I picked up the piece of paper from my notebook. “Sorry mom, this one’s just not worth it.” I crossed it off my list and turned off my light.
5
“What’llitbe?”Iwhipped around and asked customer number forty-seven on Tuesday morning.
“Flat Americano, extra hot.”
I called the order to Nic behind me who was on top of her game as usual, whipping up four drinks simultaneously.
Nicole had been working the coffee counter at the Brooklyn Lines magazine for over two years now, and the clientele was as bitter as the day she started, so she claimed the day she offered me a job here when I returned to town two months ago for a job interview.
Of course, I hadn’t walked in here hoping to land a job as the best barista in the tri-state area, that part came naturally. I walked in here with a solid portfolio featuring fifty of my best illustrations. I sketched a variety of cartoon images, but athletics was my specialty.
Apparently, I was the only one who thought so. When I’d met with the Editor of Illustrations for Brooklyn Lines two months ago, he’d told me my sketches were uneventful and they were looking forinventful.
An odd comment from someone who supposedly searched high and low for the artist of the sketch of Madison Square Garden featuring a sold-out arena during an NBA playoff match. My drawing apparently went viral and when I walked in and introduced myself as Harper Maxwell, the artist of the drawing, the man stared dumbstruck as he was expecting a gentleman by the name of “Maxwell”, not a twenty-three-year-old female whose only work experience was a Starbucks and occasional graphic design through a freelance website.
The plan was always to come back to the city after I graduated Buffalo State. I just imagined I’d come back more powerful, with demons long buried, head held high, and not a single regret.
Unfortunately, life didn’t work that way.
Instead, I’d lost my mother shortly after graduation to cancer and my father had been a handful to deal with after retirement that we had to get a home health aid so that I could try to live a normal life.
The past year, it had been nothing but reliving memories alongside him and helping him cope. But as the year went by, dad started retelling memories that I didn’t recall. I’d ignored a few until he started talking about things that were just flat out wrong. When I talked to his doctor about it, he told us we could take this as the first sign of Alzheimer’s.
The mention of it had broken my heart more than I thought possible after mom. He was all the family I had left and now, I was starting to lose him too.
I considered pushing my move back to the city back until I knew he was okay, but since it was only recently diagnosed and could take several years to progress, dad insisted now was the time. “There’s no place in this small town for someone with your talents, get back down there and start living.”
So, instead of hauling my butt back upstate after that glorious interview, I came down here, to sulk with a cup of coffee and met Nic. She was as bright and spirited as any barista should be and we connected in the short time it took for her to whip up my latte. She asked to see my sketches and was blown away. “Hell, I’d hire ya,” she’d joked. Considering I was unemployed and already signed a sublet agreement for a small studio in Brooklyn, I came back with “how are the benefits?”
A few days later, I was standing beside her, helping take drink orders while she worked her coffee magic behind me.
“Will that be all?” I asked fluidly with a sharp smile.
“That’s it, thanks,” the guy answered without so much as a glance at me.
I tapped my foot, irritated at the lack of respect around here for the people who quite literally make your day-to-day manageable.
“Sure ‘bout that? Can I interest you in making that Americano an extra-large, it’s only twenty ce—”
“No. Thank you. I’m good.” This time, a wave of the hand, but his eyes still on his phone.
“How ‘bout a bear-claw? They’re my personal fav—”
“Just the coffee,” he barked, finally a hard set of eyes shooting up at me.
Was that so much to ask for?
“I’ve got this one today, sir.” Frankie stepped around him to cover his tab and handed the man his coffee.
Rude number forty-seven shook his head and marched off, disappearing into the crowded lobby.
“You need to take a walk or somethin’ Harp?”
I sighed at my boss. “Usual Frankie?”
“Make it a double and throw in the bear claw for me this time, will ya?” he slipped a ten-dollar bill in the tip jar, as usual.
