One Cup of You

Part 1

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This is a raw, unedited version of this book. You may see some grammar, spelling and continuity mistakes. One day, I might turn this into a paperback, but for now I just need to share my story !

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I could hear him scolding the barista all the way from across the cafe. He'd been here before, and I recognized his voice. I shuddered at the sound of it.

"I'd like to speak to your manager", he said. He was middle-aged, bald, wearing a very expensive-looking watch, and sweating a little around his forehead.

I took a deep breath and made my way to the front counter, where Katie was struggling to pacify him. I hated having to deal with people like this, but it was part of the gig. If my beloved coffee shop was going to survive, I needed to develop some thicker skin dealing with shitty customers. My heart hammered in my chest, begging me not to get confrontational. It was simply not in my nature, and often got me in trouble. I was a pathological people pleaser and a big softy, rarely having the courage to tell someone off. However, I felt oddly maternal to the staff on my team, and my instinct to protect my barista over powered my need to be the nice guy.

"I'm the manager," I said to him when I reached the counter, pushing myself to have enough volume in my voice to sound authoritative. "How can I help you?."

"I ordered a strong Americano with less water," he shoved the cup in front of me. "She only gave me half a cup."

"I don't know how else to make an Americano with less water." Katie, the barista said, almost in tears. "If he wants a fuller cup, he either needs more espresso or more water and he doesn't want either".

"I'm sorry, sir," I said, "If you don't like the coffee I can make you something else or reimburse you."

That made him angrier. "I'm going to give you a one-star review on every platform I can find! I'm going to put you right out of business! Do you know who I am?"

I'd given up and stood there with my sweaty hands tucked into my apron, waiting for him to finish his tirade and move on. He slammed the drink on the counter and stormed out, wagging his finger in my direction. It is alarming how some people will react over a coffee that isn't to their liking.

There was a low murmur over the remaining patrons in the line, all patiently waiting for to get their dose of caffeine before heading off to work or school.

"Scores" was the most popular cafe and bakery in the downtown core. We were nestled between an artisan shoemaker and a whiskey bar right on the busy main street. There was a huge bay-style window at the main entrance where we often placed a stage in for performances and book or poetry readings. Between the smells of bread and cookies from the kitchen, to the steam of espresso inviting you in- it was the coziest place I knew of. The iron piping in the roof gave away the building's industrial-era age, but the electic couches, chandeliers, and random curiosities made it feel lost in time. Nothing could place it in a certain decade- the rugs were very 70's, most of the tables very 90s, but the array of couches and mistfit sofas were very hard to pin down. A bohemian oasis.

Even though it was my job, I enjoyed being there. We even had a free library along the exposed brick wall at the back of the shop. Customers loved to sip on coffee and read for hours. Scores was more my home than my own apartment.

Every morning, the baker arrived to work in the dark hours of the morning and often the baristas showed up before the sun rose. I always checked in for the morning rush and again in the afternoon when people were stopping in for the afternoon rush or for their second pick-me-up. As the manager, I had the privilege of making my own schedule, but seldom did over 24 hours go by without me being there for one reason or another. There was always a fire to put out- but I was slowly grooming Katie to take on some assistant-manager duties to give myself a break.