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“Good morning, sir! What can I get for you?” greeted Clara cheerfully, one hand reaching out to grab an empty paper cup while the other entered the previous customer’s order into the system. Multi-tasking, and Service With A Smile. That’s what this part-time job required of her, and goodness knows she needed it because that college debt wasn’t going to repay itself, and unbelievably her car needed servicing and an oil change again, and why the heck did all her friends have to get married all at once, did she look like she was made of cash…
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that, please?” Her mind had wandered while the rotund, balding man in front of her was umm-ing and ahh-ing over the daily specials, and she’d missed the last part of his order.
“Can I, uh, have the eggs Benedict, but with the hollandaise on the side, and no bacon or muffin. Oh, and a pumpkin spice latte, two sugars.”
So basically you want poached eggs with hollandaise sauce, supplied her mind sarcastically, while her face did the Smile, and she chirped out loud, “No problemo, your order will be ready shortly, please wait to the side!”
She was so done with this shit. One more week of this hell, and she was handing in her resignation for sure. She’s not sure how much longer she can juggle a part-time job alongside the prac-teaching she was doing at Coal Hill. Unpaid prac-teaching, at that. She’ll stick with this for one more week. Just one more week.
That’s what she’d told herself last Monday. And the Monday before that. And the Monday six Mondays ago.
Life. Why must it be this way?
“Hello? I know they don’t set the standards high in places like these, but you’d think they’d at least hire one with a pulse. Teenagers these days, they’ve all got puddings for brains!”
I’m twenty-six, you knob, thought Clara, with much internal gnashing of teeth. That thought only served to depress her further, however, so she turned her full attention to the customer in front of her.
A Big Wig, if she ever saw one. Sunglasses that would cost her half a year’s in wages (who the hell wears shades indoors? Thinks himself some sort of rockstar, does he? An ageing one at that!). Sharply tailored suit she didn’t even dare to think in terms of her wage-equivalent. Grey hair.Floofy, was probably the best way she could describe it. And elegant hands with long, long fingers - fingers which were now tapping impatiently at the counter.
“I’m sorry, sir, got a bit distracted there for a moment. Can I please have your order?”
“Yeah, okay, and pay attention this time, will you? I’ll have a venti macchiato, double shot and extra hot, with six sugars.”
“Wait, did you say six?”
“Pudding-brained and mathematically challenged. That’s five fingers plus a thumb. Seriously, what are they even teaching you kids at school these days? Never mind, I’ve just got to answer this call, the name’s Doctor, don’t mess up my order with someone else’s.”
Clara allowed herself a moment’s pleasure imagining reaching over the counter, grabbing the arsehole by his fly-away floof, and slamming his head repeatedly against the cash register. Doctor, he’d called himself. Not pompous at all, then! What’s he a doctor of? Proctology, perhaps? He should see to that stick shoved up his own arse first. Arsehole.
With a perverse delight completely out of proportion to the nature of the act itself, Clara scribbled ‘Dock-Thor’ onto an empty cup.
“Next order, please!”
~~~
Dock-Thor returned to the cafe three days later, in the midst of the usual morning rush. He was looking decidedly less put-together this time round. Clara noted the absence of the three-piece suit, and were those sandshoes he was wearing? The sunglasses were still there, however. Maybe he’s missing an eye, thought Clara, then immediately felt bad for making a joke of the visually impaired. And if she didn’t know any better, Clara could’ve sworn those were tartan pyjama bottoms he had on…
“The gods preserve us, it’s the midget pudding-brain again. Same order, six sugars please.”
“I don’t make a habit of memorising people’s orders after a single visit. Who knows, even the old fuddy-duddies appreciate a bit of variety now and then.”
Shit. This mouth of hers was going to get her in trouble yet again, just as it had at her last ten jobs. And five relationships.
Clara watched with bated breath as Dock-Thor started at her words, his cheeks going slightly pink behind the oversized shades and his hands (those long, long fingers) flapping about for a moment, before coming to rest on the counter and gripping it tightly.
“Venti macchiato. Double shot, extra hot. Six sugars.”
Clara decided not to push her luck. “Name, please?” she said, in a decidedly politer tone of voice.
“Doctor.”
“No problemo, Doctor. Your order will be with you shortly. Please wait to the side.”
Doctor Pyjama-Pants made to move to the waiting area, but turned towards her at the last moment, apparently unable to resist a final parting shot. “And get my name spelt right this time, will you? It really isn’t that hard. I know you kids these days communicate almost exclusively with symbols and smiley faces, but try thinking back to your fourth-grade spelling list, and if that fails, you could always sound it out.”
Clara flashed him a Smile, before writing ‘DUCKTAR’ on his cup in capital letters. Then added a smiley face under it for good measure.
~~~
He was on his phone the next three times he came in for coffee. Whether it was to avoid interacting with her entirely she didn’t know, but clearly he wished to make it seem like his phone conversations were of the Utmost Importance, and relayed his orders to her by way of post-it notes, with ‘DOCTOR’ printed neatly in the right hand corner each time.
‘DUKKTOR’, wrote Clara the first time it happened.
‘PROCTOR’, displayed the cup, the next time.
‘RAPTOR’, said the third coffee cup, after Clara was seized by inspiration upon catching sight of the Doctor’s razor-sharp teeth.
The Doctor didn’t make another appearance over the next three weeks. Good riddance, thought Clara, after yet another day of no-show from the grey-floofed arsehole. She told herself she was only keeping an eye out for him in order to better prepare herself for their next verbal sparring match. For that reason alone, and no other.
Clara ignored the sudden surge of something within her chest when the Doctor finally showed up again. “Order, please?” she enquired smoothly.
“Ahem, yes, venti macchiato, double shot and extra hot. Please.”
Wow, did he just say ‘please’? “Of course, sir, may I have a name for the order?”
“Doctor. As in, like the profession. D-O-C-T-O-R.”
“No problemo, please wait off to the side. Thanks.”
Clara didn’t like to admit it to herself, but she was almost disappointed by this most recent interaction. The cafe was strangely quiet that day, and seeing that there were no other customers in line, Clara set to making the Doctor’s coffee herself. She watched him carefully from the corner of her eye. There he was, standing near the newspaper stand, staring off into the distance (or so she assumed; once again, he had his sunglasses on), and biting absently on one thumb. And there it was again, that indescribable something surging behind her breastbone, sending a funny, tingly sensation down her spine and bringing a warmth to parts of her she really didn’t want to think about at the moment, because that was a can of worms she didn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole, and would probably warrant her a trip to a therapist afterwards.
“I’ve got your order ready, Doctor.”
Her voice brought the Doctor out of his reverie. She held the coffee out to him, her traitor brain conjuring up a scenario where those long fingers of his would wrap around hers, and suddenly the venti macchiato would be spilt all across the floor as she dropped the cup and tangled her digits instead in his hair, and his sunglasses would be knocked off his face and finally, she would get to see the colour of his eyes…
“Oops, just give me a moment, I’ve got to take this call.”
Clara watched in disbelief as the Doctor answered his ringing phone, and then proceeded to talk on it for the next ten minutes. By the time he reached out for the coffee, it’d long gone cold. His face contorted in a grimace after the first sip, and he set it down deliberately onto the counter.
“Forget mathematics and spelling, and just try recalling your basic opposites. You may remember them from the flash cards, or whatever high-tech gadget people use these days to teach their kids. I asked for ‘extra hot’. This thing is ‘extra cold’.”
It was fortunate that her boss chose this moment to walk into the front area of the cafe, otherwise the Doctor would have walked out the door that day wearing his ‘extra cold’ coffee.
Service With A Smile, Service With A Smile, Service With A Fucking Smile. By the time she’d finished remaking the coffee, Clara was sure the Smile had turned into a full-blown rictus of a grin, something straight out of a horror movie. Grabbing the thick marker lying off to the side of the espresso machine, Clara wrote ‘DOUCHEBAG’ in angry, black letters right across he lid, slammed the cup in front of the Doctor, then turned on her heels without another word to serve the customers that had started to pile up in front of the register.
~~~
The sun had set when Clara got off work that day. The deceptively quiet morning had turned into an absolute frenzy of a midday and afternoon, and her throat was chafed raw from shouting out orders. Her face hurt from all the Smiling, and she couldn’t wait to throw off her shoes and collapse on her threadbare couch. Giving the door handles to the cafe one last jiggle to make sure she’d locked up properly, Clara turned to walk towards the bus stop.
“Excuse me, ah, Clara?”
“ARGH!” shouted Clara in fright, her left hand reaching automatically for that can of pepper spray she carried with her at all times. You could never be too careful in this neighbourhood, especially at this hour.
“Sorry, sorry! It’s me. The Doctor.”
Her heart beating loudly against her eardrums, Clara squinted into the dying light of the day. Some part of her brain noted that the Doctor was no longer wearing those infernal sunglasses, but she still couldn’t discern the colour of his eyes.
“Doctor? What are you doing here? Oh my god, are you stalking me? I’m warning you, I’ve got pepper spray on me, and I’m trained in tae-kwon-do, so don’t you try anything funny or you may not live to regret it later!”
“No, no, it’s okay, I’m sorry for frightening you!” The Doctor took a few steps backwards, holding his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture.
“What do you want?”
“Listen, I’d just finished work too, okay? And I saw you closing shop from across the street, and uh, I guess I came over because I wanted to, uh, apologise. For talking on the phone earlier today, and making you remake that coffee. If it came out of your wages, or if your boss gave you grief over it, I’m happy to explain it to her tomorrow, and reimburse you for it.”
Clara was still recovering from the shock of being apprehended by an apologetic Doctor, but her mind quickly caught up to what the Doctor was saying.
“Wait, why are you being nice?”
The Doctor huffed impatiently. “I was apologising! Can’t you just graciously accept a man’s apology without interrogating his intentions?”
“No, because it’s you, and you don’t do nice.”
“How do you know what I do and don’t do? I do do nice. I do nice all the time. I’m a nice person.”
“Somehow, I highly doubt that.”
“Oh, and this is coming from the person who has deliberately misspelt my name every single time?”
“Only because you were being completely rude by talking non-stop on your bloody phone!”
“A-ha, so you do admit it! You were misspelling my name on purpose!”
Clara felt her already fraying temper snap. “That’s it, get out of my way. I can’t tell you to get your coffee elsewhere, but I’ll try to avoid all unnecessary interactions with you here on in. And I’ll get your name right the next time, Doctor Arsehole.”
“Wait, Clara, please.” The Doctor reached for her, but took another step back when he saw that Clara now had the pepper spray in one hand.
“I’m warning you, leave me alone!”
“Look, I feel we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m truly sorry, okay? Let me make it up to you. I’m the curator of the museum across the road. May I interest you in an after-hours tour?”
Despite herself, Clara was intrigued. “Do you make it a habit of offering after-hours tours to random teenagers on the streets? You could get in a lot of trouble for that, you know.”
The Doctor grinned, showing razor-sharp teeth. “I was only teasing before, and I’m sorry about that too. You’re an English prac-teacher at Coal Hill, aren’t you? Susan, my niece, is a student in your class. Admirable of you, juggling two jobs like this.”
Clara liked Susan, the quiet, unearthly girl who sat at the back of the class, but always had something interesting to contribute during class discussions. She sincerely hoped the Doctor wasn’t making any of this up, and didn’t turn out to be some massive stalker-cum-axe murderer.
She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Let’s go see some artwork, then. And if I like what I see, tomorrow’s venti macchiato’s on me. Double shot, and extra hot.”