum, “Sit down!”

  No response from the lady bum.

  “I SAID SIT DOWN!!! NOW!!!”

  That had an effect.

  I decide it’s time to speak up and try to find some kind of passable solution when the lady bum pulls her things up tight around her chest, clenching her bag with increasing panic. I feel like a mute prophet when I see her tense up in the legs. She’s going to bolt. I know it.

  “Sit your ass down right this moment! You’re going to clean up your own mess”, says Kisha.

  The lady bum clearly has no intention of doing anything of the sort and she springs forward barreling her way through Kisha. The added weight of the bag on top of her already hefty 250 to 300 pounds knocks Kisha out flat. Her dreads help cushion her head as it snaps back and bounces off the tile. The lady bum is hardly slowed from the collision and her momentum builds up as she crashes through the door, causing it to smash against the wall loudly, and she’s out.

  Kisha looks around with a bewildered cast to her eyes. I think her dreads saved her from a nasty concussion. I have nothing smart or right to say at this severely uncomfortable moment of confusion so I say just that, “Good thing you have dreads Kisha, otherwise I might be driving you to urgent care right now.”

  Everyone pauses a moment to absorb that and Kisha looks at me with her mouth open with incredulity as Jeb bursts out laughing uncontrollably saying, “Not it! Not it! I’m not cleaning that shit! Take your pick but it’s not gonna be me. I don’t mop up piss you see. Don’t get paid enough boss. Your loss!”

  “Cute Jeb. Very cute, you want a cookie for your efforts?”

  Kisha’s wits return and she says, “Fuck you Jeb! You too Jason! I already said I’m not gonna do it. I don’t even care, I’m gonna go wash dishes.”

  “Stacy’s already doing them. You let her get away, you get to clean up after her I say,” replies Jeb.

  I get that prophetic feeling again and it settles uncomfortably in my stomach. No sense in delaying it any longer. Jeb and Kisha start bickering back and forth while I mentally steel myself for this most unpleasant of tasks.

  “Hey! Quiet down now!”

 
They stop bickering and continue their fight with narrowed eyes before looking at me.

  “I’ll do it. But I don’t want to hear either of you talk to me for the next three hours, you mutinous dogs,” I tell them.

  “Ahh thanks Jason. I knew you’d come through. I’d just like to say—”

  I interrupt Jeb, “What did I just say? I said I don’t want you to talk to me. I meant it. You say another word to me Jeb and I’ll make sure you never know what drink you’re supposed to make during the rush ever again. Now, kindly shut your hole, I’d appreciate it.”

  My own anger has risen and I’ll not be bothered. I hang my head with resignation and walk into the back to grab my needed materials for this project of nasty that lies ahead. Freedom is three hours away, three amazingly long hours away.

  Trophies Sporting Mullets

  You know the term organized chaos? High volume retail uses it when referring to massive shift change during busy hours of operation. Three people leaving and two people starting within a forty-five minute period of time and only me to connect the two shifts creates this frantic moment that stretches into an hour of stress. Of course, the schedule could be made to where this type of situation never need happen, but that would require someone of at least normal intelligence behind the wheel and the Cow is sadly lacking. Instead I must try to be the glue that binds and hope to facilitate this nasty transition with as few wrinkles as possible.

  Jeb is off first and this makes me happy since he mentally checked out hours ago and his physical presence has made my stomach sour. Kisha is burnt to a crisp and is as useful as a feather in a bullfight. Her loss will not be mourned. Stacy. Stacy is as fresh as she was when she first got here, if anything I’d say the abuse has left her more energized and this too has ground down my nerves. She leaves last and I say good riddance. One can take only so much optimism before snapping and deciding that maybe cutting her face off and wearing it, as a butt-mask, wouldn’t be such a horrible idea.

  Jeb, Kisha, and Stacy all need to close their cash drawers. The replacements are entering and it looks like I’m getting some rock stars. Elena and Liz enter stage left, assess the situation, and prepare to adapt to it. I wish I had them earlier, but at least I’ll get to tell them all about the day and the wonderful people who’ve crossed the threshold.

  “Hey Jason. So, another beautiful day in paradise right?” remarks Elena while she’s meandering her way through to the back. Elena is this half Chilean chica of immeasurable beauty. Almond shaped blue-grey eyes sit under carefully arched brows and look at you like a succubus ready to steal your soul.

  She has one of those bodies that you see in magazines and you think that if there was a God, he took special time to shape this creature. Her teeth sparkle with that game show host gleam and when she smiles at me, my heart flutters and my speech capabilities are as lost as Noah’s ark. Her hair shines under the lights the color of India ink and looks like strands of silk. The sway of her hips has a hypnotic effect on almost any male in her vicinity. Unfortunately, for me and many other men, she’d be more interested in my mother. Her beauty aside, she’s a rock star on bar and that’s what makes me the happiest whenever I see her stroll in. That and her satiric humor combined with a jaded outlook towards life make me feel like I’m not alone in this world.

  “Leticia! I’ve got your iced tall non-fat two-sugar latte on the bar! Have a great day!”

  “Can I get a, blended caramel?”

  “Do you want the caramel blended coffee or the cream-based alternative?”

  “Paradise indeed chica, paradise indeed.”

  Jeb rears his heinous pie. “So Elena. I was thinking that I’d come back by here later and if you’re lucky, we can kick it while you’re on your lunch.”

  “Triple grande mocha for...Jackie! Hey Jackie! That’s a fabulous hat you’re wearing!”

  “Thanks, is this extra hot?”

  “Ahh, poor sweet Jeb, if you were lucky. And I’m thinking...not so much,” Elena says with barely veiled contempt for the thing we know as Jeb.

  Liz saunters past and says, “Jeb would you give it up! The day she or any other respectable woman falls for your crap antics is the day when the sun rises in the south and polar bears become vegetarians.”

  “Ahh Liz, you’re just sad that my charms aren’t directed towards you. May there come a day when a man won’t want to vomit after seeing you,” Jeb replies with a weird little smirk plastered to his face.

  “Jeb, close your drawer and kindly leave. I’m the one whose about to puke.”

  “It sure is! Have a great day Jackie!”

  “Is there coffee in the cream one?”

  With half-lidded eyes he replies, “Sure thing Jason. And I think your nausea is being caused by the truth you see reflected in me. I’m what you wish you could be if only you weren’t brainwashed by the corporate machine.”

  “Do you actually listen to yourself?” pipes in Kisha.

  “No, there’s no coffee in the cream base. I’m about to leave, Jason over here will be delighted to finish your transaction.”

  “I do listen. I just wish you would. You hear the words I say, but you don’t actually listen to them. Or maybe you try and you just aren’t able to comprehend how deep they are,” says Jeb.

  “Hello. Is there something I can get started for you?”

  Kisha pulls her drawer out while I’m getting her twenty-dollar bills out of her lock box and says, “Jeb. Why don’t you come over to my place tonight? We’ll have a conversation and see just how deep I really am.”

  “Thanks for waiting. So, you wanted a caramel blended coffee right? The regular one has coffee in it and the cream is without.”

  “Does the cream have caffeine?”

  Jeb scrunches his face up and says, “Kisha my dear, my sweet, my buttercup, I would love to. But I have this thing about not dating people who’re more than twice my weight.”

  Stacy whips her head around dangerously fast and snaps at Jeb, “Hey! That’s not nice! Didn’t your mother raise you with any sort of manners at all mister?”

  “My mother is dead thank you very much.”

  Liz quips, “I’d kill myself too if I’d have given birth to a bum like you.”

  “No, the cream doesn’t have coffee in it, so there isn’t any caffeine in it.”

  “Come on guys. We have customers in line here and I’m sure they’re not interested in your petty grievances with each other. Stacy, finish those drinks then spin the lobby, Kisha go close your drawer and finish your argument with Jeb off the floor. Elena, slide to bar for Stacy when she’s done. Liz, assign on the right side and Jeb, shut it.”

  “You should join the military my friend. You’d love it. You could rise high enough to where you’d get to order people around that wouldn’t be smart enough to disregard you and your ‘authority’,” retorts Jeb.

  I finish with my customer and hand him his change with the proper corporate-sponsored farewells and tell Jeb, “You know I’d love to continue this oh-so-stimulating verbal sparring match with you, but since you’re leaving and I’ve got work to do I guess we’ll have to postpone it, c’est la vie.”

  “I’ve got a grande vanilla latte on the bar for Jessica! Thank you!”

  “Hello Stacy. How’s it been today?” asks Elena.

  Stacy beams her ultra positive smile and says, “Good! We’ve had a couple of minor incidents, you know, the usual.”

  “How’ya doin’, can I get a caramel latte extra hot with non-fat milk and two equals and a...a lemon loaf. Thanks.”

  “Stacy, I’d hate to see what you’d call a major incident.”

  Liz walks over to me and whispers in my ear, “I spy another trophy”, then laughs and goes on to help another customer.

  “Here’s your lemon loaf and your receipt, thank you!”

  I knew my mother would undoubtedly make her usual appearance, I’m just glad it’s towards the end of my shift. I hate it when she pops in when I’ve first gotten here.
To be honest, I wish she wouldn’t come in at all. But it’s rare when I don’t see her stroll through the door with her latest lesbian prize. The pleasure she derives from watching the constant struggle we baristas endure is simply sadistic. This is especially true when her son’s torment is what brings the biggest smile to her face. She’s slightly psychotic and more than a little cruel. She loves me, but it’s more like an afterthought than any true motherly love.

  My mother is also the connoisseur of butch women. She parades around my store with her newest lesbian trophy constantly. She seeks them out like a panther circling a herd of antelope. She regards her prey not so much as a lover but as a toy to play with, display and dispose. She gets a twinkle in her eye from the reactions of the people who see her latest catch. She has no shame coupled with undeniable ability to secure any and all brutish lesbians around. Mullets are pretty much an entry level standard. Any woman that can fill out the square shape of a sleeveless flannel shirt better than Al Borlon from Home Improvement is golden.

  “Hi baby! Workin’ hard or hardly workin’!” she says, just as she always does. Then she laughs as if she’s the first person to say it, again just as she always does.

  I suppress a sigh of exasperation. “Hello mother. How are you today,” I say, just like I always do.

  Walking along behind my mother and almost being dragged by her hand is the catch of the day. She’s forty-something, has a silver flattop, big round pudgy face and beady eyes that bespeak cunning and stupidity, a dangerous combination by the way. Her mouth was surely beat in with a sledgehammer, while her nose is hawkish and sharply shaped.

  My mother, at first glance looks like any other beautiful, successful businesswoman in her power suit and heels. Blond hair, cut to the same length just below the chin, eyes of an intense pale blue that make you think of a wolf’s and her painted red lips complete the picture. My mother looks maybe ten years older than I do. When other service industry people ask if she’s my older sister, they’re not trying to work a tip.