The Shine Journal

Brew-ha-ha

by

Hollie Loveless

For the prior eight classes, I had never been late. I checked the digital clock on the dashboard. It read 15 minutes until six; class started on the hour. I was five miles away.

I passed it up at first. Then I stopped and made a u-turn. As I approached the store, there was a car reversing from a parking spot right in front. I took that as a sign.

Instead of considering this purchase a purely selfish indulgence, I told myself it was bigger than that. Cutting it close was an exercise in the unplanned, an attempt at spontaneity. I needed to quit being so uptight. (And I was, admittedly, falling asleep).

On entering, the place was a-buzz with nerdy corporate escapees and workout-worn women still clothed in the residual sticky vestiges of Lycra and spandex. I scanned for any obvious intrusions to what should have been a simple grab-and-go. There were only two people standing in line. So, I stepped up, behind a girl. I checked my watch: 10 minutes until six.

The man in front of her paid. She approached the counter. Her skin was fair like paper ready for watercolors to sink into it. Her nails were unpainted and chewed. Both were a stark contrast to a shock of red hair secured into a ponytail. I judged that was a requirement of her job, as her khaki pants supported a t-shirt bearing a cupcake logo. I knew the store. It was next door.

"This wasn't my idea," she said to the cashier. I exhaled in anguish as I watched her pull from her pocket a list. As far as I was concerned, she might as well have pulled out a semi-automatic weapon.

It was scribbled out in purple ink with poor penmanship on paper about the size of a receipt. I thought to myself that Red was, no doubt, at the bottom of the proverbial food chain, or, cupcake chain, as it may be.

I stood, dazed, somewhere in between awe and disgust, as she read the first item:"Caramel Macchiatto, with extra caramel. That's 'lots of extra caramel,' and grande," she said with disdain. Her voice mocked the caramel-connoisseur as if that was going to placate me, or the line that was now accumulating behind me.

"Next, I need something that's iced with soy," she said. "Is there something you could suggest?"� She looked to the pimply-faced boy behind the counter as if he were the sommelier at a five-star restaurant and not someone who making little more than minimum wage. I shifted my weight and again, I checked my watch: five minutes until six.
       
As he struggled to help her, it dawned on me that this must be an order for her boss because of her concern. Besides, only someone in a position of control would dismiss a coffee runner by simply requesting a drink that was "soy" and "cold". I wanted to hand her a frozen edamame bean to take back to her leader.

"Let's do a vanilla soy iced coffee, um, grande. And last but not least, I'll keep mine s-i-m-p-l-e,"� she said, again with a pompous way of separating herself from the others as if that somehow washed her of her time-consuming sin. I wondered what her soy-sipping supervisor would think of such guffaw.

"I'll just have a tall soy latte, with an extra shot." Oh, how terribly considerate of you, I thought.

Red paid then stepped out of my way. The line behind me now reached the door. I ordered my drink---a soy latte---and paid with the correct change I had ready. I looked hopefully at the barista. I then tried to look anguished, without looking bitchy, so that she might take pity on me realizing the hefty order in front of my measly steamed milk.

I couldn't ask her to make mine first, could I?

Red made a call on her cell phone. As she yapped, I looked at my watch: three minutes until six. I should just go. But I already ordered. I was going to be late. I was going to hold up the class or insult the teacher. I was going to miss a comment that would have changed the course of my writing career forever. All thanks to Red.

I looked up again, searching for a connection with the barista, again nothing. How could she look up with this slate of complicated espressia bearing down on her?

"Latte,"� she yelled out to no one in particular.

Image by: Mel Guknes