A Counter Encounter
Ben made his way to the counter with his backpack containing his laptop slung over his shoulder while carrying his lunch-bag in his hand. For whatever reason, the vibe of Roasted Aromas made Ben feel comfortable eating his lunch at one of the picnic tables instead of shoving it down his through on the drive to the coffee shop.
The menu behind the counter was a giant chalkboard that stretched from the top of the ceiling down to the sink area, hanging on the wall with a variety of hooks. Ben never looked at it much since his order never changed, a small, house roast with some cream. Every now and then he would glance at the menu if there was a line in front of him. He would think back to the days when he used to get the iced lattes at Buckets, and remembered when he started coming to Roasted Aromas that he ventured into having oat milk in his latte instead of skim milk.
On the menu, the small, house roast was the least expensive item. Unlike Buckets, Roasted Aromas didn’t have an app to pre-load money and get rewards, it was strictly a cash or credit kind of place. When Ben first started coming, he would order the large, iced latte with oat milk, but he started to see exactly how much it was costing him. One day he did the math in his head, “Five dollars a latte with tip, five days a week, four weeks a month. Shit, I’m spending over a hundred dollars a month on these lattes!” So he looked at the menu for the least expensive thing, and there it was, the small, house roast tallying up at three dollars including the tip. “If I just get the house roast I can save forty dollars a month, probably a bunch of calories, too.”
From that day on the small, house roast with cream was his drink.
Normally there wasn’t a line, but today seemed uncharacteristically busy, which internally annoyed Ben, as every minute in line was one less minute for his “escape.” He had his schedule down to a science. It was an eight-minute drive to the coffee shop, eight minutes back to the office, and generally around three minutes to the counter to get his order placed and leave the counter with coffee in hand. When he would leave it was one minute back to the car. That left him forty minutes to eat his lunch and work on his laptop. When he would sit down with his coffee, Ben would start a forty minute timer on his watch so he wouldn’t lose track of time.
The wildcard, however, was always someone in line ahead of him. As the counter staff would get to know Ben, they would have his coffee ready to go by the time he got to the register, he would pay, and get to a spot, setting that timer, but anyone in front of him could throw off the entire schedule.
With things weirdly busy this time, and as annoyed as Ben was because the person in front of him was analyzing the entire menu, he decided maybe it should be one of those days he would just take a breath and accept he would need to set his timer for thirty-five minutes. With the feeling of being resigned to the fact he was going to have to wait, eavesdropping on the conversations around him seemed like a way to entertain himself.
In front of Ben was, at his best guess, a twenty-something guy, who, for Ben’s taste, seemed way too inquisitive about the coffee.
“It’s coffee, from where they make coffee, why can’t you just order?”, was the overwhelming thought in Ben’s head.
“Is the ‘Cinny Sweet’ very sweet?”, the man asked.
The Cinny Sweet was a latte with salt, oak milk, cinnamon and syrup.
“Not too bad. If you want we can add a little less syrup,” replied Bill, the barista.
“I really wouldn’t want you to change the recipe, I’m sure you came up with it for a reason. How about the ‘Purple Yam Delight’? The board says those are Tarrazu coffee beans. Where are those from?”
“We source them from a local farm in Costa Rica.”
“I always wanted to go to Costa Rica. Have you ever been there?”, the guy asked Bill.
“No, I’ve never been there. I would like to go there someday. The owners always make those trips to check out the coffee fields.”
Ben was doing his best not to get annoyed, wavering between a feeling of resignation, and one of “Jesus, can’t you see there is a line here?”
As the line was growing behind Ben, now three deep, Ben thought how happy the people behind him would be when he got to the counter, got his small, house roast with cream, and be done with his order in a matter of seconds. Glancing behind him, there was an older couple at the end of the line, and Ben could see the older man pointing at the menu board gesturing to the woman he was with, “Honey, I think today I’ll have the ‘Afternoon Pick Me Up.’”
“Don’t forget to ask for oat milk, Arthur, you know how dairy gives you gas,” the woman replied.
A slight smile came to Ben’s face as anything related to farts made Ben grin.
In front of the older couple was a thirty-ish year old woman that Ben had seen at the coffee shop before. She was struggling with her baby in her stroller, and her four year old was trying to get away from her. He could hear the bribery starting, “Chad, if you stay near mommy I’ll get you a juice box and cookie.”
Ben thought to himself for a spell, “I wonder why I never get any of the cookies here like I did at Buckets?”
Directly behind Ben was Miranda, standing alone. He didn’t remember seeing her in the coffee shop before, but noticed that she seemed ready to order. He figured she came to the shop during different times of the day than when he was there. His best guess was that she was just out of college, and while glancing behind him he caught her eye as if to mentally convey the thought, “Someday we might be able to get our coffee.”
Miranda gave a slight grin back, seeming to acknowledge the delay caused by the guy still at the counter.
Meanwhile, at the counter, Mr. Inquisitive revisited traveling to Costa Rica, and then decided on the “Purple Passion”, a different latte that included ube. With the order complete, the total was $6.52.
The man pulled out his wallet, sorting through the cash on the hunt for six singles. Ben looked at his watch in full resignation that he might be lucky to get thirty minutes on his timer. Six singles were fanned out on the counter, and now it was time for the man to pull change out of his pocket. At this point, not to anyone’s surprise, he had exactly fifty two cents. Ben noticed Bill realizing there would be no tip for his effort.
With the man in front of him finally done with his expedition through the menu and making his way to the pickup area of the counter, Ben approached the counter. Bill apologized, “Sorry about the wait.”
“I commend you for your patience,” Ben replied with his normal smile. Surprising even himself, out of Ben’s mouth came, “Do you think he’ll ever go to Costa Rica?”
Bill let out a chuckle while pouring Ben’s small, house roast, getting the cream out of the refrigerator.
Somehow Ben became chatty, “Where do you think I should travel to?”
Bill seemed a little stunned that Ben was actually making conversation, “No idea.”
And in a complete anti-Ben move, Ben cheerfully turned around to Miranda, jokingly asking, “Bill isn’t much help, where do you think I should travel to next, Costa Rica or France?”
“France,” said Miranda, also stunned to be part of the conversation.
Ben didn’t know why, but instead of using the tap on his watch to pay, he reached into his wallet, pulled out $20, and laughingly said to Bill, “This should be enough for my coffee and whatever she is ordering,” as he pointed to Miranda. “You can keep the change. I’m going to France!”
Miranda was shocked and shyly said, “Thank you.”
Ben took his small, house roast with cream, found his spot at a picnic table in the event area, and set his timer to thirty minutes.
What Ben didn’t know was that Miranda was about to graduate college.