Praise Be
Heart pounding. Eyes aching. Breathing heavy.
Need them beans.
I stand by the counter, not so far that I won’t hear my name called, not so close that I look impatient. I don’t want to stress out the short-staffed baristas any more than they already are.
A frazzled-looking college student in a black apron calls out my order. “Medium hazelnut with almond milk for Emma?” She cranes her neck and looks for me to collect my coffee.
My name is Emily. Two-thirds of the way there, at least.
I step forward, muttering, “Excuse me, sorry,” as I duck through the throng of suits and briefcases. I feel under-dressed in my jeans, faded black Vans, and Dad’s old sweatshirt. I see the struggling young barista and offer her the best smile I can at this level of fatigue. She stares back at me with dead eyes. A cry for help during the morning rush?
“Thank you, Maggie,” I say gently after a cursory glance at her nametag.
I’m always polite to food-service workers. It’s my personal code. But this time, I do it pointedly because I can tell she has had to deal with some crazy shit this morning.
“Have a nice day,” she tells me woodenly.
“You too,” I reply, again with the sole purpose of showing basic human decency.
Maggie turns away, barely registering my existence after the coffee has been handed off. I’m far from offended. I may not have made her morning any better with my kindness, but I take solace in knowing that I did not make it any worse.
The hot coffee burns through the paper cup as I weave my way through Beans-Motive-Opportunity. The seats at the long, cushy booth are taken by other twenty-somethings, cramming for exams, finishing papers they procrastinated on, wondering why they need two years of experience for the entry-level job they’re applying for. I pass them, silently wishing each and every one all the best in their early morning endeavors.
“Excuse me,” an entitled middle-aged man’s voice rings out from the pick-up counter. “I have been waiting a long time for my coffee. This is unacceptable. I’m going to be late for my meeting.”
My heart sinks for the poor dead-eyed Maggie. She doesn’t get paid enough for this bullshit. How is his poor time management in any way her fault?
“I’m sorry, sir — ”
“Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Just give me my coffee.”
He must be fun at parties, I think to myself.
I find a table in the back corner of the shop and set down my drink. I blow on the hot, red skin of my palm and wriggle my arms out of the confines of my backpack. I set the bag down and take my seat in the padded chair, ready to pull out my laptop and not write that novel I’ve been planning.
I blow through the hole at the top of the lid before taking a sip of the sweet, sweet nectar within the cup. Warmth floods my system, much appreciated on this cold autumn morning. A smile curls from the corners of my lips.
Praise be to the beans.
About them beans
Who: A stressed out twenty-something whose name is not Emma.
Where: Beans-Motive-Opportunity in Nowheresville, Maine.
When: Early Thursday morning in late October.
What I’m drinking: Hazelnut coffee with almond milk, hot.
