2. Coffee Break
2
COFFEE brEAK
WYATT
“ M ocha and a flat white, please.”
I paid and stepped back from the counter of a local so-called “bakery and beanery” around the corner from my office. Neandians took coffee seriously. Unlike in the States, where coffee options were often middling, here you got the best stuff. The trade-off was that Neandians weren’t particularly good at customer service and were as slow as molasses. I’d been here on and off for more than half a decade and still struggled with the pace of life.
“Wyatt. A minute?”
I turned to see my assistant Stephen on his phone. He gestured about something wildly. I nodded at him, waiting for further instruction.
Stephen was blessed with boundless energy. He joked no one would have believed he’d been on Broadway in a past life, but I would. He held people’s attention like none other and was unmatched at getting investors to open their wallets. I was the ideas guy, but Stephen counted the signatures and assured people they were part of something bigger than a line item.
He muted the phone, “Are you going to the Vision 360 launch?”
“I am,” I agreed. “Well, if I can land childcare.”
“I will personally watch Theo if you cannot. You must go. The head of the transit board seems?—”
He stopped, listening to the phone. “Yes, sir. He says he will be there.”
“Flat white!” A barista bellowed in a heavy accent.
I stepped up to grab it for Stephen, who was still busy kissing the ass of a Neandian bureaucrat. I handed the coffee off as he entered the car.
“You’re a doll,” Stephen sighed. “Good God, that man! He can talk . He wants facetime with the boss. Maybe he has a crush?”
“Please, let’s hope not. I have to pray my tux even fits,” I said. “He’ll only be disappointed with the reality.”
“Wyatt, you could afford a new tuxedo,” Stephen laughed. “Perhaps you should invest in one.”
“In two weeks? Unlikely.”
“My tailor makes miracles happen, Wyatt. I will put it on your calendar.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Mocha!”
I went to grab my drink, remembering I should tip. The barista glared at me as I pulled out my wallet. Then, I remembered where I was. If I tipped him, he’d be more offended. That was just his regular face. This hipster area was too cool for suits like me. I didn’t fit in here. Sadly, they had the best coffee for miles, and my day didn’t start unless I hit this place up first.
People passed on the sidewalk. Down here, it was mostly younger folks working at Neandian tech startups run by hedge funds. Known as a tax haven, the tiny country was a retirement village for elites wanting to store their cash. Despite that stodgy image, it became more desirable to younger folks as the art scene lit up. The new progressive government and a socially conscious monarch, Queen Alexandra, attracted young innovators with new business programmes. We located the firm here to tap into young and hungry talent along with healthy subsidies.
Stephen said, “Let’s run through your schedule… ”
My attention faded from him to a girl on a bike riding towards us. She smiled broadly, dressed head-to-toe in what could only be described as a superfluous amount of pink. I missed riding around on a cargo bike. It looked like so much fun. As she passed, she left the bike highway and returned to a semi-protected lane. Then, I saw a cyclist’s nightmare.
With a green bike signal, a “no right turn” light warned drivers in the right turn lane to stop. A driver ignored its warning, turning into the cyclist. I braced. She tipped over, her belongings spilling. I saw her fall, but she didn’t look hurt. I rushed over instantly, ensuring the driver stayed.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?” I approached, hoping she spoke English.
“I’m okay,” she answered in a vaguely British accent. “Just shaken.”
The driver appeared. I righted the bike, moved it to the sidewalk, and engaged its impressive double kickstand. It was a nice bike. Thankfully, it looked rideable. I returned as the driver apologised to the young woman, who remained visibly shaken.
“You must obey the no right turns signal,” I said. “You could have killed her!”
The women appeared speechless. Maybe she didn’t speak English? I tried in angry French. “She was wearing high-vis, for fuck’s sake!”
“I am so sorry. I was in a hurry with a baby in the car trying to get to daycare,” the driver explained in French.
“It’s not an excuse,” I said. “You’re late now, and you put your baby in danger, too. I get it—I’ve been in your position—but we are driving death traps. It’s on us.”
“Understood,” the driver said. “I am so, so sorry, ma’am.”
The young woman—far too young to be “ma’am”—smiled at me as the driver left.
“Thanks,” she turned back to the sidewalk. “It was…”
Her voice trailed, and her face sank. “Oh, fuck!”
Confused, I looked around. Stephen was on his phone, guarding the bike.
“What? ”
“My dog was right there. Now he’s gone!”
“You had a dog?”
“He was in the bike box,” the woman sobbed.
“Okay, okay. Let’s find him. Stephen, push my ten! We’re looking for a dog!”