Page 5 of Cream & Sugar
As I try to rescue the coffees, my hands start to shake, like they always do when I’m feeling overwhelmed. My pouring arm jerks involuntarily, leaving a blob of milk foam drooping over the edge of one takeaway cup. I cover it with the lid before the customer notices. Handing over the drinks, I run into the back to open the oven door, pausing only to take another pacifying breath, before heading back through to serve the next in line.
I deal with the queue as best I can but given I’m alone, exhausted, and every step on my tired feet feels like a bed of nails, the rest of the morning rush is pretty much a shitshow. More grumpy customers, more messed-up orders, and plenty of near-meltdowns and suppressed panic attacks.
By mid-morning, I wishIhad the option of handing in my resignation. My clothes, uncomfortably tight, are damp with sweat and every time I catch my reflection in the coffee machine, I cringe at the state of my puffy, tired eyes, and untrimmed beard. Plus, I’ve needed a piss for about an hour, but it’s been too busy to get away, and I’m so tired my hands and brain seem to have lost connection with each other. Even the customers must think I look a wreck; the few smiles I get this morning are all twisted with pity.
As nine a.m. passes, there’s finally a lull. The commuters have dissipated and only a third of the tables are full, mostly students with laptops. They’ll be here for hours, leeching off my free WiFi for the price of one filter coffee.
The rest of the tables are littered with debris: dirty mugs, crumb-smeared plates. and torn sugar packets covering every surface.
If I’m quick, I can run to the bathroom, clear the tables, do the dishes, and restock the counter in time for the late morning rush. Then do it all over again in the afternoon until close.
Another twelve-hour shift for me.
I feel a rush of resentment. Not for anyone in particular, and certainly not Kyle… Okay, maybe a little bit for Kyle, but I can’t really blame him. Acting is his dream. I wouldn’t think twice about dropping a shitty job I didn’t care about to seize my dream by the horns. I did, in fact. I quit my office job and opened a café.
Now, barely a month in, I’m already starting to hate it. My dream has cost me my sleep and my sanity. I haven’t spoken to my friends in weeks. Neglecting the gym and surviving entirely off cake and takeaway for a month has obliterated my waistline and all my work clothes are too small, unwashed, or both. This bloody café even cost me Lara. A dream is great and all, but when the price of it is the end of a five-year relationship, you start to think you’ve been more than a little short-changed.
I give myself a shake.Stop moping, Shaun. I knew staff turnover would be an issue. Rather than feeling sorry for myself, I should be focusing on finding a replacement for Kyle as soon as humanly possible.
On my way back from the bathroom, I duck into the office and grab a piece of paper and a sharpie. Hurrying back out front, I clear the tables as quickly as I can, stopping only to do a couple of takeaway orders for some stragglers.
Once I’ve got the seating area looking semi-decent again, I lay the paper and pen out on an empty table. On it, I write:
PART-TIME BARISTA WANTED
30 hours per week (4-5 shifts)
Mustbe available weekends!
Experience preferred but full training will be given
IMMEDIATE START
If I could write “preferably no actors or people with even the slightest bit of artistic ambition” at the bottom I would, but I feel it probably wouldn’t go down too well. Plus, there isn’t room.
I tear off a ribbon of sticky tape from the roll behind the counter and stick the advertisement on the glass front door of the café. It looks a little sloppy, but hopefully I won’t need to leave it up for long. It’s nearly Christmas; surely people will be looking for extra work?
I cross my fingers as I open the door to let an elderly couple inside. I show them to a table and, stifling a yawn, I ask, for the hundredth time today, “So, what can I get for you?”
3
Freddie
Nowhereishiring.Atleast, nowhere that wants a twenty-two-year-old failing musician with no experience on their payroll.
I fudged some stuff on my CV about being a freelance guitar teacher and working as an intern at Mason & Ward. Both are half-true. I did give a guitar lesson to my mate Scotty once, but he lit up a spliff halfway through mastering the D-chord and we got a little sidetracked, and Mason & Ward is the bank where Rory works. Technically, I’ve made him cups of tea before. That’s basically what interns do, right?
It’s nearly noon and I’ve trawled about half the town, my sheaf of CVs clamped under one arm. The warmth from my breakfast has evaporated and I feel the cold creeping in at my extremities.
Turning a corner, I arrive at the town square. In the centre, a naked Christmas tree lays on its side and men in high-vis vests are putting up fairy lights in a cherry-picker crane.
I grimace. Of course no one is hiring. It’s late November. Any businesses looking for Christmas temps will have hired them by now.
Demoralised, I perch myself on a bench, stuffing the CVs under my leg to stop them blowing away. Shivering, I rub my handstogether to warm them up, but the wind is bitingly cold. My stomach churns and I feel a bit sick as last night’s booze catches up with me. If I’m going to tackle the rest of the town, I’ll need something hot to eat.
I check my jean pockets for money, finding a few silver coins. Not enough. Extending my search to my jacket, I find a fifty pence piece and some copper pennies. Counting up my meagre spoils, I have a total of £1.62. That won’t get me much. It’s a bitter pill to swallow when I realise that, besides the shrapnel hiding in the crannies of my bedroom, this is all the cash I have to my name.
Mum left Rory and I a couple of grand each in her will. Everything she had. Rory, ever the sensible one, put it towards a house deposit whereas I spaffed mine away on holidays, weed, and a new guitar. At the time, it felt like spending it all on fun shit would be what she would have wanted. Now I’ve become nothing more than a drain on Rory’s resources, I’m not so sure.
