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Metz is having a meltdown next to the panini press. Which is really inconvenient, because it’s the midday rush and they have a line ten people deep and it’s so not the time for their fine tuned coffee-making ensemble to fall apart.
There isn’t any question as to why Metz is silently weeping as he makes a tomato and swiss panini — Andrew heard the rude customer verbally accost him. Everybody in the café heard. Hell, probably even the people in the Subway across the street heard the angry, bald-headed man yell at Metz.
But whatever the case, Metz is having a meltdown and it’s totally throwing off their groove; Ryan keeps looking over his shoulder from the register, Carl is being more Carl than usual, Nicole is comforting Metz between making drinks, and Andrew is having to re-make the drink that Metz fucked up.
“Don’t coddle him,” Carl says, punching the blender start button with more force than what’s necessary. “Customers have hissy fits over their orders all the time. Big deal.”
It’s true. Two weeks ago a lady demanded that she speak to the manager because there was too much ice in her iced coffee. When Andrew had reminded her that she asked for extra ice she said, “Yes, but not that much ice!”
Although, Andrew has never had a customer tell him (and he quotes): you’re stuck in la-la land thinking about guzzling down caramel syrup, so you can't do your job right! If you touch anything I drink again so help me god I will fucking leap over this table and shove your hand in the coffee grinder.
“Whatever,” Andrew says, slamming the new drink on the counter. “Here’s the asshole’s drink. Latte, triple shot, without a “fuck load” of foam.”
Metz hands the panini to a kid who probably should be in school right now. “Uh no, I am not going over there. I’ll quit before I serve him again.”
Andrew turns around. Ryan, Carl, and Nicole suddenly find themselves busy. Which leaves Andrew as de-facto barista; you touched the cup last, it’s your responsibility.
Loud Yelling Man doesn’t acknowledge Andrew when he approaches his table — he’s fiddling with his phone and has earbuds jammed in his ears, but Andrew gets the sense that he’s purposely ignoring him.
The man is quite intimidating, Andrew has to admit. He’s sharply dressed; black slacks and a matching black shirt; black jacket draped behind his chair; a hat on the table; a scarf that lies coiled, like a blue and gray knit snake. He’s about the same age as Andrew’s dad, but extremely fit — ridiculously so — and there’s a certain quality that he carries that makes Andrew’s skin tingle. Like it's an indicator of danger. Like the prickle in the air before a thunderstorm.
When Andrew clears his throat, the man glances up from his phone and yanks out his left earbud. His eyes are startlingly blue, Andrew notices. Which is weird because he normally avoids eye contact with customers at all costs, but he can’t seem to look away from this man.
“Here,” Andrew says, sitting the cardboard cup on the table. “I hope this is more satisfactory.”
The man glares at the cup on the table, as if the miniscule specs of coffee splattered on the outside offend him. “Yes. Let’s just hope that it’s better, instead of you making sure it’s done right...” He pauses to read the nametag pinned to Andrew’s apron. “Andrew. Let’s. Hope.”
Andrew doesn’t really know what to say. Angry Latte Man obviously is expecting him to say something. But non-confrontation is a trait that he learned from his dad, passed from Neiman to Neiman, so Andrew turns on his heel and leaves the man and his still steaming coffee.
It’s busy and Andrew is soon distracted, and immediately makes seven blended iced coffees in a row. He doesn’t think about the incident while he puts away a milk jug, flinching because the weight of it catches his wrist the wrong way and hurts. Andrew completely forgets about the man with the latte until he forces himself back into his thoughts.
Andrew is getting a scone out of the display case and someone bangs hard on the glass, and it echoes around his ears and scares the fuck out of him. He jumps out of his skin, startled, and slams his head on the door jam of the display case.
He winces and bites down on a curse, and looks through the glass, over the cupcakes, and it’s him.
“Not bad,” the man says, leaning down to eye level with Andrew and shouting through the glass. “But it could have used less milk.”
Rubbing his head as stands, Andrew sees that the man has already gone, but left his empty cup on top of the display case.
What a jerk.
The man comes back the next day. Andrew is aware of this mainly because Metz darts into the backroom when the man comes through the door, in a flurry of scarf and wrath and denunciation.
Carl takes his order (and Andrew can’t help but smirk when the man snaps at him). Once the man is rung up he points to Andrew.
“I want him to make my drink,” he says, and everyone behind the counter pivots to Andrew.
Andrew blinks at the man over a teakettle. He plants it unceremoniously on the counter and wipes his hands on his apron. “Okay.”
The man grins. Menacingly, Andrew might add. For some reason, it feels like a death sentence. Maybe because it looks like he’s expecting failure and is just itching to find a reason to yell at him. The panic must show on Andrew’s face, because the man grins more, and it’s weird because it doesn’t reach his eyes and it looks like he’s daring someone to provoke him to anger. And just—
Fuck. Not good.
Andrew fumbles though what is probably the most nerve-wracking latte in his life. The man stands at the edge of the counter the entire time, silently judging him, which does not make the process any easier.
Somehow, Andrew makes the drink without burning his hands. He reads the name off the cup. “Terence?”
The man wordlessly holds out his hand, and accepts the drink.
“Thanks, Andrew,” he says, tersely. “Next time, I’d love it if the sweat dripping from your disgusting face was not an extra ingredient in my coffee.”
After, Andrew boots Metz out of the breakroom.
Terence becomes a regular at their place. And every single time Andrew makes his order. Not by happenstance, but because he requests, no, demands, that Andrew do it every single time.
“When you weren’t here yesterday, he walked out,” Ryan tells Andrew the morning after he had a day off. “It...was weird.”
“I almost told him where you live so he could bother you at home,” Carl quips, and Andrew wishes he could punch him but he needs this job and assaulting your manager is a good way to get fired.
But really, losing this job is starting to look like a good option. Because he is in hell.
Andrew has no clue why he's sentenced to have such an ill-tempered man obsessed with berating his barista skills. Terence always complains about something. If he finishes his coffee in the café Andrew can expect him to come up the counter and fling a loaded insult, and if he takes it with him Andrew knows that he’ll hear about his epic failure the next day.
Yesterday’s point of issue: the tea was steeped for too long, shouted at full volume over the music from the speakers and quiet conversations of other customers. The day before that he had yelled across the room, “this is literal garbage!” and poured the entire contents of his cup into the garbage can.
Nicole suggests that they ban Terence from the café. Ryan and Metz agree, but Carl says they can’t kick him out unless he actually acts on his threats, but Andrew thinks that Carl is too afraid to say anything to him.
Yes, Andrew thinks. Please get rid of my coffee maniac. Andrew keeps expecting that Terence will go away, but he must get his kicks out of tormenting Andrew because he keeps coming back. It might make it worth it if he at least tipped him, but he’s never done that, except for the one time he left three cents on top of a napkin inscribed in blue pen, for my favorite mediocre barista Andrew, and that was just an slap in the face.
But for some goddamn reason, it becomes Andrew’s mission to please Terence. One fucking order where he doesn’t find something to critique. The perfect cup of coffee, the perfectly brewed tea. It’s kind of becoming annoying that Andrew can’t seem to get it right. It’s become a matter of pride for him.
So: on one Thursday night, Andrew notices Terence waiting in line. Thinking of a way to impress, Andrew starts making his usual order. Terence’s antics may be arbitrary, but his drink orders are not. He’s easy to predict — lattes at midday, tea at night. Andrew makes the drink perfect, steeped at just the right temperature, he makes sure he doesn’t squeeze the bag, there’s no leaves floating in the liquid, and he writes Terence on the side of the cup in sharpie with his neatest handwriting.
This is it, Andrew thinks as walks the drink to him in line. This he will like, him anticipating his needs. Andrew is kind of living for him to take a sip and having nothing to say other than, “good job.”
Andrew hands his drink to him, and smiles.
“What the fuck is this?” Terence asks. He holds the cup with only his thumb and pointer and middle fingers and keeps it at least a foot away from his body, like he’s being forced to hold something disgusting and unwanted.
“Earl Gray, hot, two packs of honey,” Andrew says, slowly. “What you always get past seven p.m.”
Terence frowns. “This isn’t what I wanted,” he says, handing the cup back to Andrew. “I’d like an Americano.”
Fuming, Andrew stomps back, throwing the tea in the sink.
Terence did that on fucking purpose. He must be a psychopath, Andrew thinks as he jerks the espresso machine around. A narcissistic megalomaniac at the very least. And he’s totally made Andrew his barista bitch.
When Terence comes to the counter Andrew has his new order ready.
“Here,” Andrew says, dramatically placing the cup down on the counter.
Terence picks it up, and reads the name Andrew wrote on the side. “Voldemort?”
Andrew crosses his arms. “I felt inspired.”
Andrew doesn’t try to predict Terence’s drink again. He’s had enough. It’s impossible to please the man, and Andrew has fantasies of tossing drinks in his face, or waterboarding him, but with steamed milk instead.
But no, he doesn’t care about him. Nope. Not at all.
He continues to write absurd names on his cups. It becomes their routine: Andrew comes up with a name, Terence provides the insults.
The Joker; “You burnt the milk, dumbass!”
Javert; “There’s too much foam! And don’t just scoop it off the top, jesus fucking christ!”
The Smoking Man; “Americans didn’t die for dumping tea in the harbor for you to make this awful thing that you insist is tea.”
Colonel Klink; “Are you too stupid to understand basic math? Because this is way more than a quarter inch of foam.”
Moriarty; “Your latte art is atrocious, holy fuck. A kindergartner could do better.”
Darth Vader; “You’re doing it wrong, there isn’t enough air. Listen to the espresso machine screeching! It’s screaming for help because you’re fucking destroying the coffee!”
“Really?” Terence says, holding the cup over the counter and pointing at the scribbled name. “Cruella de Vil?”
Andrew washes out a kettle, shrugging. “You look like a puppy killer to me.”
Terence huffs, and takes a drink of his latte. “It’s not hot enough.”
Andrew knows that’s total bullshit because he had kept a careful eye on the temperature, but, whatever. He doesn’t care, anymore.
The day next he tries his hardest to do it right.
Andrew wipes down tables after the night rush. He goes by Terence’s table, thinking he might as well get today’s attack over and done with. It’s a fact of life, now.
Sure enough, Terence takes out his earbuds and says to Andrew, “The tea was bitter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Andrew says, monotone and not sorry at all.
Despite complaining about it, Terence takes another swig of his tea, groaning as he sits the cup back on the table.
“That bad?” Andrew asks.
“No — it’s the music,” Terence says, exasperated, and gestures to the ceiling, finding a place to blame as the source of the music. Andrew listens, and over the blenders whirring he can hear faintly hear jazz.
“Not a fan of jazz?” A lot of people aren’t, Andrew knows.
“No, I actually love jazz,” Terence says, which is funny to Andrew because he didn’t think that Terence could love anything. “I love jazz,” Terence repeats, “but this is not jazz.”
“Oh?”
Terence leans back in his chair, and crosses one leg over the other. “This,” he says, jabbing to the ceiling again, “is mindless drivel of lazy artists, manufactured without any effort, and then they slap a label on it to classify it as jazz,” he says, hooking his fingers into quotes in the air. “A donkey is not horse just because you say it is.”
It’s the most he’s ever said that isn’t brutal, and it’s at such a smooth, conversational tone that he transforms into a whole new person.
The corner of Andrew’s mouth turns up, teasing. “Would you like to buy mindless drivel of lazy artists for the one-time payment of ten dollars, available at the register?”
“I’ll pay for you to turn it off.”
Andrew laughs. Terence glares, as if he’s on the bad end of a joke, for once.
“But yeah, it sucks, right?” Andrew says. “I’ve complained and offered other suggestions — I’ve even made a playlist with the good stuff. Miles Davis, Buddy Rich, Charlie Parker,” Andrew says, Terence nodding as he lists the names of the Greats off on his fingers.
Andrew is beside himself because he’s voluntarily engaging in conversation with the man who’s been making his job awful, and he’s even more confused when he doesn’t stop talking.
“But no avail,” Andrew says, and his hands fall to his sides. “It’s company policy to promote whatever new album they’re selling. Which is such sell-out garbage! Like, how can people get by with making such uninspired shit? It has no soul. Do they not care?”
He says it fast and intense, because someone finally fucking gets it. The frustration of the average. Why try if you can’t be the best? That’s why Andrew quit a long time ago, after his wrist got messed up and that part of his life ended (if he couldn’t drum right, then he didn’t want to at all — it’s all or nothing).
For a moment he thinks he overextended himself, has shown too much, because Terence is giving him a severe, blazing-hot look that Andrew feels cut him up inside.
But then — something lightens, and Terence smiles. One that reaches his eyes. One that Andrew feels like is earned.
“You’re alright, man,” Terence says, and to Andrew’s befuddlement he orders two lattes and tells Andrew to take a break. Carl objects at first, but when Terence shouts a homophobic slur across the café, Carl crumbles like one of the gluten-free cookies they sell.
When Andrew slides into the chair across from Terence, he can feel himself being surveyed. Terence is waiting, making sure he has Andrew’s attention, because it’s like he’s about to unfold the secrets of the universe and Andrew has to know.
(He has Andrew’s attention. And Andrew has his. It feels like he’s won.)
“You know Charlie Parker became Bird because Jo Jones threw a cymbal at his head,” Terence says. “You see what I’m saying?”
And Andrew leans in and nods, because he does understand, he does he does he does.