Across the street is the Flower Girl. Across the street is the Flower Girl snuggled against a middle-aged man’s arm. Across the street my heart stops and my stomach falls. My throat is dry. Jealousy, doubt and uncertainty rage through me. My heart starts up again, pounding away. She looks up smiling at something he has said. Her face freezes as she recognizes me. Emotions play across her face. Surprise? Shock? Guilt? Or are those my own being projected? The man whose arm she is holding notices our exchange. He says something to her and she answers, tilting her face up towards him, her eyes never leave mine. A wisp of hair blows across her face and her casual way of tucking it back behind her ear brings time back into its normal pace.
A siren sounds as an ambulance rushes by. The hum of the city comes back in full force. I feel flushed and full of conflicting feelings as the walk sign signals our turn to cross. The Flower Girl and her escort start walking, so I step off the curb trying to think of something to say.
The distance between us closes quickly and as we pass one another my mouth opens to say something. She turns her head towards him as he looks at me with a somewhat hostile glare. I stop in the middle of the street to watch them cross, the man looks back at me. She never does. They turn the corner and then they’re gone.
Headlights illuminate me and a horn honking starts my legs working again. Once across the street I look back in vain. Minutes pass. My cell rings. A car pulls up beside me. The driver rolls down her window and says, “Hey! There you are! Get in.”
The Business Lady is looking at me from inside her car. “Jason. Jason, are you alright?”
A smile that doesn’t reach my eyes forms and I reply, “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go get some lobster.”
This isn’t my drink.
“I have a grande no whip mocha for Cheryl. I also have a tall non-fat extra foam latte for Ben. Ben and Cheryl! Your drinks are ready!”
“Hello, how are you today?”
“Yeah, can I get a caramel blended coffee.”
“Jason, does this mocha blended coffee have whip cream on it?”
“I don’t know Liz, I didn’t take the order. Ask Kisha, I think she rang it up.”
“Sure thing. What size do you want?”
“Kisha, did they want whip cream this?”
“Ummm, Grande. No, I’ll get a tall.”
“Alrighty then, a tall caramel blended coffee. Can I get your name? Yes on the whip Liz. Sorry.”
“I have a tall hot chocolate at 145 degrees for, for Jessica.”
“This isn’t my drink,” says a lady who’s holding Cheryl’s grande no whip mocha. The tone of her voice suggests her picking up someone else’s beverage is somehow my fault.
“Yeah it’s Matt. And can I get an apple fritter as well please.”
“No problem Matt.”
Trying hard to keep my voice nice and civil I ask the grabby lady, “What did you get?”
With an exasperated breath let out her nose she replies, “I got a Mocha Frappe and I wanted whipped cream on top.” Which looks nothing like the drink she is holding, seeing how it comes in a clear plastic cup while Cheryl’s is residing in a white paper cup.
“Yeah, your drink is coming right up. That drink in your hand is Cheryl’s grande no whip mocha.”
“Creighton, can you brew me another coffee please?”
“Yes ma’am, lemme just finish with this here trash and I’ll hop to it.”
A middle-aged man in a sports coat walks up and picks up Cheryl’s drink. While putting whip cream on top of a tall two-pump white mocha I loudly call out to the man, “Sir. Sir! That’s not your drink.”
He stops and with a bewildered expression plastered to his face holds the drink up to look at it. Our drink codes are not that difficult to understand. For the most part they make logical sense. M in the drink box stands for mocha, L in the drink box stands for latte, CM in the drink box stands for caramel macchiato. It doesn’t take a cryptologist to decipher the meaning of the letters written in the boxes on the cups. Which is why I’m bewildered when after studying the markings on the cup he’s holding he then asks me, “This isn’t a tall latte?”
First of all, he’s holding a grande cup. Second, the only L on the cup is in the owner’s name which brings me to the third astounding fact: The name on the cup is CHERYL which in no way, shape, or form resembles anything close to BEN. With a tired tone indicating I’m losing my patience I reply, “No sir that is not a tall latte. It is in fact a grande no whip mocha for Cheryl.”
“Oh. Well, where’s my drink?” he asks with a touch of indignation in his voice.
“What kind of scones do you have?”
“Well, we’ve got blueberry, chocolate chip and raspberry sir.”
I reach out and grab his drink and hold it up briefly before setting it down and reply, “Right here sir.” Ben, who surely must be an illiterate, bald ape masquerading around as a human being, sets Cheryl’s drink down and grabs his, all the while looking at me like I’m trying to trick him into drinking someone else’s drink. “Have a good day sir,” my mouth says, while my eyes let him know I think he’d be hard pressed to beat my little cousin in a game of Candy Land.
“Um...I’ll get a blueberry I guess. Is there any way you can heat that up?”
Liz slides the grabby lady’s drink to me and I call it out, “Grande mocha blended coffee for Rhonda!” She picks up the drink as if it’s been coated in a lethal contact poison and says to me with a nasty little tone to her shriveled voice, “Well, can you at least give me one of those little cardboard holders?” Yeah, I can grab you a sleeve intended to shield hands from hot coffee cups. Heaven forbid condensation from your completely necessary ice blended coffee beverage gets on your hand. “Sure thing ma’am. Here you are, a hot cup sleeve for your cold blended coffee. You have a nice day,” I tell her with syrupy sweetness that fools nobody.
“Coming through, big trash in my hands. Pardon me, right behind ya Jason. Thank you.”
“Hi there. How are you doing today?”
“I’m doing quite well. How ‘bout yourself?”
“I’m doing good, thanks for asking. What can I get started for you today?”
I hand out a tall two-pump white mocha and call it out to a Francisco. The steam wand screeches alerting me that I haven’t been properly aerating my milk. First the shots that were pouring for the grande soy no foam caramel macchiato are dumped out, followed by the faux milk. I may have a continually growing hatred for many of the people who come through the doors, but I still have enough integrity to give them quality beverages for the almost five dollars they’re paying.
“Well, I’ll get a grande coffee and that’ll be all.”
“Alrighty, grande coffee. Do you need space for cream?”
A short swarthy fellow saunters up to the hand-off counter and grabs Cheryl’s drink. “Not that one Francisco,” I tell him. He looks at me with a confused expression and says, “¿Como?” Now I am at a loss. I don’t speak Spanish and it seems as if friend Francisco here is similarly challenged, albeit in English. I ask him anyway, in my only Spanish, “¿Hable Ingles?” He shakes his head and slowly starts to walk away. “No,” I try again. “That isn’t your drink.” He stops but he continues to just stare blankly at me.
“What’s going on over here buddy?” asks Creighton.
“This guy has grabbed the wrong drink, he only speaks Spanish and I can’t get him to understand that he’s got Cheryl’s drink,” I reply.
Creighton smiles and says, “Well, don’t you worry yourself no more about it.” He leans over and calls out to Francisco in heavily accented hillbilly Spanish, “¡Señor! ¿Qué es tu bebida?”
“Un café moca blanco sin crema batida.”
“Esa no es tu bebida. Esto es suyo, señor.”
“Lo siento. Gracias,” Francisco says as he puts Cheryl’s beverage back down and takes his from Creighton’s hand.
“Kisha, have you had your break yet?”
“No, not yet. H
ello sir, how can I help you?”
“Where did you learn Spanish?”
Creighton slides for Liz to make blended coffee beverages so she can direct her shift and replies, “I picked it up a couple of years ago workin’ down in Texas on some of the big ranches down there.”
“That’s handy.”
Creighton hands me another blended coffee to hand out and says, “Sure is, especially down here in San Diego.”
“No doubt. I need to pick up some Spanish. Candice! I have your grande caramel blended coffee on the bar!”
Candice eagerly takes her drink and picks up Cheryl’s and asks, “Whose is this?”
“Alright Kisha, finish ringing him up and I’ll slide for you so you can break for ten.”
“Would you like anything else sir?”
“No, that’ll do.”
I look at Candice and wonder why she is concerned with someone else’s beverage when she has hers in hand and tell her, “Well, that is Cheryl’s and it’s been sitting up there for a while now.”
She looks around and calls out, “CHERYL!!” The volume of her voice is alarmingly loud.
“Umm, thanks, but I don’t think she’s coming back for it.”
“Thought I’d give it a try, you’re not very loud you know.”
“What can I say, I’m not into yelling.” Cheryl’s drink is causing me to slow down on the bar and now I have a line of impatient people waiting for their drinks. My blood starts to boil. Idiots surround me. How hard is it to pick up what you order? Sweat drips down my brow. I’m working furiously fast, making needy people’s drinks as best as I can with no thanks and zero appreciation. Instead I am faced with the stares of intolerant people expecting their drinks to be made in less than ten seconds. Not one set of eyes are looking at me with even a trace of sympathy. Foot tapping and crossed arms assault my peripheral vision while my ears burn with the sound of frustrated sighs. My jaw clenches tighter as I try to move even faster than I already am. I’m doing okay, but I’m just not on my game today.
“What’s taking so long?”
“Excuse me, is my drink coming up?”
“I can help the next customer in line over here.”
Putting the lids on three drinks I call them out, “I have a double tall dry cappuccino for Larry! And for Hector, a tall non-fat no foam latte! Kristy, here’s your Iced tall two pump no whip mocha! Thanks for your patience. Sorry about the wait.”
Seems-to-be-Larry grabs his cappuccino and mumbles, “Finally.”
My jaw tightens more.
Should-be-Kristy uncrosses her arms and glares at me while she picks up her mocha. My teeth grind together and I feel heat radiating from my face.
Clueless-Hector grumbles, “Bout time,” and picks up Cheryl’s mocha. My shoulder’s burn with refrained fury tensing my muscles and my voice is shaking as I call out to Dumb-ass-Hector, “That’s not your drink sir! That’s a grande mocha for Cheryl. Your tall non-fat no foam latte is right here.” Hector realizes my stressing of the sizes hints at my feelings concerning his intelligence and comes back to the hand-off counter with an air of hostility lighting up his face. “Oh yeah,” he sets Cheryl’s drink back on the hand-off counter and reaches for his drink and says, “Maybe you should do a better job making sure we know which drink is ours.”
Steaming milk, pulling shots, pouring milk, stirring drinks, spraying whipped cream all simultaneously I reply, “I don’t know how I could do that sir, I mean your name is written right there on the cup. Maybe you should pay more attention to what size you ordered and actually look at the cup before you just pick it up and walk off.”
“Hi, can I get a tall vanilla latte?”
“Sure thing sweetie, would you like a scone or muffin to go with your latte?”
Hector’s face is twisting with outrage. He probably realizes deep down he’s in the wrong, but admitting that to a lowly barista like myself would be absurd. “What’s your name?! I’m going to call your corporate office and let them know just what kind of service I got today from you.”
Yeah, ask for my name and then threaten to tattle on me. “My name is Lucretius. My friends call me Lucky and I prefer ignorant mistaken people to call me ‘Liege Lord Lucretius’ or more simply ‘Triple L’.”
“You think you’re real funny huh? We’ll see who’s laughing after I call your corporate office. I don’t need your name, I’ll just describe your faggy face and they’ll know which homo I’m talking about,” homophobic-Hector replies.
“Good luck with that. I’m sure they love to hear intolerant gay-bashing comments from people.”
Creighton walks up and says, “Hey buddy, you need a break? I can take over here for ya. Why don’t you just take a quick breather in the back.”
Hector says, “You need a break? Why don’t you come outside and I break your face!”
Liz tells her customer to hold on and grabs the phone. Creighton looks at the man with a severe expression and says, “Mister, that’s quite enough. You better get out of here, my supervisor is calling security.”
Hector’s puffed up chest starts toward the door and he yells over at me, “Fuck you faggot! I see you on the streets, I’ll beat your fuckin’ face in!”
I grab Cheryl’s drink and toss it in the sink with more force than required and chocolaty milk and coffee spray out. Creighton turns to me and says, “Hey bud, cool off. Don’t let that asshole get to ya. He ain’t worth it.”
I try and relax and shake off my attitude, “Yeah, sorry man. I’m fine.”
Liz asks, “You need a break Jason?”
“No, I’m good. Sorry guys, I’m alright now.”
Pouring some milk into a pitcher to steam for a grande extra hot latte I look over as a lady approaches the hand-off counter. She peers about, looking behind the bar and then asks me, “Excuse me, do you have a grande mocha for Cheryl coming up?”
My jaw muscles flex again. My eyes bore into her face. I want to tell her I hate her. I want to throw hot milk in her face for forgetting her fucking drink. I want to yell at her and tell her how many people kept trying to take her drink and how valiantly I protected it. I want to tell her she’s too late, I gave her drink to the sink. Shutting off the steam wand and putting the milk pitcher down, I look over at Liz while wiping the milk off the wand and yell, “Hey Liz! I’ll take that break now.”
Looking over at Cheryl one last time, I shake my head and walk away from the bar. Fuck this place.
Mother, May I?
It’s Sunday. Certain Sunday’s come around now and then requiring my presence at my mother’s house. There’s no pattern to help me anticipate on which Sunday the slow torture will happen. I wish it were more regular, like the third Sunday of each month or something. Instead the whims of my mother determine which Sunday I’m to come over and participate in her twisted idea of “dinner”.
She notifies me in a manner as haphazard as the scheduling of the dinner. Sometimes she informs me when dropping by my store. Other times I get a text the night before. Once I found a note taped to my apartment door. The only consistent thing, aside from my pain of experiencing the dinner, is that she always says, “Remember, dinner this Sunday and don’t forget to bring me some coffee. Love you, ba-bye.”
I’ve only missed dinner twice. Once because I was in the hospital for which I was only barely forgiven, and the first time because I simply did not want to go. The first time was the last time I purposely missed dinner. After weighing the benefits of not going—a very short amount of time at the scales—it was clearly in my best interests to acquiesce to my mother’s wishes.
Dinner is always at 7:00 p.m. which means my presence is expected no later than 6:00 p.m. This gives my mother a full hour to poke and prod me for information. Each pre-dinner interview I try to divulge as little information as possible and keep anything I say extremely vague. However, my mother is much, much smarter, so she always extracts enough to put together the most scathing and emotionally damaging comments.
> These comments are fired at me during dinner, a formal event as rigid in procedure as nuclear testing. There is no conversation to be had at her table. It is her battle field and she manipulates the ebb and flow with more skill than any general in the history of mankind. I am just a prisoner of war, the only P.O.W. birthed into existence by his tormentor.
This evening I have decided to bring an offering. It is my hope that my flat relationship with Rachael will come to an abrupt ending after taking her deep into enemy territory. Having never brought anyone with me before, I have high hopes that mother will be in a true tyrannical mood at such a break with tradition. And seeing how well she did in driving a wedge between me and the Flower Girl, I feel fairly confident about how the evening will end.
My cell rings, “Hello there chica,” I answer.
“Well, aren’t you sounding chipper! I’m so glad you’re excited to bring me to your mom’s!” Yes, extremely so, and part of me feels guilty at my duplicitous exuberance, but only partly. Smiling I respond, “You have no idea. Where are you?”
She giggles over the phone and says, “I’m just around the corner from your apartment.”
“Great. I’m just outside—ah, I see you.”
Rachael pulls up and I can see her big smile through the windshield. I push aside my sudden misgivings and hold firmer my convictions. After all, I’m merely setting the stage. My mother will be fully to blame for what’s to come.
***
Rachael smiles real big up at me while squeezing my hand and says, “I’m so nervous!” As well you fucking should be, you’re about to be interrogated by a siren of hell. As bad as I was feeling earlier, now that we’re here waiting on the doorstop I feel a strange kinship with my sadistic mother. Maybe this is how we’ll finally bond.
“I can’t believe this is where you grew up, it’s like out of a story book!” Rocking back and forth on my heels with anticipation, I hardly register her squeaking beside me. I look over at her and smile. The door opens and my mother’s newest maid stands to the side and says, “Welcome, may I take your coats?”
The Dark Roast Page 12