Roped In

Ring. Clack, clack, clack. 

“Good morning. Welcome to Ha—”

“—Yeah, can I get an iced frap, two pumps of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of caramel, hold the ice, add a double shot of espresso, no whip, and put it in a hot cup?”

The woman standing directly across from me at the counter was wearing a black pantsuit—a power suit, really. But I could only focus my attention on what was beneath the designer outfit and luxury, statement handbag. The pores on her face sang the song of fillers, and her body hummed the tune of being perfectly trimmed with every procedure in the book: nose job, boob job, tummy tuck, whatever. Naturally, of course, she had all those boxes checked. She glared at me and pursed those overly plump lips that could barely move, the straight cut down the chest of her pantsuit showing off her cleavage—breasts that were much perkier than mine. How couldn’t they be? They were fake.

“So, you want a sugar-free vanilla frap with a pump of caramel, double shot of espresso, and no whip at room temp?” I asked.

“I want an iced vanilla frap—are you really going to make me repeat it?” she questioned in a bitchy tone.

“You said you wanted it iced, but then you wanted me to hold the ice and put it in a hot cup. Which is it?”

“The hot cup is smaller, for your information. I don’t need the extra calories,” she said with a scoff in an even bitchier tone. I punched in her order from behind the counter, and one of our baristas started making her drink.

“Clearly,” I muttered when she looked back in the direction of the door, my attention on her less-than-size-two waist and her attention on the busy, bustling world out there.

Ring. Clack, clack, clack.

“Ma’am, your order will be ready in just a minute. Would you mind stepping aside?” I asked. She had already tapped her card and refused a receipt—rudely, of course. She was answering her phone now, and the person behind her in line was getting impatient. “Ma’am,” I repeated.

“Yeah, okay. I heard you,” she said in her bitchiest tone yet.

“Have a great day,” I said with a smile. An older man in a three-piece suit and loud loafers approached the counter next.

“Good morning. Welcome to Han—”

“—Black coffee with an extra lid and a banana nut muffin,” he said. I nodded and punched it in. The barista behind me poured the coffee while I rang his total and he tapped his card and I shifted my arm across the slider behind the counter and pulled out a muffin. Quick, quick, quick. Ring. Clack, clack, clack.

“Good morning. Welcome—”

“—I need five regular coffees. Three black, two with cream and sugar. No, wait. Maybe it was the other way,” the girl across the counter muttered, mostly to herself. I could tell by the way she was dressed in addition to her age that maybe she was an intern for one of these city pricks. A city prick in training, I thought. How nice! “No, no. Yeah. Definitely the first.”

“The first?” I asked.

“Yeah, do I really need to repeat myself?” How many times would I hear that today? “Three black, two with cream and sugar. And can I get a plain croissant?”

While she tapped her card, the baristas and I shuffled behind the counter like a flash mob putting on a show in a busy shopping mall. We shifted in and out of each other’s way, fancy footwork and all, until we’d collectively placed one croissant in a bag, three black coffees on one side of the six-cup holder, two black coffees with cream and sugar marked on the other side of the holder—all in record time. Once, just once, I wanted to be able to say it: Welcome to Haney’s. Cliff Haney was a local businessman, and this property on the congested corner of Batten and 10th was just another one of his prospects. I was his only long-term employee, and while I started as a barista, I worked my way up to barista-cashier-sales-marketing-negotiating-human resources, or something like that. It seemed I held every position there was, an indispensable, irreplaceable part of Haney’s Corner. What a stupid ass name.

Ring. Clack, clack, clack. That noise would be getting old soon. It was time for my break, a quick five-minute session to allow myself a few sips of water and a restroom visit. Cliff had talked about expanding his side quest, or what I liked to refer to as his side quest, because important business people generally didn’t own dinky little coffee shops. But Haney’s had become more than he’d anticipated when he invested in it all those years ago. A designated, go-to spot on the corner, it was everyone’s stop for coffee and breakfast on their way into the city, and it slowed around lunchtime so much so that we’d often close up shop a little early. Our morning success was enough to last through the day, to far exceed any numbers Haney had in mind in terms of a financial goal for this venture. So, that sound that I’d been growing so tired of morning after morning, year over year? It was the ring of the doorbell and the clack of heels and dress shoes on the glossy, tile floors. It was never the shoes that bothered me, only the people. City slickers. Men and women who had no manners and had no time for me—not even enough time to allow me to say, “Welcome to Haney’s.”

Back in position, I took over the register after another quick shuffle with a barista. Ring. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. I looked up to the sound of that tapping as it was unlike anything I’d ever heard coming through those glass doors. This was no city slicker at all, not if I was judging by footwear alone. My eyes trailed away from the register tablet before me and eventually reached the floor in front of the counter, and that was when it hit me: cowboy boots. I blinked repeatedly as if something were stuck in my eye on an obnoxiously breezy day, and I scrunched my brows. Confusion grew like a wild vine in the shitty, concrete jungle outside when my eyes left the boots and went upward to the black jeans. No one wears jeans around here, I thought, and on a weekday morning, no less. My gaze continued: belt, black t-shirt— A damn t-shirt? I shook my head. This couldn’t be.

“Are you okay, miss?”

“What?” I asked, tilting my head in total confusion. My eyes shifted to his face. Messy, brown hair with caramel kisses from the sun, eyes to match. Fine lines turned up at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, his face showing signs of having been kissed by those same sun rays. I tilted my head the other way as I narrowed my eyes in hot confusion—because this was hot confusion now, not just regular confusion. “I’m sorry. What?” I said.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Oh, fine. I’m fine,” I stammered. Say it, I thought. Now’s your chance. “Welcome to good morning. I mean,” I said, splitting my words with a hesitant, embarrassed laugh. “Welcome. Good morning. Welcome to Haney’s.” Now that was a bumpy fucking ride. I huffed quietly in frustration at myself.

“Thank you. Good morning to you,” he said.

“Thanks?” I asked, cocking my head to the other side and pursing my lips.

“You look a little out of sorts,” he observed.

“Yeah. No one’s ever said good morning back before.”

“Well, good morning,” he said again with a nod. “Aren’t you going to take my order, miss?” My mouth must have been hanging open. I’d never seen a patron quite like this before. They all looked so… cookie-cutter, so city-vanilla. He was different.

“Yes. What can I get for you?” I asked.

“What’s good here? What do you recommend?”

“Are you looking for coffee, breakfast, what?” I questioned. I glanced over his shoulder and noticed what I hadn’t bothered to notice before. Ring. Clack, clack, clack. Ring. Clack, clack, clack. Ring. Clack, clack, clack. You get the point. Suited bodies of shitty city patrons were stacking up behind him, all queued up for their coffee orders.

“You in a hurry?” he asked.

“Not at all,” I said confidently. Fuck ’em, I thought. Make ’em wait. “Our beans are imported from Brazil and ground fresh daily, so even our black coffee is really good. You can’t go wrong with a cold drink; it’s been pretty warm recently.”

“What do you like?”

“Um,” I muttered awkwardly. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, no. If you want a recommendation on a cold one, I’ll ask—” I cut myself off, looking over my shoulder and down to the end of the line of baristas behind me. “Hey, Jeff,” I said, calling down to one of my more knowledgeable cohorts.

“Hey, Gin,” he said with a smile, not making eye contact while he worked on someone’s order.

“What’s one of your favorite cold drinks?”

“Flat vanilla iced with Stroopwafel syrup,” he said.

“Thanks. There you have it,” I said with a shrug. “I trust Jeff.”

“And you’re Gin? That’s your name?” he asked, a smile as slow as that slight draw. It was hardly noticeable.

“Virginia,” I said quickly, glancing over his shoulder again. Ring. Clack, clack, clack. Ring. Clack, clack, clack.

“I’ll take one of those,” he said.

“Okay, coming right up.” I punched it in, then remembered he wasn’t a regular customer. He hadn’t been here before, not for as long as I’d been here. “Can I have your number?” I asked, shaking my head quickly. “For our rewards system, I mean.”

“That depends. Can I have yours?” he chuckled, biting the corner of his lip while he waited patiently for my response. But my response was all reaction. My jaw dropped, and I touched my searing cheeks while Jeff passed his coffee over the counter.

“That’s… inappropriate,” I stammered nervously. “Because I’m working right now.”

“But you thought it was appropriate to ask for mine?”

“Guess not,” I said quietly to myself, punching in my own employee discount instead—which was significantly more than our rewards system—and flipping the tablet to him. He pulled an old, leather wallet from the back pocket of those fitted, black jeans, and when he unfolded it, he pulled a crisp twenty from the center. “Okay, cash,” I whispered under my breath, flipping the tablet back in my direction because this really didn’t happen often at all. “Got it.” Meanwhile, back at the counter, he was grabbing a pen from the cup and writing his phone number on that bill. He handed it to me.

“You enjoy the rest of your morning, Virginia,” he said.

“You, too,” I said, wanting to get his name. In fact, I longed for every moment he spent with me at that counter. What a relief from the regular crowd. He walked out with his coffee, and there I was— “Good morning. Welcome to—”

“—I need coffee,” said some shitty city guy. I just smiled.