It Takes Two
Four blenders chopping ice and mixing sugar, milk, and coffee into delicious beverages accompanies the grinding of beans and the driving of pistons pushing high pressure brewed espresso into little shot glasses. Five fellow coffee-slingers bedecked in matching green aprons chatter back and forth, calling orders, requesting items and giving warnings of close proximity.
Men in suits scroll through Blackberry’s and talk simultaneously to Baristas and little Bluetooth headsets, ordering coffee and sweets and yesterday’s financial reports. Little old ladies gather in groups and cavort about, clad in purple from head to toe with a variety of matching red hats. Teenage mall rats dressed in favorite band t-shirts and pants bedecked with chains and straps mill around discussing who’s cool and who’s not. Housewives down in the city on a PTA shopping spree cluck like chickens over the behavior of kids, teachers and cheating husbands. Young couples in matching sweaters and pleated pants from the GAP whisper together with heads bent towards each other. Boys no older than sixteen or seventeen strut around proudly displaying their sexuality in a brave new world of “tolerance” beaming happiness and gaiety for all to see and dare to confront. A quiet morose looking girl in glasses and mousey brown hair stands apprehensively in the middle of the line trying not to get close to those on either side of her. Many different kinds of people are finding themselves here for the shared pleasure of a good cup o‘Joe.
“Grande latte for Steve! Thank you!”
“Yeah, hi, can I get a cup of black with a couple of honeys?”
I look over to Elena standing next to me on the bar. We’re double barring through this morning rush and I wish there were more excuses to be this close to each other. The close quarters of the bar and the hectic speed of the rush create a little island with just us in residence in the midst of chaos. This is a rare time when I actually like working in a coffee shop.
Elena and I have worked the bar together enough times to have established a silent rapport that lets us discuss little niceties and share private jokes while our hands blur to the task of whipping out sweet tasting coffee beverages by the tens and twenties. It’s become second nature. Stress is less when you’re paired with the embodiment of competency.
“Tall hot chocolate for Mary! Iced grande non-fat no whip mocha for Sue!”
“These three are non-fat. Do you ever feel like you’re in that movie Groundhog’s Day?”
“I’ve got two tall caramel machiattos for Cindy!”
“Yeah how many honeys would you like?”
Elena pulls her hands back from the shots and glances over at me with her beautiful blue-grey eyes, hands me a milk pitcher and says, “Can you rinse this. Are you kidding me? Only every day!” The sound of her little burst of laughter twists the corners of my mouth into a smile.
“Jason, we’ve got an order for a 5 gallon cambro in thirty minutes and I still need to take a ten,” says Liz.
“Do you have any English muffins?”
“Sorry we don’t carry those, can I interest you in a butter croissant instead?”
I look at the schedule for today and it tells me I have the Little Princess Barista starting in about five minutes. Liz is the shift supervisor on duty but she’s only been a shift for a few weeks so when the rush hits she usually defers to me to get us through the madness. She’s calling the line for drink orders. Kisha is manning the register and Duncan is handling the pastry orders and the brewed coffee. “Alright Liz, here’s what we’ll do. When the Princess gets in, have her slide for Duncan. She should be able to handle food and brewed. Have Duncan fill the cambro and I’ll call the line while you’re on your ten. Sound like a plan?”
Liz nods emphatically and says, “Sounds great Jason. Thanks for always helping me. I’ll get this down soon, I promise.”
“I guess. Wait, I’ll get a cheese danish instead.”
“Rebecca! I have your tall ½ caff 2 pump peppermint 3 pump mocha non-fat no whip with foam peppermint mocha on the bar!”
“Did you get the non-fat?”
“Sure did sweetie. You give that a taste and let me know if you like it.”
Removing a sharpie from my apron I tell Liz, “Don’t worry about it chica. I remember what it’s like being new at this.”
Loathing that I have to sever my double-barring Elena-connection, I move over by the registers and call out to the next customer in line, “Hello there!”
“Mocha.”
My eyebrow raises a little as my sassy self likewise rises up and says, “Popcorn.”
Mocha-as-my-greeting Lady looks at me cockeyed with her mouth crookedly open to the side, clearly perplexed by my response. “I’m sorry, I thought we were just throwing random words out there,” I say smiling.
Elena turns to dump out a pitcher behind me and says into my ear as she’s doing so, “Remember that it takes two to tango Jason.”
Mocha Lady scowls and says, “What’s random about a Mocha? I’m in a coffee shop aren’t I?”
I glance at Elena who is looking at me with those knowing eyes and turn back and decide to let it go, “Sorry, you want a Mocha then?”
“That’s what I said,” she replies snidely.
“Cool. What size and do you want that hot or iced?”
“Tall, non-fat with no whip. Hot.”
“And can I get your name?”
“Beatrice.”
Putting on a big cheesy smile, I dismissively respond, “Right on Beatrice. Kisha will ring you right up. Have a beautiful day Beatrice.”
I move over to the bar and start pumping Beatrice’s bittersweet mocha when Elena’s hand pleasantly lands on my shoulder as she says softly, “You know you bring it on yourself, right?”
“Is it that difficult to respond to ‘Hello’ with a similar greeting?” I ask in rebuttal.
Elena hands out a caramel blended coffee and sweetly thanks the little kid that ordered it. “Is it that difficult to not let it get under your skin?”
Feeling a little under attack I respond, “I’d hardly say that I let her get under my skin. I was trying to be fun with it and just a little sassy.”
“Yeah, well I’m just saying those are the very kind of situations that I see you get into. And the end of them is usually the same, you pissed off and maybe having another customer call in to complain.”
“What the fuck Elena? You get promoted to manager without anybody getting a memo? Anything else you want to critique me about?”
I’ve run my mouth a little too far, again. Elena looks at me with an expression of disbelief which turns into one of more than slightly ticked off. I almost feel the wall she throws up as she says, “Sorry for trying to help, won’t happen again.”
Great, now I’m nursing an unwanted anger. I should battle it down and apologize, but as good as I was feeling earlier my anger feels better. It’s always been there. It’s familiar. It’s comfortable. It’s reliable. It may take two to tango, but it only takes me to push people away.
Hog Shocker
“You better keep a good eye on that kid Jason. You know those ginger kids are crazy.”
Throwing a questionable expression towards Jeb, I reply, “Ginger kids, huh. What exactly do you mean by that Jeb?”
“Grande vanilla latte with whip cream for Janice! Thank you!”
Moving aside bangs perpetually falling in his face, Jeb answers, “Rage man, pure and simple. Those damn ginger kids are chock full of it. Think about it, you’d be pissed off too if every time you took your pale ass out in the sun you got a sun-burn. No girl wants to snuggle up with all that weird red hair. And fire-crotch smells bad. So they spend all their days becoming more pissed. Each day is a new day of torture by sun and rejection by the ladies. It is completely understandable why people burned them at the stake as witches back in the day. Can’t be trusted, I’m telling you man.”
“Give me a tall white mocha. Hold the whip.”
“Janice! You’re drink is ready! Thank you!”
“Th
at’ll be $4.25 sir.”
I laugh at his absurdity. As for the “ginger kid”, I have yet to meet him. He transferred from another store and yesterday was his first day. Jeb had the pleasure, or displeasure from his point of view, of meeting him after I had already left.
The funny thing about Jeb is, even though I detest him to the marrow of my bones, he has an uncanny ability to accurately assess a person’s character within the first few minutes of meeting them. I pray this is one of those rare moments where he is wrong. Regardless, it’s time for my break and I cannot think of anything more at this point than a well-deserved iced vanilla chai paired with a cigarette. I grab a rag and wind my way through the patrons amassing in my store’s lobby and spin the condiment bar.
“Is that my latte?”
“Are you Janice?”
“Yes.”
“Yep, that’s your grande vanilla latte with whip cream. Have a good day.”
“Did you put whip cream on it?”
A few eyes track my movements as I finish with the condiment bar. I swear this job has given me a second, maybe even a third set of eyes. Or maybe my skin has developed extra sensory perception.
Walking into the back, I deposit a couple of spent milk carafes into the sink and try to evade the Cow, which is like seeking escape from the sun in the open desert.
“Hey Jaaaason, are you going on your break?” asks her four swinging chins.
“Yes.”
Her beady eyes look to be calculating as she asks, “Wanna do me a favor?”
“What do you think?”
“That is exactly the kind of behavior that isn’t needed here buddy,” she says a little huffily.
My eyes turn to the unwanted task of focusing on her grotesque face. Sometimes a stare can say so much more than words.
“Don’t look at me like that Jason.”
“Don’t ask me for favors Sarah. I’m going on my break. I’ll be back in ten.”
The cow swivels her body and chair to fully face me and says, “Hey, I didn’t get to ask you my favor!”
“I know.” Grabbing my smokes off the shelf, I head out fast enough to ensure she won’t be able to get her fat ass out of the chair. All that follows me is the useless prattle that always comes out of her mouth.
“Liz! How ARE you dear!”
“Iced grande non-fat two splenda no whip extra ice white mocha for...Bev! Thank you!”
“Hey Patricia! I’m good, you’re usual hun?”
“Pardon me Jeb, just getting my chai.”
Jeb moves over and replies, “You know, the combination of black tea and dairy is a huge contributor to kidney stones.”
I quickly pump out my future stones and say, “Thank god for modern medicine.”
“You know it dear! OH MY GOD! I have to tell you what happened to me today in the parking lot!”
“Do tell.”
“Tall brewed coffee for Alex! Thanks for waiting!”
Jeb pipes back in with, “I wouldn’t put my faith in modern medicine. You know pharmaceutical companies are withholding many cures for disease so they can keep raking in the dough.”
“You don’t say.”
“You shouldn’t disregard the wisdom I impart to you my friend.”
I look at Jeb askance and say, “Friend?” and weave my way on out to the glorious outside world free from Jeb, customers, and the Cow.
Out by the newsstand there’s the usual hustle and bustle of the city meandering its way through the pedestrian highways and byways of the mall. People in suits echo by with the click and clack of high heels and wingtips while the gutter punks spit their disdain on the cement stairs. Chris the mini-cop keeps a watchful eye on the bums panhandling by the rack of Playboy. At the end of the stand where I usually post up on my breaks stands a “ginger-kid” dressed in black Dickies, a black knitted polo with a tell-tale folded up green apron popping out of his back pocket.
As a general rule of thumb, I avoid fellow baristas like the plague when outside the shop. But this whole ginger kid theory has gotten the best of my curiosity, so I step outside of my normalcy and next to the ginger kid holding a monster truck magazine. “Hello. You must be Creighton.”
His gaze takes me in. His eyes have the barest hint of blue for a color. They’re surrounded by a fiery wreath of lashes, giving him a definite demonic demeanor and suddenly I find myself reevaluating Jeb’s judgment. “Sure am, you must be one of my new work buddies. What’s your name?”
Taking his extended hand in an enthusiastic hand shake I reply, “Jason. So, where are you from Creighton?”
Retracting his heavily callused hand he tells me in a thick Midwestern accent, “Oh, I’m out here from Arkansas to check out the big city.”
Laughing a little I say, “I’d hardly consider this the ‘big city’.”
“Well coming from a town of 60 people, it sure seems pretty big to me.”
“Sixty! Wow, that is tiny. You must know every person in the town, huh?”
Creighton puts the magazine back on the rack and says, “You know it. I didn’t actually live in town though. My family has a nice little farm ‘bout 12 miles outside of town, but yeah, everyone knows what color your shit is before you do.”
Reigning in more laughter I ask, “So, what’s the farm life like? I’ve never been outside of the city.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a can of Skoal chewing tobacco and launches into a practiced storytelling rhythm. “Well, there ain’t a simple answer to your question. It’s a different way of life than the city kind of living, that’s for sure. Most people would tell you all about the sun up to sun down good ol’fashion hard work. The working the earth and raising livestock. Others might begin with the sense of family and community and the salt of the earth bullshit. Some might go on to tell you about the deep sense of religion we got or the family blood feuds that last for generations. Me, I like to think of the fun. I tell you what, we sure do have a good ol’time out there in the sticks. Here’s a little taste of what I’m getting at.”
I pull out another cigarette and lean against the newsstand, rapt with attention and immediately liking this ginger kid. He spits a pungent black liquid on the ground with an expert’s ease and launches into his tale.
“Alright, here we go. Now me and my cousin are known to be more than a little ornery at times. When we was about, oh, I’d say around 11 or 12 years old we’d often enough find ourselves with no more chores to do and several empty hours on our hands in the summers. Out on the back 30 acres of the farm we had a few hundred hogs in confinement. Now we keep the big ol' sows and their fresh litters in the confined section while the feeder pigs are left to roam freely outside. We call’em feeder pigs ‘cause they ain’t full grown hogs and they ain’t little piglets anymore either. We’re feeding them to fatten’em up to sell’em so you can enjoy a nice pork chop! So they only weigh about eighty-five to a hunerd pounds. You could say they was the adolescents of the pig world.
“Well right by this gate in the fence is a mud hole the size of a small swimming pool. Now, pigs love mud, let me tell ya. I mean they really love this shit man. Boy they’ll wallow around in it all day. You ever hear someone say they’re sweatin’ like a pig? It’s a funny little saying, seeing’s how pigs don’t sweat. They ain’t got sweat glands, so when the sun starts to cook’em, they cool down by wallowing around in the mud. Most wouldn’t think so, but them pigs are pretty damn smart, let me tell ya. Anyway, like I was sayin’, the mud hole is right up next to the gate in the fence and this gate is, oh, I’d say ‘bout six, seven feet high.
“My cousin Kevin and me would climb up on this here gate and wait. Like I said, pigs are pretty smart and these particular little fellows were wary of me and my cousin, and rightly so! So we’d have to hang out a bit up there on the gate, lettin’em get used to us being there and all. Eventually the sun gets to’em and they forget about us and get to getting down and dirty in that mud.
“You know what a hog sho
cker is? Alright, well, it’s this two and half foot long yellow forked pole with a gun-handle on it. When you pull the trigger, it sparks up there on the tips of the forked end and will shock a pig when you stick’em with it. Now don’t go feelin’ sorry for the pigs, it don’t hurt’em. All it does is give a little jolt to get’em to go in the right direction. Their hide is pretty thick. Heck, I’ve been shocked by my uncles with’em plenty of times and yeah it shocks the hell out of ya, but it don’t really hurt.
“Anyway, we’d each put one of these hog shockers down the backs of our shirts like they was swords strapped on our backs. Well, after them pigs get used to us being there and start gathering in numbers in the mud, we’d get started. What’d we do is get right up on the top rung of the gate. Once we were both steady and ready, we’d jump up high off that gate. When we’d reach the top of our jump we’d get horizontal and dive bomb these pigs. Oh man! I’m tellin’ you, you ain’t never seen such a sight! We’d come down on these pigs from well over ten feet, burying them deep in the mud! Slammin’ into them pigs and drivin’em deep on in the mud is the best part, but that ain’t the only part!
“We’d aim it so we’d land on’em chest first. You’d have to grab your ankles from behind your back to really get’em in that mud deep. The purpose of sinkin’em in the mud was to give you time to get a good full body grip on’em, cause these little feeder pigs are fast as all get-up!
“After you smash your pig, all hell breaks loose and the other thirty or so pigs book on outta there in a panic! Now, you’re lying on top of one freaked out little piggy! And they just start a thrashing around, trying to get their legs up underneath’em. While they’re doin’ this, you gotta wrap both your legs and your arms around’em real good, cause once they get up they gonna run like a black man with the clan after’em!
“They get to runnin’ right, and what you do is hang on for dear life. After a few moments, you’ll get situated on top of’em and at this point you pull out your hog shocker. These here pigs are gonna run right up along-side their brothers and sisters in hopes that they’ll be able to shake you off with a little help from their friends. So you got your shocker and you try and zap as many of them little bastards as you can while staying seated up on your pig! It’s hard as hell to stay on them pigs for long, so you gotta try and rack up your zap count. After you fall, you’re done. Game over. Hopefully you stayed on longer than the other fellow and hopefully you zapped more pigs than him too.
The Dark Roast Page 6