3. The Barista

I live in a building where there are a lot of young people. I hadn’t noticed, until the fire alarm went off, and we were instructed to leave the building. Everyone was young, in their twenties, certainly not above forty. They are from well-to-do families. They have clean hair and wear clothes and shoes that look expensive. They are most likely people who go to any one of the colleges or universities around here. They intern for one of the city’s five hospitals just a few blocks away. Or are just starting out at the accounting firm or work for one of the five banks with a head office a few streets away. For a building of so many young people, I am surprised there are no loud parties. There are forty floors in the building. I don’t know my neighbors, and I don’t want to. I will not be borrowing a cup of sugar or an egg. I don’t like to make coffee at home. Two scoops of coffee go into a metal strainer and I wait for the results to drip through. There’s something about the whole thing that makes it feel sad to drink, the way I make it alone. There is no fancy machine with bells and whistles and steam. My favorite place to go for coffee is a twenty-minute walk. You shouldn’t walk that far to get coffee. What I like about this coffee shop is that there is a secret patio out back. People get married there. Sometimes after seven o’clock they shut down the whole thing and have private dinner parties. I think coffee shops should stay open like bars until two in the morning, but in the city I live in they close down around seven at night. I think I can try to make a friend here. One of the baristas. It’s hard to make a friend who is a total stranger. At work, you are forced together and you can talk about the job. Complain about the boss. Ask someone for help. Hang around the photocopy machine. At a friend’s party, you can ask how they know your friend. A total stranger trapped behind a counter making coffee is hard to talk to for no reason. I try anyway. “Can you make something for me that’s not on the menu?” I ask, when it is my turn to be served in the line. There are probably one hundred things written on the chalkboard. I can hardly make out what is there. Warm drinks of all kinds is my guess. The barista has black hair like me. I think anyone who knows how to keep all the recipes in their head for so many items is pretty impressive. To think on the spot of something not on the menu would require some creativity. The barista is not creative. He says, “Oh we don’t do that here. You have to order something from the menu.” I smile because that is what you do when you want to give people the impression that you are friendly. I order an oat milk latte and when I get it, there is a heart in the foam. I think I am special, but when I look into the cups and mugs of other people in the shop, they too have hearts. I guess he loves everyone too, or maybe that’s the only thing he knows how to draw with the foam. I come back the next day. To get a barista to remember you, you have to be a regular, and consistent. Ordering the same thing. But he doesn’t remember my order and asks me what he can do for me. I order the same thing, and then say, “It’s raining outside.” I say it like it’s the most important thing in the world, and he must know about it, but he doesn’t understand, and says, “Oh, is it? I haven’t been outside.” I take that and say, “You should go outside sometime.” And he nods and yells, “Next!” because the line is long behind me and he has to keep things moving. I watch the woman behind me. She is wearing a short skirt and I can see her tan and athletic legs. When she greets him, he asks her how she’s been. I watch them to learn how someone else makes a friend. It is a good ten minutes of chatting, and even though the line is long he never yells at her, Next! Not even when the people behind this girl are making impatient faces. He gives her his time and attention. Someone in the line yells out, “Next!” and he notices and says to her, “I’ll talk to you later. It’s so great to see you.” I call my dad after this and ask him if he’s happy. There’s a long pause, and I wait for him to him say something. Anything.