The Barista's Revenge

Lynn E. Welsh

Sometimes I serve my customers caf instead of decaf, or decaf instead of caf by accident. But lately, I've been doing it more and more on purpose. With less and less provocation.

Like my first customer today, the Pearl District Princess who ordered "a double nonfat latte caf with extra whipped. Pronto."

No "please", no "thank you". No second thoughts for the humble barista scalding my fingers cup after cup, murmuring, "Certainly, whole or skim? Whipped cream? You bet. Grande or Vente? To go or to stay?" like an urban mantra all day long.

That brazen latte swiller deserves a dull ache behind her eyeballs and an overwhelming desire to curl up under her desk.

And the hair stylist from hell who barked: "Triple decaf dry cappuccino " - then shoved his personal carton of sugar-free soymilk in my face? He must be buzzing like a lactose-intolerant bee, giving everybody a bad hair day.

Small pleasures, small pleasures, who would deny me these," I hum under my breath to the accompaniment of escaping steam.

I'm down on my knees re-arranging the pastry case when the man in the black shearling overcoat comes in. The man who never orders the same thing twice.

He's late. Every day for the last three weeks he's stood in the 8:15 line, the stretched-out the door, desperate late-for work line of the meanest, most caffeine-crazed souls on the planet. He always says please and even "merci beaucoup." He always gets what he orders.

My abs tighten on autopilot as I rise to meet his eyes – shade grown, obviously organic.

He leans his elbows on the counter. "I've been watching you," he says. "I know what you're up to."

I take half a step back.

"Up to? I was just down looking for some strudel." My hands scrunch into my apron.

He takes my tip jar in his hands and turns it around slowly. It's actually an old milky glass vase, easy to put money in, but too much work for sticky fingers to take any out.

I put my hands on the vase to take it back and our fingertips touch. Cold and colder.

He says, "I'm the caffeine police. There've been complaints."

My stomach clenches again, but I laugh. "What are you going to do? Take me to court over the caffeine bends? Sue for sudden attacks of somnolence?"

He slides his hands up the tip vase and traps my fingers under his.

"One of my friends nearly died of an under-dose."

Then he gives me that look. Like he can see right into my espresso-stained soul. I want to smash the vase across his nose and run. I want to kiss him right between his eyes.

"Okay," I say, "I'll go straight." I'm lying and we both know it.

He still has my hands trapped. I jerk my arms up, elbows out, twisting free.

The tip vase smashes on the white tiled counter. Quarters, dimes and nickels cascade. A few dollar bills take a lazy ride down on the scented air. The man snatches my only fiver as it floats past.

"I'm keeping an eye on you," he says. "Keep the change."

©2005 Lynn E. Welsh