One Crazy Day

A Short Story

5:00 A.M.

I slap my alarm clock repeatedly to shut it up. After about 30 minutes of wasting time, I fall out of bed lazily. As always, it’s shocking how easy it is to make my shoebox studio apartment messy. Half-filled lyric notebooks scatter the floor along with my guitar. While getting ready I keep checking my phone to keep track of the time. I just know I’m going to be late today.

6:00 A.M.

Okay, you got me, it’s actually 6:07 A.M. I ride the curb into the parking lot of Espressed Grinds, the coffee shop where I work. I’ve never been a fan of the name. Slamming the brakes into the parking spot, my car produces a squeak that I’ll be too old to hear soon. My beat-up 03 Civic is going to be the death of me. After closing my door behind me a cracking noise sounds out. I don’t know what I just broke, but I definitely broke something. My car reminds me that it's working on borrowed time daily. Scratches and dents crawl across the doors like veins and arteries. It gives it character, at least I hope. It’s still quiet outside and there aren’t any other cars in the parking lot. Luckily, the owner isn’t here to see me arrive late. The key gets stuck in the lock but after a few jiggles, it finally swings open. The wave of cool air rushes over me, paired with the smell of coffee. It’s a nice reprieve from the heat. The coffee shop is quiet and dark. Coffee grounds sprawl over the counter. It’s obvious whoever closed last night didn’t clean. I can only assume it was Josh.

The door chimes with a new customer.

“How can I help you?” I force out with feigned energy.

“Can I have a medium iced vanilla latte? With whole milk.” He must be tired as well since I can barely even hear him.

I sluggishly make the latte.

7:00 A.M.

It’s been slow this morning; which is a good thing... It gives me time to relax and listen to my shuffled playlist over the store speakers.

Rob walks in, one of the morning regulars. “Morning Eleanor! How are you? Can I have an extra large black coffee?” he says.

I pull out the bucket-sized cup and shiver at the sheer amount of plain coffee that he’s going to drink today. To be honest I have no idea why he doesn’t just make his own coffee. Our plain coffee isn’t even good. I put no effort into the drink. I flip the pour switch and watch the steaming liquid pour into the paper goblet.

“Annie’s appendix just got taken out. I’m visiting her now,” Rob says. He said it unprompted like he just wanted to vent. I can’t remember for the life of me if Annie is his daughter or his wife. The owner would be upset if he knew I didn’t know. Make regulars feel at home is his mantra.

“Oh man I’m sorry to hear that, I hope they heal quickly!” I hand him his coffee.

“Thank you so much.” He pays and leaves.

8:00 A.M.

I drop a full drink when Anthony enters with a glow. His beaming smile almost seems to taunt me as I drown in online orders. It angers me that he can be so happy all the time. If he isn’t happy it angers me that he’s still able to seem happy all the time. 

“Oh thank god; I need the help, I’m getting killed out here.” The store’s old mop struggles to clean up the spill. “Is it just us two today?”

Anthony puts on his pin-covered apron and walks behind the counter. “Nope, Josh comes in at 10:00 I think.”

“Oh, well that’s just fantastic news,” I say while staring at the wet floor.

“Have you considered quitting? You obviously can’t stand working with him,” Anthony says.

“No no, I can’t quit. I need the job.” 

Two high school aged kids walk in. A boy and a girl. They’re way too dressed up for a coffee shop. Way too nervous too. The boy is tall and lanky with floppy black hair, while the girl stands almost a full foot shorter than him in a flowery sun dress. They’re each checking their phones roughly every 0.067 seconds.

“One hundred percent a first date,” Anthony says with a chuckle. Standing in line, the pair talks about the weather. With all the enthusiasm you’d expect. Anthony and I are rolling through familiar orders when they finally come up to the desk. The boy sheepishly orders a mocha while his date gets a small chamomile tea. Anthony gets to work crafting the mocha while I quickly blast hot water into a cup with a Lipton tea bag. We don’t make good tea.

I shout an order into the crowd and turn to Anthony. “I don’t think their date is going well.”

Anthony watches the date unfold with dismay in his eyes. To him, watching a bad date is no different than watching a car crash. The silence in between them sits like humid air until the girl casually answers her phone, promptly leaving afterward.

“Yeah there’s not gonna be a second date,” Anthony says.

9:00 A.M.

The owner walks in and heads back to his office. Anthony and I exchange glances. There’s a mutual recognition that we have to be on our A-game now; keeping the smiley persona that the owner looks for is getting harder and harder, though.

“Ahem, this drink is not nearly hot enough. I asked for extra hot.” I can hear the entitlement drip off the customer’s tone.

“Okay, let me heat it up for you.”

“No, I want another one; it never tastes right after being heated up.”

“That won’t be a problem! I'll make a new one right now,” chimes in Anthony out of nowhere.

I look back at him while he makes it. “Oh yay, Mr. Perfection is here to the rescue.”

“You need to go on break,” he says with a laugh. I can tell he’s not joking.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.”

I take my break.

10:00 A.M.

My too-short break ends and I’m met with a continuing wave of customers when Josh shows up. Just what I needed. He’s wearing a flannel and the summer sun has only further bleached his blonde hair. He’s carrying a book with him, Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. I’ve always hated that book.

“You look like you’re having a fantastic day today!” he says to me with a massive smirk. I don't respond. “Oh, it’s gonna be like that? Come on, lighten up.” 

Anthony gives him a sharp enough look that he dials it back. We get to work and everything moves smoothly, which helps the line of customers dwindle.

11:00 A.M.

The rush of customers coming for their fix before work has finally died down, which leaves us with the daytime college crowd. The owner prides himself that this is a coffee shop where people stay. It’s not a grab-and-go culture. Lining the walls are wooden barstools and tall tables where people study and plug in their laptops. I don’t know how they remain productive working here, especially considering they aren’t getting paid.

“Why’s the floor so sticky?” Josh breaks the silence.

I drop my head. “I spilled a drink.”

“A classic, why aren’t I surprised?” I can feel him start to perk up like a lion who just found its mark.

“Haha, very funny,” I say.

“Remember when you dropped a full pot of pasta sauce in my kitchen?” he says.

“Yeah, I was there.”

“Oh man, that was on Valentine’s Day too. Some things never change I guess.” I fake a laugh just to get out of the conversation. I need today to end.

12:00 P.M.

Anthony is standing at the register while Josh and I waste time behind him since we don’t have any customers right now. One of the many college students walks up to the register and orders an iced latte. Anthony rings him out and Josh and I start to make it.

“Here I’ll take that, don't worry.” Josh grabs the drink out of my hand right after I put the lid on it.

I’m confused by his kindness. “Oh I could’ve just taken it to her, it's no prob-”

“Are you sure? I don’t know.” He cuts me off. I should’ve known it wasn’t kindness.

“You’re still on the spill? That was like 4 hours ago and you weren’t even here.”

“Just saying.” He shrugs.

“Just saying? Dude, what’s your fucking problem? It’s every shift with this shit.” I raise my voice. Headphones fall off the customers’ ears while they begin to eavesdrop.

“Hey calm down, you’re acting crazy.” Josh puts his hands up like he’s trying to talk down an angry dog.

“Shut the fuck up.” I’ve fully lost my filter.

“Elle.” Anthony tries to keep the peace, but it’s too late.

“No no, there are some things I want to say.”

“Eleanor, my office,” says the owner. All the wind gets taken out of my sails. I didn’t even see him walk out of his office. By now all the customers have fully stopped what they were doing to watch me.

I follow the owner to his office like a prisoner through a courthouse. He sits down on his throne behind the desk. “You can’t be doing that.”

“I know. He just kept pushing my buttons.” I can’t get the words out fast enough. He needs to know it wasn’t my fault.

“I don’t know what he did and it doesn’t matter. You have a short temper and I can’t have employees blowing up in front of customers. I have to let you go.”

I shift around in my seat. “You’re joking right?”

He shakes his head. “No. You’re fired.”

1:00 P.M.

The shop is dead quiet as I walk out of the office. You could hear a pin drop. Josh is being comforted by a customer like he just survived a bear attack while I’m ushered out, playing the part of the bear. The city around me on the drive home is bustling. From the noise of the bus’s engine next to me to the laughing couple on the sidewalk. Everything is moving and alive, except for me. You would think quitting or getting fired would bring with it a wave of freedom, right? It doesn’t. It brings panic. I park my car and stumble up to my apartment. The interior of my apartment is still and unmoving, while the world outside roars through the thin walls. I immediately drop into bed. After a short argument with myself, I decide I must keep my mind occupied. So I pick up my guitar and start to write, but the lyrics sound janky. The chord progression is the same as every other song I’ve written, so I promptly quit. Next, I move to the kitchen, thinking I should make myself lunch. After getting some ingredients out, I decide I’m not actually hungry and put them back. Laying in bed it is.

4:00 P.M.

I wake up in a haze. Falling asleep wasn’t part of the plan. Awkwardly grabbing at my phone I see three unopened texts from Beth.

Beth: Hey are you still up for the open mic?

Beth: It starts at 6:30 but maybe we can meet early at like 5:30?

Beth: You good with that?

Fuck.

Me: Yeah that works for me

Beth: Great! You don’t need to bring an instrument, they have ‘em.

I completely forgot about the open mic. The notion of singing in public in my current state doesn’t sound possible. I should be job hunting, or sulking quietly while watching Planet Earth. I already told Beth I’d go over a week ago, though. She likes to read poetry but doesn’t feel comfortable doing it alone, so I come along with her. My job is just to play some songs in solidarity, then hang out in the back with her while we watch everyone else. I start to get ready while the shower takes its time to heat up.

5:00 P.M.

I’ve got nowhere to be tomorrow, I think to myself as I down a glass of cheap tequila. It’s all I have. The burn still lingers in my throat as I run down the stairs and take the subway to the bar. When I get there, the bar is mostly empty, save for a few people sitting at the outdoor tables by the stage. The indoor section is barren. The nearby taco truck, La Taqueria, has a staggering line stretching down the block. I’m watching the employees on stage checking the instruments when I see Beth. Beth looks like she’s already been waiting for a while. Her dark hair is whipping in the wind, and she’s wearing a black dress scattered with cherries, with black boots. 

She perks up to see me. “You gonna play?” She hands me the drink she bought for me while waiting.

“Yeah, I’ll do a few songs.” I sip the sweet vodka cranberry.

“What’s wrong?” She can sense my lack of enthusiasm.

“I got fired today.”

“What happened?”

“I lost my cool and went off a bit on Josh.”

“Oh, well fuck him. He probably deserved it. Your life is better off for finally escaping him.” She says it with a certainty that almost makes it sound like objective truth. “Manipulative asshole.”

“Thanks,” I say with a laugh. She’s always been my biggest defender.

“Well here’s to new beginnings. Cheers,” she says.

6:00 P.M.

Beth and I walk over to the podium and put our names down. My time slot is 8:20, while Beth’s is 8:00. There’s a line of people waiting to put their names down.

“Are you nervous? You haven’t done this in a while,” Beth asks me.

“I haven’t played in front of people in over a year at this point. What if I choke?”

“You’re going to do great,” Beth says.

A man walks onto the stage and taps on the mic 3 times.  “Testing, testing, is this thing on?”

After a short introduction, he grabs the microphone with a bit more confidence. “Our first guest is,” There’s a pause while he glances at his notebook. “Jerry Thomas!”

Jerry is an older man, mid 60’s. His hair is completely gray but it’s still full. He starts to churn out old country hits on his guitar. John Denver and Willie Nelson specifically. He has a deep voice, with a gravel to it that sells the rough-around-the-edges aesthetic he has. His thin olive green beat-up jacket and scuffed jeans complement that same aesthetic. The crowd is loving it. After his songs he walks off the stage and goes straight to the bar, ordering a neat bourbon.

7:00 P.M.

The next performer to take to the stage is a young girl, no older than 17. Wearing baggy clothing with sneakers she goes to the large piano on the stage. She starts playing Tiny Dancer by Elton John, singing into the microphone attached to the piano. Her voice cracks as she tries to go through the first verse. Once the voice starts to get in her head it bleeds into the piano. The chords fall mistimed with the lyrics. Like a ship falling apart plank by plank. I can’t stand to watch it. 

“Hold me closer, tiny dancer,” I sing out loud with her. For the next few lines, it’s just me and her. She starts to find her timing again after having someone help her. Shortly after, Beth starts to sing as well. Soon the entire audience is singing with her. We wrap up Tiny Dancer in no time and she immediately starts into another song, which I don’t recognize at all. She kills it, though. The next song, too.

“That was really cool,” Beth says with a smile. “It felt like I was at a concert instead of a shitty open mic night.”

“I had to do something, poor girl was struggling.”

“Exactly. You should be a music teacher or something, you have a knack for it.” If this were a cartoon a lightbulb would have appeared over Beth’s head. “Seriously! You’d be great at it.”

“That's not really my thing,” I reply.

“Well, you gotta do something. You have to pay rent somehow right?” She sips her drink with her eyebrows raised at me as if I haven’t registered that I don’t have an income anymore.

8:00 P.M.

Beth takes to the stage. Performing spoken-word poetry can be difficult. Unlike in music, your words have no backing to them. There’s no fall-back, no safety net. I would never have the confidence to do that. Beth has the confidence, though. She owns the stage when she’s on it. Words flow from her mouth like a river while the audience listens silently. 

After finishing she runs down the stage to me. “How’d I do?”

“You did great!” I exclaim.

“Thank you! It's your turn now.” Beth nods to the stage as she says it.

While walking up to the stage I’m struck with fear. Beth did her thing already. Why do I have to do mine now? We could just as easily go home now, but once I’m at the microphone I start speaking before I could even think. 

“This is a song of mine titled Knocked Out.” I start strumming the chords and singing along to the melody without even processing that I’m doing it. For fifteen minutes straight I’m not in my own body. I’m a mechanical being doing what I’ve been programmed to do. No higher thought is necessary.

“Thank you,” I tell the crowd after finishing my set.

“That was amazing!” Beth tells me as soon as I see her.

“You think I did okay?”

“You were great! You need to perform more. You’re a natural.” Beth grabs my shoulders. “Come on, let me get you a drink.”

I don’t fully understand why I have friends as nice as Beth. I don’t deserve them, but I’m happy to have them anyway.

9:00 P.M.

Standing there enjoying a drink with Beth, I start to see a man in a tucked-in dress shirt walk towards us. I don’t want to socialize with a stranger right now.

He finally makes it to us. “Hello, I’m Zachary Wellink; I’m the manager here. What’s your name?”

“Uhh-”

Beth cuts me off. “Her name is Eleanor. I’m Beth.”

He looks at me. “Great, Eleanor. I loved your set. You have immense talent. Not to mention the way you were able to control the crowd from the audience on Tiny Dancer.”

“Thanks.”

He keeps going. “We’re trying to beef up our stake in the local music scene, and our current emcee is too tasked and unable to do it. We think you would be a good fit. You’d help with the music side of the business, and you’d get to perform here more.”

“I-I don’t know if-”

“Here’s my card. You don’t have to decide right now; we can talk later in a more formal setting. just think it over.” He hands me his card and walks away.

Beth looks at me with a grin “You should take it! It’s a sign.” She starts jumping up and down in front of me.

“A sign?”

“A sign that you don’t have to be unhappy working in a coffee shop,” she says.

“I don’t know, I’ll think about it.” I finish my drink. For the rest of the night, Beth and I enjoy the shows from the back.

10:00 P.M.

Sitting in the subway car on my way back home, I keep thinking back to the job offer. Was it real? Why me? Would I be any good at it? I don’t know. Maybe the only way to find out is to try. Making it back to my apartment, my bed has never looked better. The bed shakes as I collapse down on it. Thoughts of my set, and how much I’ve missed being around music are the only things I can think of while I fall asleep. Yeah, I think I’ll take the job.