A short story

The new café was beautiful and poorly built. One customer opened a display cabinet and the door came off in her hand, smacking her kid right in the face. No tip! A week later we're still finding ball bearings.

The time had come for a different address. Our old spot had its share of bad memories and rose-colored marble, neither of which is fashionable. Change is often something to fear—new environments bring new people and new people bring new letdowns—but I was sure I'd be alright.

But that letdown part. People here are assholes. The other night I'm leaving at the end of my shift and I say "Goodnight" to one of the new girls. New to me, since she transferred from another location like I did. She looks up from washing the pot of Afro-Brew and goes right back to it without saying a word.

Thursday morning I come in and notice a few strips of blue painter's tape still stuck alongside the doorframe. Rude girl is casually mentioning her boyfriend to the new (brand new) guy again. He's asking her about yoga and she's being nice enough, even seems interested when he casually mentions his upcoming beer-pong tournament. He's nice enough but probably listens to the Killers.

A few Masters of the Universe come in after lunch, speaking loudly and flipping through the small CD display. $20 is too expensive even for these guys. Each compilation (always compilations) is hand-selected by my manager—nothing too racy, a little Beatles for Kids here and Jazz for Lovers there. I had a great idea once to produce a "Safe" series—Safe Blues, Safe Soul, etc., but he didn't think that would work. "We're trying to expand horizons here. Christ." Christ.

So these guys are cracking themselves up over "all this Mexican shit." They radiate a pink glow of top-shelf gin and expensive cigars that comes with early-afternoon benders. One of them grabs a disc. "'British Invasion'? Fuck that, all those limeys do is remind us what we invented a decade earlier." I do everyone a favor and slip a little salt into their Sula-Brews. "Spicy!" they holler.

I lock eyes with the rude girl as I'm leaving again. Feeling somehow invigorated after a dull afternoon I decide to give her another chance. Cheerily: "Have a good night!" She stares at me like I'd asked her the square root of seven. Leaving, I go out of my way to hold a door open for some college girl who doesn't thank me.

It's tough to fall asleep that night. At 2:30 I get out of bed and go to the kitchen for a beer, thinking the only way I'm going to sleep is if I'm buzzed. I race through a second beer, sitting at the table and working on a crossword with only a little bit of light. Hoping to wear out my eyes. I empty the bottle and stumble my way to the fridge for another. It's dark so I'm surprised to bump into a tall man with exceptionally long, blond hair. It's straight until it sweeps away at his shoulders. Ray Manzarek is in my kitchen.

---

Ray tells me to forget the beer. "Fire up some of that Inca-Brew you stole from work. I love that shit."

"The gold flakes sort of freak me out, same as the lava chips in the Hilo." I say. "I prefer the Hait-Brew." I don't see anything strange here.

"'Hate-Brew'? That's a drag."

"'Hait' as in 'Haitian.' I don't know, it's all the same I guess. I once saw the boss grind up some Mexa-Brew beans and dump them into an Afro-Brew bag."

"'Afro Blue'? I dig it. Stole that riff a few times."

"No, 'brew.' 'Brew.'" We're still in front of the fridge. "He hands it to the customer and I'm like 'You know that was the wrong coffee?' He shrugs and points at the guy, who opens the bag and take a big eyes-closed, grinning-idiot whiff. He had a point." Everything is normal. "Nice employee discount though."

Ray nods the way professional keyboardists nod. "Right on." He's no longer blocking my way but rather seated at the table, somehow. Must have brought his own chair. He looks out the window and absently starts tickling the striped tablecloth. I can tell it's "Moonlight Drive." He looks distressed for a second, left hand drifting off, until he notices the cheap bookshelf in front of the radiator. "This is a fire hazard, man," he advises and grabs the first four Dark Tower books because they're the only ones worth a shit. Stacks them on the table and resumes playing. He smiles. I can hear it too.

I sit as he continues. "We're all in this thing together, you know. Under one moon and all." (Uh-huh.) "People start looking too closely at each other and problems creep in."

I'm too practical. "Won't there be injuries if people don't look at each other? Just a minute ago I walked right into you."

He sips his coffee. Where's mine? "The beans you're pushing, they're specialized. Segregated. They need to mingle and screw each other. Get real tight." (Uh-huh.) "You have to blend them."

"I'm just a barman." I glance at my crossword. It has completed itself. "I have to serve what they ask for."

Ray eases off the tablecloth. "Do you have any drugs?"

---

I wake up in bed. It's Friday morning. I smell awful.

Quick shower and then I hit the road. Nothing can get me down today. Not even the bus. "Sunsquashed" carries me into town and doesn't produce the hangover I'm willing to risk. I feel great, in fact, better than ever. The previous night grew a little foggy after all the talk of beans, gotta mix the beans. Easy. Beans. Real tight. Beans. Drugs. Drugs? Could be it.

Two stops early I exit the bus and walk the rest of the way. The cop directing traffic at the intersection is about five foot eight. He seems frazzled. I guess there's no longer a height requirement.

I'm paying more attention than usual. A gentleman walking ten feet in front of me slows just enough to hand a cigarette to a guy hustling homeless newspapers. I like when people think the papers are free. Their faces go from "I'll make this poor guy's day" to "I don't even want the damn thing." Cigarettes are killers.

It's sunny and flowers are in full bloom. I resist the urge to snap away with my camera phone and instead take it all in. Won't allow photographs to replace memory on a day like this. Nothing can describe the appearance of these trees.

By the time I get to work I am one million dollars. I walk in and someone is removing the leftover painter's tape, scrubbing off sticky residue. Fuckin' A.

Friday is clean laundry day. Fresh red and orange aprons hang from hooks in the break room. Mine fits perfectly and looks sharp. I love red and orange together. The rude girl wears headphones and stares into her locker, cramming one more song by some exclamation-point band. She wishes her success were equally dependent upon viral videos. I walk over and smile at her until she is compelled to smile back.

"Two point six four six," I say.

"Excuse me?"

"I answered my own question from last night. Two point six four six. With rounding, you know. We don't have all night." I wink and head out to the floor.

An older woman is washing her hands. New employee. I can tell she's one of those who've lived or worked in the area her whole life, thinks it'll be fun to chat up best friends while charging them $3.95. It's not a terrible idea. She turns to me and says "Good morning." I'm glad. She looks amazing in her apron.

At the register I greet my first customer. "What'll you have?"

"What's good today?"

Everything is good today. Smiling, I recommend the Moon-Brew. "It's a blend. The moon favors no one."

He and his perfectly round head consider this. "Fuck that. Large Hate, please." I appreciate the "please." He didn't have to say that.

I step over to the Hait-Brewer and start pouring the man's coffee. Every time I fill a large the machine emits a short mechanical sound, barely audible, like it's transferring water from one internal recess to another. It's so positive and futuristic.

Nothing is going to ruin my day.