Chapter 2 Shaun
Shaun
“What do you mean you’re not coming in?” I hold my phone to an ear with my shoulder as I hand a scowling customer his takeaway latte. “Sorry for the wait, sir.”
“What?” the phone crackles.
“Not you, Kyle,” I hiss.
The bell above the door jangles as two more customers walk in and join the back of the queue. I bring the phone closer to my mouth and lower my voice to a whisper. “What’s going on? Are you sick?”
A lengthy silence.
“Are you talking to me now?”
“Yes, Kyle!”
I swear, this boy…
“Right, sure,” says Kyle, oblivious to my annoyance. “No, I’m fine. I just can’t come in today.”
My blood turns molten. This morning has been a madhouse, and I’ve been here since five. Just like yesterday, the day before, and every day since we opened a month ago. I’m shattered, smelly, and fuelled by nothing but three flat whites and a piece of cake that was too stale to sell.
Now Kyle, my numpty of a part-time barista, is leaving me to weather this shitstorm alone.
Why me?
I turn to greet the next person in the queue and recognise her immediately.
She’s a regular. She’ll want a soy cappuccino, extra hot.
I mime her order to her and she nods with a sympathetic grimace.
Behind her, half a dozen zombies glare impatiently, ready to rip me apart if they don’t get their morning caffeine fix soon.
I duck behind the counter and forage for soy milk in the fridge.
“Kyle, unless you’re sick, you can’t just not come in.”
“Yeah, no, I know,” Kyle drawls. “But remember that audition I had last week? Well, turns out I got it, and they want me to start rehearsals straight away, so…”
I grit my teeth. “So what?”
“So, uh, I guess I quit?”
Like the grim reaper, I rise up from the floor, anger boiling inside me. Slamming the carton down, I rip the cap off the soy milk, spraying my face with droplets in the process. In my head, a dull ache pulses.
Breathe in, breathe out.
“You need to give two weeks' notice, Kyle. It’s in your contract.” I pour the soy into a jug and fire up the steamer.
“Yeah, sure.” There isn’t even a hint of remorse in his voice. “It’s just, like, a really big opportunity. Panto is really in right now and they want me to play Jack. That’s like the main part. I can’t really say no to them, can I? Not for a café job.”
I’m so mad I could ram my steaming wand right up Kyle’s beanstalk. I should tell him to jog on, but I’ve got an audience of potential TripAdvisor trolls in front of me, so I’m forced to bite my tongue.
“I suppose not,” I say, heating the soy milk to within an inch of its life.
“Thanks Shaun, I knew you’d understand.” I’m about to tell Kyle that he isn’t giving me much choice, but he cuts me off. “Oh, one more thing. I’m moving to Glasgow to be closer to rehearsals. Can you give me a reference for my landlord?”
The steam wand starts to scream and I hastily remove it from the scalding milk jug. Piss off, Kyle is what I want to say. “No problemo,” is what I settle for.
“Cheers Shaun, you’re the best. Listen, I’ve got to run, but good luck with the whole café thing.”
His condescension crackles through the phone line, leaving my temper simmering. I’m being talked down to by a nineteen-year-old.
“Break a leg,” I say, entirely in the literal sense, before hanging up the phone and pouring out the soy cappuccino.
It’s only once I’ve handed it to the lady and she’s walked off, that I realise I forgot to put any espresso in the cup.
Bollocks! That’ll be another disappointed customer.
If I was working in Starbucks, it wouldn’t matter so much.
They have enough footfall to make up for the odd bit of poor service.
But word travels fast in a small town and there are plenty of other places in West Marbank she can go to get her coffee.
Or, in this case, her cup of boiling soy milk.
I close my eyes, indulging in a split second of rest before I have to serve the next customer.
Stupid Kyle. Stupid actors! I can’t believe he just quit without notice. After the amount of shifts I covered so he could go to all those auditions! This is the price I pay for my generosity.
The prospect of working another full day alone rises like a mountain in front of me.
So many blogs warned me against hiring too many creative types.
You’ll spend half your time covering their shifts for auditions then they’ll up and leave the second they find other work.
I thought I was safe with Kyle. After seeing him hamfist his way through Death of a Salesman at the West Marbank community theatre a few weeks back, I didn’t hold much hope for him making it in “the biz.” Guess he’s proven me wrong.
I could call Anna, my keyholder, to cover the afternoon, but she’s been working almost as hard as me lately and has a five-year-old to look after.
I swore I’d never be the kind of boss who begs or guilt-trips his staff to come to work, especially not on a Saturday they’d specifically booked off to be with their kid.
Right now, that’s a hard promise to keep.
The bell above the door jingles again. This time a gaggle of ladies peer inside, see the size of the queue and promptly do an about turn and leave.
At the same time, someone mutters something about “crap service” and abandons their place in line, storming out the door behind them.
From the kitchen behind me, the oven beeps, telling me the brownies I put in twenty minutes ago are ready to be taken out. So much to do.
A lump forms in my throat but I take the next two orders and start making them simultaneously, keenly aware my heart is pinballing around my chest. Try though they might, my lungs don’t seem to be getting enough air.
No. No no no.
I feel it coming. The urge to run, to lock myself in the office, turn off the lights, and hide. My hands tremble as I steam the next jug of milk.
I remind myself to keep breathing, to focus on each breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the—
The sting of heat burns my fingers as the jug grows too hot to touch. Shit! I turn off the steam and examine the clouds of dry milk foam I’ve concocted.
Come on, Shaun. Concentrate, or you’ll never have another customer again.
As I try to rescue the coffees, my hands start to shake, like they always do when I’m feeling overwhelmed.
My pouring arm jerks involuntarily, leaving a blob of milk foam drooping over the edge of one takeaway cup.
I cover it with the lid before the customer notices.
Handing over the drinks, I run into the back to open the oven door, pausing only to take another pacifying breath, before heading back through to serve the next in line.
I deal with the queue as best I can but given I’m alone, exhausted, and every step on my tired feet feels like a bed of nails, the rest of the morning rush is pretty much a shitshow. More grumpy customers, more messed-up orders, and plenty of near-meltdowns and suppressed panic attacks.
By mid-morning, I wish I had the option of handing in my resignation.
My clothes, uncomfortably tight, are damp with sweat and every time I catch my reflection in the coffee machine, I cringe at the state of my puffy, tired eyes, and untrimmed beard.
Plus, I’ve needed a piss for about an hour, but it’s been too busy to get away, and I’m so tired my hands and brain seem to have lost connection with each other.
Even the customers must think I look a wreck; the few smiles I get this morning are all twisted with pity.
As nine a.m. passes, there’s finally a lull. The commuters have dissipated and only a third of the tables are full, mostly students with laptops. They’ll be here for hours, leeching off my free WiFi for the price of one filter coffee.
The rest of the tables are littered with debris: dirty mugs, crumb-smeared plates. and torn sugar packets covering every surface.
If I’m quick, I can run to the bathroom, clear the tables, do the dishes, and restock the counter in time for the late morning rush. Then do it all over again in the afternoon until close.
Another twelve-hour shift for me.
I feel a rush of resentment. Not for anyone in particular, and certainly not Kyle…
Okay, maybe a little bit for Kyle, but I can’t really blame him.
Acting is his dream. I wouldn’t think twice about dropping a shitty job I didn’t care about to seize my dream by the horns.
I did, in fact. I quit my office job and opened a café.
Now, barely a month in, I’m already starting to hate it.
My dream has cost me my sleep and my sanity.
I haven’t spoken to my friends in weeks.
Neglecting the gym and surviving entirely off cake and takeaway for a month has obliterated my waistline and all my work clothes are too small, unwashed, or both.
This bloody café even cost me Lara. A dream is great and all, but when the price of it is the end of a five-year relationship, you start to think you’ve been more than a little short-changed.
I give myself a shake. Stop moping, Shaun. I knew staff turnover would be an issue. Rather than feeling sorry for myself, I should be focusing on finding a replacement for Kyle as soon as humanly possible.
On my way back from the bathroom, I duck into the office and grab a piece of paper and a sharpie. Hurrying back out front, I clear the tables as quickly as I can, stopping only to do a couple of takeaway orders for some stragglers.
Once I’ve got the seating area looking semi-decent again, I lay the paper and pen out on an empty table. On it, I write:
PART-TIME BARISTA WANTED
30 hours per week (4-5 shifts)
Must be available weekends!
Experience preferred but full training will be given
IMMEDIATE START
If I could write “preferably no actors or people with even the slightest bit of artistic ambition” at the bottom I would, but I feel it probably wouldn’t go down too well. Plus, there isn’t room.
I tear off a ribbon of sticky tape from the roll behind the counter and stick the advertisement on the glass front door of the café. It looks a little sloppy, but hopefully I won’t need to leave it up for long. It’s nearly Christmas; surely people will be looking for extra work?
I cross my fingers as I open the door to let an elderly couple inside. I show them to a table and, stifling a yawn, I ask, for the hundredth time today, “So, what can I get for you?”