Dial Tones
one
I met him on a Thursday.
I had been staying in Seattle for a few weeks, having found an apartment that was big enough for me, though I hadn't actually spoken with anyone in the city aside from the people that I worked with. There was a coffee shop a few blocks from that apartment that had hired me on the spot, without any background information further than the fact that I was nineteen, had no experience at all, and needed to pay my rent. I took care of the rest of it by myself, setting up an hourly wage with the owner and handing over all of my personal information on my first day working. No questions asked; I thanked God for that, and went on living my lonely, sort of pathetic life. I guess that's what I asked for when I left home—to be left alone by everyone that I had known, to leave home behind and start anew. That's what I thought I needed, I guess, and I didn't really regret that until I realized how lonely I really was.
The coffee shop—called Beans by pretty much everyone, even though it was officially named Dean's Beans—was the closest I had to family, the rest of the staff welcoming me in and treating me like I was one of them. It was almost obvious that I didn't belong with the rest of them, as they were all either high school or college students, while I wasn't anything more than a drifter, someone looking for easy money. Along with a high school kid named Anthony and another girl named Teresa, I worked almost every afternoon from one until seven, when the shop closed, and sometimes I was there in the morning with a guy named Steven that had too many tattoos and piercings. Beneath his hard exterior, he was one of the nicest people I had ever met in my entire life; it was like that with most of my coworkers. The majority were art students who had started off as customers at Beans and then realized that they needed money just as much as they needed their cappuccinos or whatever.
None of them asked about me. I liked it that way.
He came in with a group of people, though he was the only one who came up to the counter. We hated those kind of people—the ones who just sat around, talking about worthless crap and laughing at it—and Dean himself told us to give them an ultimatum: order or get the hell out of our coffee shop. At first Anthony went up the serve him, but he got sidetracked when his girlfriend came in (this happened at least twice a week; neither Teresa or I had the heart to report it) so I had to take over. And our conversation started off like it would with any other customer, “Hi, sorry about that! What can I get for you today?”
He just stared at me, one eyebrow raised, and then glanced over at Anthony, whose fingers were intertwined with the girl on the other side of the counter. “Did that kid just snub me for some girl?”
I looked over at Anthony, and swallowed a sheepish smile. “That he did. Can I get you a coffee?” Most of our customers were all business when they saw Anthony and his girlfriend, all annoyed and everything, but he seemed sort of amused by the entire ordeal. For that I was thankful.
“Oh, yeah, shit,” he grinned and then looked up distractedly at the menu behind us, scratching at his nose. “What do you recommend? My friends say this place is, like, Godsend or whatever—they always come here.”
“I always like the iced lemon tea, but that's just me...if you're looking for caffeine, um...” I sighed and shifted uncomfortably, my palms resting against the cool counter in front of me. I hated the taste of coffee; I never drank it, but I had been told not to announce my distaste for any of the foods we sold. “I guess it all depends on what you like to drink.”
He met my eyes and raised another eyebrow, seeming curious. “You don't drink coffee, do you? You know how ironic that is? God.”
I only shrugged, wishing that this conversation would end. He was too talkative for me, too talkative for someone that wanted to order a coffee, and too talkative for someone that (like me) lived on their own. “How about an iced coffee? Two creams, two sugars?”
“Whatever you say,” he dug around in his pocket until he pulled out a worn wallet, “and one oatmeal raisin cookie. Please.”
He and his friends left after half an hour of sitting around and talking, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Whenever I looked up from making a latte or pulling a bagel out of the toaster, he would be staring at me, a look of amusement plastered across his features. Self consciousness was my immediate reaction, wondering if I had something on my face or if my shirt was tucked into my underwear because it seemed like something I would do—but Teresa pulled me into the freezer in the back and started giggling about how he was checking me out, totally into me, and then I was just embarrassed. Stupid-ass Seattle boys.
I had been staying in Seattle for a few weeks, having found an apartment that was big enough for me, though I hadn't actually spoken with anyone in the city aside from the people that I worked with. There was a coffee shop a few blocks from that apartment that had hired me on the spot, without any background information further than the fact that I was nineteen, had no experience at all, and needed to pay my rent. I took care of the rest of it by myself, setting up an hourly wage with the owner and handing over all of my personal information on my first day working. No questions asked; I thanked God for that, and went on living my lonely, sort of pathetic life. I guess that's what I asked for when I left home—to be left alone by everyone that I had known, to leave home behind and start anew. That's what I thought I needed, I guess, and I didn't really regret that until I realized how lonely I really was.
The coffee shop—called Beans by pretty much everyone, even though it was officially named Dean's Beans—was the closest I had to family, the rest of the staff welcoming me in and treating me like I was one of them. It was almost obvious that I didn't belong with the rest of them, as they were all either high school or college students, while I wasn't anything more than a drifter, someone looking for easy money. Along with a high school kid named Anthony and another girl named Teresa, I worked almost every afternoon from one until seven, when the shop closed, and sometimes I was there in the morning with a guy named Steven that had too many tattoos and piercings. Beneath his hard exterior, he was one of the nicest people I had ever met in my entire life; it was like that with most of my coworkers. The majority were art students who had started off as customers at Beans and then realized that they needed money just as much as they needed their cappuccinos or whatever.
None of them asked about me. I liked it that way.
He came in with a group of people, though he was the only one who came up to the counter. We hated those kind of people—the ones who just sat around, talking about worthless crap and laughing at it—and Dean himself told us to give them an ultimatum: order or get the hell out of our coffee shop. At first Anthony went up the serve him, but he got sidetracked when his girlfriend came in (this happened at least twice a week; neither Teresa or I had the heart to report it) so I had to take over. And our conversation started off like it would with any other customer, “Hi, sorry about that! What can I get for you today?”
He just stared at me, one eyebrow raised, and then glanced over at Anthony, whose fingers were intertwined with the girl on the other side of the counter. “Did that kid just snub me for some girl?”
I looked over at Anthony, and swallowed a sheepish smile. “That he did. Can I get you a coffee?” Most of our customers were all business when they saw Anthony and his girlfriend, all annoyed and everything, but he seemed sort of amused by the entire ordeal. For that I was thankful.
“Oh, yeah, shit,” he grinned and then looked up distractedly at the menu behind us, scratching at his nose. “What do you recommend? My friends say this place is, like, Godsend or whatever—they always come here.”
“I always like the iced lemon tea, but that's just me...if you're looking for caffeine, um...” I sighed and shifted uncomfortably, my palms resting against the cool counter in front of me. I hated the taste of coffee; I never drank it, but I had been told not to announce my distaste for any of the foods we sold. “I guess it all depends on what you like to drink.”
He met my eyes and raised another eyebrow, seeming curious. “You don't drink coffee, do you? You know how ironic that is? God.”
I only shrugged, wishing that this conversation would end. He was too talkative for me, too talkative for someone that wanted to order a coffee, and too talkative for someone that (like me) lived on their own. “How about an iced coffee? Two creams, two sugars?”
“Whatever you say,” he dug around in his pocket until he pulled out a worn wallet, “and one oatmeal raisin cookie. Please.”
He and his friends left after half an hour of sitting around and talking, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Whenever I looked up from making a latte or pulling a bagel out of the toaster, he would be staring at me, a look of amusement plastered across his features. Self consciousness was my immediate reaction, wondering if I had something on my face or if my shirt was tucked into my underwear because it seemed like something I would do—but Teresa pulled me into the freezer in the back and started giggling about how he was checking me out, totally into me, and then I was just embarrassed. Stupid-ass Seattle boys.
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