The Dark Roast

by Thomas Uriah Jarboe

  The server interrupts my inward musings, placing my new beer in front of me. I mutter my thanks and listen to Elena continue to grind the axe.

  “I have to remind myself of that too,” she says.

  “What? You? I hardly ever hear you complain at work. You ain’t got to lie to kick it. You love the place.”

  She raises her head a little indignantly and says, “Wait just a minute. Yeah, I try not to complain too much at work. It just brings me down. And yeah, for the most part, I like my job. But there are days, ay dios mio there are days, where I wake up or I’m in the middle of one of those nasty rushes and somebody called out sick or Sarah understaffed us or some homeless person is going crazy or—”

  “That sounds like every day,” interrupts Jeb.

  Laughing she responds, “Yeah, sometimes it seems like that and when it does I have to tell myself, ‘Girl, you have rent, a car payment, student loans, credit cards and you hate your other job even more’ and I tough it out.”

  Duncan says, “Damn you got two jobs too? I hate having two jobs. I hardly ever get a day off from both. If I ain’t at the coffee shop, I’m at the tire shop and if I ain’t there, I’m probably sleeping. Last week I had two days off from both, first time in four months and I had three days where I had to go from one to the other make that happen.”

  “Tell me about it. Half the time after I get off from opening, I have to go upstairs and work at GameStop. Which means I’m at the mall from 4:30 in the morning until 9:30 at night,” says Jeb. “I feel like I live there.”

  If I had any sympathy left, I might have had some for Jeb right then.

  “What’s your other job Elena?” asks Duncan.

  She looks down into her own beer and says, “It’s just a side job.”

  “Yeah, both my jobs are just side jobs, that’s why I have two of them. Come on, spill. Where you at when you ain’t slinging espresso with us?”

  “Why so cagey? Are you working at Pete’s? Double-dipping in the coffee biz?” asks Jeb.

  “Yeah, or It’s A Grind? Or Lestat’s?”

  Trying to be dismissive, Elena replies, “No, I’m not working at another coffee shop. It’s just a stupid job. Let’s just forget about it. Jason? Are you feeling okay?”

  Jeb looks at me, sympathy written all over his face—which makes me suspicious. Duncan leans forward with a manic smile and says, “Oh no, don’t change the subject. You’re not getting off the hook that easy. Come on, give.”

  “McDonalds,” ventures Jeb.

  “Burger King.”

  “The tanning salon.”

  “Guys—”

  “Ooh, I know! Hooters.”

  “Seriously guys, please—”

  Duncan’s face lights up and he says, “Elena.”

  “Duncan just—”

  “You’re a stripper!”

  Everything is still. Nobody moves. Elena looks away, shame and embarrassment closing her eyes and stooping her shoulders. Duncan starts to say something and she bolts, grabbing her purse. The gravity of the moment shocks me out of my pity party.

  “Wow,” says Jeb. “I never would’ve guessed that.”

  Duncan, unperturbed by her departure says, “Oh my god! How crazy is that? I wonder where she dances. We got to find that out. Dude, I’ve imagined her naked many, many times but I never imagined that I’d get the chance to—”

  “Shut the fuck up Duncan!” I yell. “What is wrong with you? She’s obviously not proud of it and she clearly didn’t want to tell us, probably for this very reason.”

  “Get off your high horse Jason, I’ve seen the way you look at her. Don’t bullshit me, you want to know where she dances just as much as me.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  Laughing, he says, “Oh that’s rich, coming from you. You’re the biggest, most bitter asshole I’ve ever met! I can’t believe you haven’t been fired. The way you talk to people at work, Jesus it’s a miracle. Besides, I’m not the one taking my clothes off. If she’s that embarrassed about it, get another job. She chose to do it.”

  “Yeah, I may be a dick to customers at work, to random strangers that treat me like a piece of dirt beneath their nails, but what you did was insensitive and disrespectful to someone you know.” Standing up, I pull out a twenty and throw it on the table. “Have a nice night, jerk.”

  A Nice Touch

  I used to be nice. I used to laugh, often. I used to believe in people, that they were mostly good at heart. I used to believe that this world was one big happy place filled with polite human beings helping each other toward an ever brighter future. What the fuck was I thinking? How was I so naïve and ignorant? Who put those ridiculous ideals into my head? I see the true beast of man, pretending to hide behind so many different costumes. But the beast does not hide from me. It doesn’t even make an attempt. After all, I’m just a barista. The farce of good humanity is dropped once they pass through my doors. Unruly behavior is the order of the day. It’s served to me in blistering fury hotter than the coffee in my urns and its burn leaves deeper scars.

  “Iced grande non-fat light ice latte for Jacob!”

  “Duncan, after you do a spin, do you want to take your break?”

  “Hello! Can I get a drink started for you?”

  “Yeah, I want a mocha. Is it possible to get that sugar-free?”

  Liz has been expediting really well, so the line hasn’t had a chance to be longer than three or four people even though it’s been pretty steady. She sets a hot large cup next to me and says, “Drip coffee,” before rushing to the back. Looking down, I notice there’s an awful lot of room in the cup.

  I’ve been trying my best to be nice today. This job is hard enough for me on good days, and I’m not particularly good at checking my baggage at the door. I’m having a hard time being civil and polite, let alone cheerful and full of smiles. So when I make the extra effort to pull my miserable self together and force a thoughtful attitude, it makes me want to go postal on the general public when they continue to behave as cunts.

  Our customers have become quite clever at getting the most bang for their buck. The classic example is the ghetto iced latte. If you order an iced large latte, you’re getting a large cup with two shots of espresso, milk and ice. You’ll also pay almost four dollars. A doppio espresso, which is two shots of espresso, costs $1.75. The ghetto latte is obtained by purchasing a doppio espresso, asking for it to be put in a large cup with extra ice, and then taking it to the condiment bar and filling it up with the milk set aside for cream. In the end you’ve worked the system, getting basically the same thing for about two dollars less.

  Like Robert, the newspaper guy, this used to bother me. The milk and half & half carafes empty quickly enough on their own, but three ghetto lattes later and full carafes need filling. But whatever, I’m slowing learning that there are many things you can’t do anything to fix and this is one of them.

  Another trick, that has never bothered me, is asking for a smaller size to be put into a larger size. Really only two drinks ever get ordered this way and it makes sense for these two. People will order a tall coffee or americano and ask for you to put it in a grande cup. This gives them the room for cream they need without sacrificing any of that precious go-go juice.

  So, when I see all this extra room in the large drip coffee that Liz has just set by me, it’s easy to see why I ask the customer, “Is this a grande or large coffee?”

  Talking loudly on her cell phone, shoving her credit card in my face, it is clear she did not hear me.

  “Kelly! Decaf grande surgar-free vanilla non-fat no foam latte!”

  “Thanks sweetie, is my sausage sandwich coming up?”

  “You know what, I’m not sure. Let me check on that for you.”

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Was this a grande or a large?”

  Looking at me with her mouth open, clearly displeased that she’s having to disengage from her inane conversation, she says, “Jess, I have to handle something, I’
ll call you right back.”

  “Sorry, but was this—”

  “Seriously? Are you seriously asking me what size that is? Seriously?”

  It’s a struggle to remain civil as I say, “Look, I just don’t want to overcharge you.”

  She continues to twist her face, especially her lips, into over-the-top classic valley-girl contortions that clearly convey she believes I’m an idiot. She picks up her coffee, raises it up level with my face while weirdly lowering her own and says slowly, as if she’s talking to a three-year old with downs-syndrome, “This, is a large.”

  “You know what Kelly, they forgot to put it in. I did just now and it’ll be ready shortly. Here’s a drink coupon, you’re next one is on us. I’m really sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it dear. These things happen. But thanks for the free drink, I’ll bring in my mom tomorrow to use it.”

  I grab the cup out of her hand, startling her and say, “Actually, this is a tea.” Turning around to the sink I quickly dump her coffee out and continue, “So sorry about that. Let me ring you up and I’ll have it for you at the hand-off counter in just a sec. What’s your name?” I snatch her card out of her hand, read it and say with a hateful smile, “Never mind, here it is.” I swipe her card and hand it back to her before she can even close her mouth. “Here you go Valerie. It’ll be up on the bar over to your left, have a great day.”

  She walks away confused while a little old man shuffles up and says, “Small coffee.”

  Turning around, I fill a large cup as full as I can with decaf coffee and walk it carefully over to the handoff counter. It’s guaranteed to spill as soon as anyone picks it up. “Valerie! Your large coffee is ready at the bar!”

  The old man at the register is digging through his pockets, trying to find his money while I fill up a tall coffee for him.

  “Hey there Kisha! How are you on this fine day?”

  “What up Haiden. I’m good, you seem chipper today.”

  The old man looks up at me and says, “I must have forgotten my wallet on the bus.”

  “Well, the coffee is $1.60,” I reply.

  He looks down and says, “All my money was in my wallet.”

  “Sorry,” I say and then grab his tall coffee and dump it down the drain.

  While he’s shuffling away, Kisha turns to me and says, “Wow. Really Jason?”

  “What? Stuff’s not free.”

  “That’s cold,” she says.

  I ignore her, turning around to brew another batch of coffee.

  “Did Duncan do a spin before he left?”

  “Kim! Tall iced-coffee. Thanks and have a great day. No, he didn’t Liz.”

  “I’ll get my usual and add a tall coffee for that poor guy.”

  “You got it Haiden. That’s really nice of you.”

  “Jason,” says Liz. “After you’re finished brewing that, can you do a spin please.”

  Dumping the spent grinds out, I reply, “No problem.” After setting up the next batch to brew, I grab a sanitized towel and head out into the lobby. As soon as I get passed the counter, a homeless man barges into the store in a manic manner. His stocking cap is pulled down so far I’m surprised he can even see. A tattered trench coat that I think was once a light tan color swirls around with his spinning movements. Two customers in line notice him and move away from his aggressive advances.

  “Hey! I need help! They coming, they coming, they coming,” he says in the face of a customer who didn’t get out of the way.

  “I’ve got your usual triple grande whole-milk caramel macchiato, Haiden!”

  “Thanks Creighton, how’s things?”

  “Swell as can be, looks like we got a potential incident about to happen.

  I quickly walk up and step in between him and the startled customer and say, “You have to go.”

  Stepping closer to me he says, “They coming, they coming!”

  “Look man, I don’t care. You have to leave, now.”

  Spinning around wildly he almost screams, “They want my brain man! They want my brain. I can’t let’em get it. I can’t!”

  I tell Liz to call security before approaching the deranged bum. “Seriously, you need to leave.”

  He grabs his stocking cap off his head and slides down the wall and tries to muster a semblance of calmness and says, “Okay, okay. I’m sorry man. I just need a couple of minutes to lose’em. Can I get a hot chocolate?”

  “No. You can get up and get out of here. I’m tired of telling you.”

  He pulls out a five dollar bill and says, “I got money man. Just let me get a hot chocolate and buy some time.”

  “Hey Chris, this is Liz from downstairs. Yeah we got another one. Okay, thanks.”

  “Look here!” I yell. “I’m sick and tired of dealing with you. You’re crazy. You smell like shit. You’re bothering customers and you’re bothering me! Now get the fuck out!”

  He puts his hands up and says, “They’ll kill me man! They’ll kill me. All I need is five minutes and I’ll go, I promise. Let me buy a hot chocolate, please.”

  Chris walks in through the doors and I exhale a sigh of relief and say, “Thank God. Chris, this guy needs to go.”

  Looking down at the bum, Chris says, “Alright man, let’s go.”

  The site of Chris causes the bum to slide away with increased fear. “No, no, no, no. Don’t do it, don’t take me to them!”

  Crouching down beside the bum, Chris says, “Hey, its okay. I’m not going to take you to anybody. We’re just going to leave here, that’s all.”

  One of the customers comes up and says, “Come on, he’s not bothering anybody. Just let him get what he wants.”

  The customer has no idea what is really going on. Right now, a battle of wills is taking place. If I let this bum win, it’ll change everything. He’ll come back, repeatedly, because he’ll know he can get away with behaving like a weirdo and that nobody will stop him. This’ll become a haven for him. But what’s worse is that he’ll attract more bums either through spreading the word, by being seen inside by them, or by some fucked up aspect of Murphy’s law.

  We have enough bums to deal with already and unfortunately we have to draw a hard line against them. To work here, you have to learn to have a heart of stone. This is a place of business, not a homeless shelter.

  I ignore the customer and say, “Get him out of here.”

  Chris looks at me askance and then says to the bum, “Come on man, let’s not make this difficult.

  The bum gets up and Chris escorts him out. A couple of customers look at me like I just sent him to Auschwitz. Haiden walks by and says, “Have a better day Jason.”

  Yeah, right. I’m sure it’s going to be fantastic.

  ***

  I’m sitting in the back, across from the Cow. She’s holding a notepad and a filled-out form in-triplicate, again. My contempt is so clearly stamped on my face she won’t even look at me.

  “Jason,” she says softly, trailing away.

  “Sarah.”

  Finally looking at me, she says, “What happened yesterday?”

  “Look Sarah, I’m sorry. Something came up while I was on my break. I shouldn’t have left. I’ve never done anything like that before and it won’t happen again.”

  “What came up?”

  Now I’m the one looking away as I reply, “Nothing I want to talk about.”

  “Jason, after what happened the other day, I deserve an explanation. Tell me what happened. People don’t just walk away from work like that, least of all you. You’ve never called out sick and you’re never late. So this kind of behavior, coming from you, is worrisome for me.”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it, it’s none of your business. Again, I’m sorry I left. It won’t happen again.”

  She sits back and sighs, saying nothing. The moment stretches. My resolve doesn’t. I cross my forearms and lean back, staring her right in her ugly eye. I’ll sit here all day before I share one iota of my persona
l life with this ridiculous bitch. The longer our standoff continues, the angrier I become. My eyes have narrowed to slits, my jaw is clenched tight. Hatred is pouring out of me in waves. My ears are red and hot from it.

  She breaks.

  “Alright then. I don’t want to do this Jason, but you’re not giving me much of a choice,” she says as she hands me the corrective action she’s been holding. “This is a Final Written Corrective Action. Do you understand what that means?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes Sarah, I’m not an idiot. This Final Written Corrective Action means that if I do anything else that could possibly warrant a Corrective Action, then I will no longer be employed. Does that satisfy your desire to check for understanding?”

  “Jason, I need—”

  Jeb bursts out of the bathroom, interrupting, “Dude, come on! Just tell her what happened.”

  Sarah swivels in her chair and says, “Jeb, this is a private conversation. I need you to leave, immediately. And we’re going to talk about this later.”

  “Sarah,” says Jeb. “Please, you have to give him a pass on this one. Dude, tell her.”

  “What the fuck Jeb! Were you out there eavesdropping on us?”

  “Jason calm down. Jeb what is going on here?”

  Jeb looks at me with his hands up in apology, turns to Sarah and says, “You told me to take my break right when he was going outside. I went out right behind him, I was going to try and chat with him when his girlfriend came up to talk to him,” turning back to me he says, “I’m sorry dude, I didn’t know, I was just waiting around because I thought she was going to bounce and I wanted to hang out.”

  Sarah reaches out and grabs Jeb’s arm and asks, “What happened?”

  “Jeb don’t you say another fucking word!”

  Looking back and forth between us, Jeb spurts out, “His girlfriend is dying from cancer, that’s what she told him. I’m sorry Jason, but you shouldn’t be in trouble for that.”