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Mickey hadn't always wanted to be a barista. Shit, even the title of the job sounded shitty and he'd hated it when other people told them that's what they did – “oh, I'm a barista.” Well good for fucking you. Mickey had much rather enjoyed guns and violence and shaking people down for money like some kind of fucking gangster or mob man. He'd loved the idea of it as a kid, anyway.
But there had come a time when that had to come to an end, and he'd always known deep down that it would. A life of crime wasn't much of a life at all and when his dad was finally put away for good – attempted murder, among other things – he knew it was time to grow the fuck up and get a real job. Not so easy when you didn't finish high school, let alone have any real life experience. It took Mickey two full weeks of looking before someone took a chance on him and hired him.
It was a shitty little café, full of shitty customers and asshole employees, but the pay was halfway decent and it meant Mickey could buy Yev things when he wanted to, and if he was totally honest with himself, that was all that mattered. His hours were okay, he didn't work late nights or early mornings. He slowly picked up the till and which button did what, and most customers were forgiving with him and let him take his time. There was the odd fucker who pissed Mickey off and he had to resist decking them but he managed it, because it was important to him that he stick at something, be good at fucking something.
The boss was an older woman who had kind eyes and seemed to almost take pity on Mickey, not that she voiced that out loud. Mickey had gone for the interview with no hopes at all – his tattoos and general demeanour didn't exactly ooze professionalism. He'd walked out with a job and a contract, ready to start the next day.
It hadn't been easy, because adjusting to life where people didn't fill their sentences with the word fuck or assume everyone else was out to get them wasn't easy. Mickey's first day had sucked fucking ass and he'd walked away ready to kill someone; but he'd gone back and it had slowly got better.
There was one thing that ruined it all, though. Daily. Something that just chipped away at Mickey's nerve until there remained only crumbs, ready to snap, his face set in a permanent fake smile that managed to somehow hide every feeling he was experiencing – most of them one form or another of rage.
At least ten times a day, someone would ask for the most ridiculous coffee. The first time it happened, Mickey just stared because come the fuck on – it was just a sentence full of nonsense words that somehow related to coffee but didn't actually make fucking sense? His supervisor took him aside and explained to him all about these people, these fucking people who think it's their god given right to ruin Mickey's day by asking for a half sugar, full strength, non-fat, caramel mocha cappu-fucking who gives a shit.
“Welcome to the Bean Lounge. What can I get for you today?” Mickey's customer voice got better each day, unless that customer happened to be Mandy. Today, though, when it was fifteen minutes till he got to go home and relax with a beer, maybe play a video game with Yev, today it wasn't his sister. Today it was the customer from hell.
“I'm still looking, if you don't mind.” The woman was in her thirties, maybe. Jewellery covered every inch of her – at least two necklaces, gold hoops in her ears, several rings on each finger. Each piece gleamed in the harsh light of the store and Mickey resisted rolling his eyes. Typical rich person thinking they're better than the barista. Mickey dealt with people like this every-fucking-day. Her tone, though. That's what got to Mickey. Like Mickey was disturbing her.
“Sure thing, ma'am.” He said politely, his mind on how good that fucking beer will taste. She flicked him another look like 'shut the fuck up' and he just stared at her, his smile fixed on his face.
“What milk do you do?” This bitch demanded, fucking demanded. One hand on her hip, the other on the counter where her long, red nails were tapping over and over again. Mickey felt a headache coming on.
“Cow's milk, soy and almond.” Clearly that wasn't the answer she was looking for; the woman let out this noise, the same noise Mickey would make everytime Yev had an explosion in his diaper when he was younger. A noise of absolute disgust. Mickey didn't say anything still, merely waited for her to continue. She stared at him before lowering her eyes – Mickey saw the exact moment she saw his FUCK U-UP tattoos; her eyes widened and she had this horrified look like she'd accidentally stumbled into a fucking prison.
“You don't do quinoa milk?” She took her hand off of the counter with a flicker of disgust, like it was covered in germs. With her arms folded against her chest, she watched as Mickey shook his head.
“No, ma'am.” Seriously. He was being his most polite here, and this bitch didn't even appreciate it. It seemed like her face was stuck on 'glare'. Mickey hitched his smile higher on his face. “What can I get for you today?”
“Excuse me?” Like he'd fucking asked her to strip down naked in the middle of the store. “Didn't I tell you I was still looking?”
“Oh – yes, I just wondered -”
“Well, don't!”
Mickey was about ready to walk out. His boss was in the office; he was the only one behind the counter this late in the day. Only one other customer was inside and they were in the far corner, headphones in and nose in a book. Mickey looked the customer up and down, his smile fading from his face.
“Well, how about this, lady. I'm gonna go and get my boss, and you can tell her when you're ready. Deal?” Mickey said, using the harshest tone he could. The woman opened her mouth in shock – I mean, come on. Mickey didn't even fucking swear! He ignored the dumb fucking look on her face and walked out the back.
“What's up, Mickey?”
“This lady...she's worse than Rod.” Mickey's boss looked up, shock covering her face. She put one hand up to her chest, staring at him in disbelief.
“Are you serious?”
“I fucking wish I wasn't.”
She stood up immediately, taking off her glasses and straightening her clothes. Mickey followed her back to the counter. They were barely in the eye line of the customer when she started banging on about the shit service Mickey had given her.
“Are you the manager? Well, you look no older than twelve! I am just disgusted – so very disgusted – in the service I have received today. I cannot believe I have been treated this way! I want a free coffee – in the very least – and an apology. Now!” Breathing heavily, the customer stared between Mickey and his boss, one step away from breathing fucking fire. Mickey glanced at his boss before speaking.
“I treated this customer with total respect and I was professional throughout our interaction. The customer, however, has been rude and insulting throughout her visit to the Bean Lounge.” Mickey was good at a lot of things, but being able to talk like he was giving a fucking presidential speech was definitely at the top of the list.
The customer stood there with her mouth gaping open like a fucking fish and Mickey smirked at her; out of the corner of his eye, he saw the customer with the headphones stand up, making his way to the counter. Now was not the time for picking up guys but damn, Mickey couldn't wait to serve this guy. He hadn't noticed him come in and his boss must have served him, but fuck – he was noticing him now. Mickey's eyes reluctantly dragged back to the dragon in front of him.
“I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm going to have to ask you to leave.” The pleasant way Mickey's boss said it, anyone would think she'd just invited this bitch to tea. The customer's face turned bright red, shock setting in.
“What?!” Mickey and his boss just stared, and finally the expression 'turning on your heel' made sense as this woman practically spun on the spot and stormed out of the cafe, slamming the doors as she did. Mickey let out a laugh and his boss grinned.
“Serve this last customer then get out of here. Thanks for a good day, Mickey.” His boss disappeared into the back, still smiling. Mickey turned to the customer, finally able to appreciate what was in front of him. He took in the tufts of red hair poking out from a beanie – it was fucking cold – and the green eyes that seemed to set the hair off even more; he was stopped from openly staring by the guy actually talking.
“Well, I'm nothing like her.” He joked, his headphones sitting around his shoulders like the coolest fucker ever. Mickey smiled.
“I'm glad to hear it.”
“I'm Ian.”
“Mickey.”