Behind the Bar
We see a lot behind the bar.
Financial instability is a good friend of freelance life. It's a reality that often pushes me into part-time café work. You might say grinding beans and taking orders is a step backwards for a university graduate, but that’s not necessarily the case. For me, I find being a barista compliments my writing life. Where else do you get to interact with so many different people, all with their own troubles, joys and stories. This week's short story is a homage to those faces I see day to day.
We see a lot behind the bar. In a week, we might see a neat cross-section of society. Every type of person, in every type of mood. We’ve heard a thousand hello’s and almost as many goodbyes. We’ve listened to you dream, demand and denounce. We’ve watched you laugh and lie, smile and cry. We hear you type frantically and pause peacefully.
Behind the bar, there’s a distance between us, perhaps a metre or two. It's a distance filled with machinery, crockery and steam. But even with all this between us, we see you clearly. And given enough time, you turn translucent. Your place in this scene is priceless, a collection of souls gathered under the same roof, unbothered by the table beside you. Here, you don’t roll your eyes or jump to conclusions. Here you’re accepting. There’s an understanding, unspoken but understood.
Tired typers open the squealing door, rubbing their eyes, before beginning their hunt for the wifi. Their hands are claws, and their shoulders lean forward as if they and the white screen in front of them are attracting magnets.
“An extra shot, please... and what's the wifi again?” They add at the end of every order.
***
He wakes up next to his laptop. It's dead, the keyboard is littered with crisp crumbs, and the screen is smudged with greasy fingerprints. By the time he fell into his dreams, the sun had started turning the sky blue. But even then, he saw lines of code and peer reviews. He's haunted by his day job, a sickness he can't handle forever, but perhaps he can manage a few more months. The pay's good, and so is his title.
He doesn't take long to shower. It's cold and uncomfortable, but it's over in a minute. His clothes are in a pile at the foot of the bed. He steps into his jeans; there's a small coffee stain on the left thigh. At least the T-shirt is stainless.
Right on cue, the screaming starts next door. The kids have never been morning people. Their protests ring through the old bricks and plaster as clearly as if the walls weren't there at all. There's a café down the road; that's always his backup plan on mornings like this when he's had little to no sleep. The scent of croissants and coffee greet him on the street, tingling his nose and teasing his hungry stomach.
New mums arrive in reverse, pushing the door open with their bums and pulling their prams behind them. They must be as tired as the typers, probably even more, but they’re never willing to show it. They offer a smile and a question. Motherhood is all-encompassing. Their care starts with their sleeping newborn and continues to everyone surrounding them.
“How are you today?” They ask.
***
The baby wakes Mum up a couple of hours after she's found sleep, and it's one of those nights when she won't return to it. The baby's only three weeks old, and she's only been home for two. It has been three of the hardest weeks for Mum and Dad. They'd expected a lack of sleep. Parenthood is famous for it. But the nervousness is what has caught them off guard. It chips away at their resolve like a miner picking at a granite wall. Neither of them has admitted it to each other, but it's the main reason she's still missing a name.
"I'll be home around half-five," Dad says as he steps out the door. "Love you!" He finishes.
"You too," Mum answers, feeding for the first time today in daylight.
"Shall we go and get a coffee?" She asks, pulling her off her chest.
School kids come in groups, like wolves hungry for blood. But their blood is gossip, their teeth are screens, and their eyes are darting like prey, not predators.
“Cappuccino, please.”
***
High school has always been and probably always will be a rumour mill. News travels faster during a school lunch break than speeding through cables or bouncing off satellites.
The Year Eleven girls are deciding who to pick as their prom dates, and the boys are pretending not to care. Although, most of them keep a sharp eye on their messages, refreshing and hoping for the reply they've wanted to receive all week.
Like any school, the years are fractured into clicks. There's a group of girls who've been getting more attention than they're used to. It wasn't so long ago that their peers looked at them with unfavourable eyes. They are the type to keep to themselves, locked away in the music rooms at breaks and never venturing out to the monthly house parties. But all of a sudden, that same aloofness has turned into their secret weapon, and people can't get enough.
"Let's get out of here," one says to the group.
"Coffee?" Another suggests.
Men of a certain age come to read the daily paper; some women, too. They’re a rarer breed, though. They come strolling through the door with self-assurance reserved for those with greying hair. They have an air of patience born from a life of service. Or they don’t, reading and leaving quicker than they come charging in.
“Black coffee, please… and where are the papers?”
***
His alarm sounds at five, as it has done for forty years. Even in retirement, he's a stickler for routine. It's what keeps him alive, or so he tells his grandchildren when they complain about an early morning.
There used to be coffee brewing on the stove when he woke up, and every Friday, something freshly baked. By the time he took his first couple of sips, his paper would slip through his letter box. Then he and his wife would attempt the crossword.
The first time he woke up in an empty house, he was crushed. It wasn't a surprise; he'd been preparing himself the best he could, but nothing can prepare you for that moment after fifty-six years of marriage. He sobbed for a while on that first morning as the rain rolled down his windows. Now, when that same rain falls, he can't stand it. He'll jump straight out of bed, start talking to her as he gets ready, and then leave for his morning walk as soon as possible.
"It's pouring today, Love. What are you doing up there?" He says, trying to find his umbrella.
Couples arrive, propelled by conversation, only pausing for the seconds it takes to request their order. It’s only their bodies who have come to drink. Their minds are elsewhere, on holiday, either the one they’ve returned from or are about to depart on. Or they're lost deep in the future, with a baby at their side or building a dream house somewhere in the wilderness.
“I’ll have the same,” one of them, says, “ and let’s share a cinnamon bun. Can you cut it in two?”
***
They've been together for more than a year, and for the last few months, they've called the same flat home. It's not much, but you don't need much when you're deeply in love. Everything looks wonderful in romantic delusion.
Last night they booked their first trip away.
"I've got an idea," she said suddenly, with no fear of rejection in her voice.
"Go on..."
"Let's put three destinations in a hat and randomly draw one out."
"Any rules?"
"None."
That's how they ended up booking flights to Istanbul at midnight. And it's why they woke up the next day excited to plan and research. There's nothing that says first time away together like a full schedule.
Students, a handful of years older than the wolves, arrive with weights hanging from their necks. Creases fold their foreheads, and seriousness washes away the silliness of childhood. These are people in transition dressed as adults but not quite filling out their new costumes.
“Espresso, please.”
***
Exam stress is a distance threat at this time of the year, but she's not the type to rest on her laurels. She fought through school to be top of her class and she intends to end her university career the same way.
She works in the evenings at the nightclub all her coursemates frequent. There's a piece of her that hates it, seeing them snatch kisses in the strobing lights and dancing drunkenly until the music stops. But there's another part of her that relishes spotting a coursemate. If they're here, drinking until dawn, there's no way they can be out-working her.
"Can I have a double?" A girl she sits next to on Tuesdays asks her. It's code for, can you pour me the strongest drink you've ever poured? And she's a willing participant. The stronger her drinks, the worse off she'll be in the morning.
"See you tomorrow," she says, passing the drink over the bar.
Morning is brightening the sky when she leaves with her tip-stuffed pockets. But she doesn't want to go home; she needs to study, and there's only one place open at this time.
Women arrive in pairs, wearing a uniform of yoga tights or blue jeans, hair tied in messy buns. They’re here to discuss, trade and advise. These brief meetings keep the plates spinning and sweep up the broken pieces that have crashed to the floor.
“Two teas, please,” they ask, radiant from existence.
***
She wakes up early, ready to tick off her list before the kids come back at three. There's a fight to get them out of the door, fully dressed and prepared for the day. But by now, she has it down to a science. Sandwiches are wrapped and waiting in bags, all labelled and customised to each kid's preference.
Her emails are the first on her list, and she starts marking the important stuff as she shepherds the kids onto their bikes.
"Don't forget you have football tonight." She calls to her oldest. He doesn't acknowledge her, but she knows he'll be home in time. For all his teenage angst, he's never missed a practice. He's like his mum, persistent and consistent.
The WhatsApp group starts to ping with new messages. There's some drama with next month's school trip, and buried deep within her inbox a old client asking for more help.
Let's meet at the café, she replies to both. First, she'll solve the school trip derailment. Then, she'll turn her attention to her most lucrative client.
Here come the workers, the labourers, folk with sun-kissed skin and roughly calloused hands. They’re here for a piece of civility to break up their day of sweat and swearing.
“How’s it goin’ chap?” They ask as if it’s the only way to start an interaction.
“Good, thanks. And you?” We reply.
“Better, now the day is almost done,” they say, spooning sugar into their cups.
***
He doesn't need an alarm. Years of labour have set his body clock in place. The house is asleep when he leaves, but everyone gets a kiss on their forehead before he pulls on his boots and turns the keys in his van.
Today's a miserable one with three difficult jobs spread across the area. To make things worse, they're all outside, which means getting wet today.
He meets his apprentice at the McDonald's on the way into town.
"You look rough," he says, smelling the booze escaping the boy's pores.
"Long night," the boy replies.
"Don't worry, lad, this will sort you out."
The rain is pouring, malicious and vindictive. It's a greedy downpour that wants to mark every square inch with its moisture. There’s no escape, no alternative. And because of its presence, there's no neat cross-section today. The typers are at home, watching droplets roll down their windows while they yawn and stretch their arms at their desks. New mums are watching too, rocking their newborn in their arms, hoping for a reprieve in the weather. Kids are in class or the library sitting with their backs to the book-laden shelves. Serious students sit at desks, writing something provocative or profound in the comfort of their dorms. And the couples are lying in bed, curled against each other, listening to the rain tell its story.
The only people to walk through the door are the daily paper readers, the lamenting labourers and the uniformed women. The tripod of society, propping up the rest of us. But they come for different reasons. The labourers are the heartiest of the bunch. They arrive soaked and sour after a morning of heavy lifting. The daily readers arrive with a familiar assurance, shaking their umbrellas at the door and wiping the condensation from their glasses. Pairs of women arrive later than usual, drying wet hair with damp jumpers. Somehow, they seem even more important on a day like this, as if their meetings will bring an end to the rain. And at these times, when the crowd is thinned, we get the time to join the scene. Taking a few extra minutes to ask questions, add a slice of something sweet to their plates or a heart in their foamed milk.
Love, Luke
Who are you in this story, a student, a tired typer, a new mum, or maybe someone I forget to mention?