I finally won over the Starbucks barista who for the better part of a year, I was convinced wanted me to die. I assumed he hated me. Only in the last month or so has he warmed to me. Telling me to have a nice day, as he holds out my mobile order. Or telling me good morning. Or thanking me for something—who knows why. But I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever he gives me.
This morning, we entered Starbucks at the same time. I assumed he was starting his shift. He greeted me, cheerful and beaming.
***
Before that, there was nothing. He simply called out the name on my drink and handed it over. He was never short with me, he never frowned.
“Thank you,” I’d say.
“Mhm,” he’d say back, looking at something on the other side of the room. Or right at me.
The first few times it happened, I assumed it was just how he was. Nothing personal. Nothing deep. I’ve worked as a barista before. It’s stressful. And I felt a compulsion to tell him that.
I’ve worked as a barista before, I’d say after he swiped my card. It’s stressful.
I imagined him looking up and widening his eyes, grinning and shaking his head.
You’re telling me! He’d say, and we’d laugh and laugh.
But that didn’t happen. He was a sphinx, unmovable and silent, gazing upon me with confounding apathy.
I started watching him with other customers, some of them I saw every day. He was animated with them, friendly and easy. Smiling big and eyes bright. These people—my fellow parishioners—coming to worship in this terrible place. And the barista, the priest, sauntering down the aisle between the pews, shaking hands with everyone except me; he left me hanging out of the end of the pew, reaching out for him—my arm ripping out of my socket.
Every day, I tried to think of what I could have done. Surely I’d deserved this. I must have informed him that he’d given me the wrong drink in a tedious way. Or I’d asked for the egg bites that I had ordered and not received it, waiting for them with my arms crossed and hip jutted out—faggy and impatient—staring at the floor, then taking them and walking out without saying thank you; I’d sit down in the driver’s seat and suck the egg bites up in two, scalding gulps before driving off with a burning throat to go make the world a more annoying place.
I couldn’t remember anything specific, but I started to beg him to forgive me with my eyes, when I thanked him or told him to have a good day. Absolve me. Make me clean again. I knew he could sense it after a while. His face broke a little—not quite a smile or a frown. Something like pity. A fate worse than indifference.
Regardless, I accepted my atonement. My ritual. One day, earlier this year, I saw him handing out samples of some wretched new thing called “Oleato.” Coffee infused with olive oil, for some reason. I nearly took one, just for him. I would’ve ordered an Oleato every day if it meant he approved of me. I would let it be my destiny, to drink these nightmares every day and have diarrhea until I die old and dry—reduced to a strip of smoked meat. In my will, I’d leave instructions for my ashes to be placed inside an urn filled with beans of Oleato blend. I would make him proud.
Then, a few weeks back, he smiled at me when I walked in.
”How are you this morning?” He asked.
"Good,” I said. “And you?”
“Just started my day,” he said, and then shrugged.
I could have started crying right then. I wanted to scream and fall to the floor, then turn to everyone else in the store and ask them if they just saw what happened. To tell them that I was like them now. I was a good person, too.
***
This morning, the barista and me approached each other from either ends of the store entrance—him, the front steps, me the side ramp. We were two burning rocks, hurtling towards each other to collide and explode into a million flickering pieces. We locked eyes and he titled his head, familiar, cozy, and grinned. He held his hand up—not a wave, just a quiet, sturdy acknowledgement. Firm and safe.
He is so full of grace, I thought.
It sounded like he let out a faint “Hey.” I wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter. a I wanted him to hear me.
“Good morning,” I said, loud and strange.
I then imagined us walking inside together, arms linked, old friends, laughing about something that happened in childhood. That’s how long we’ve known each other. A lifetime of history, unspoiled and perfect.
The Oleato marketing team may steal the line “coffee infused with olive oil, for some reason”
i really enjoyed this