FREED VERSE

The air was humid from steaming drinks and conversation, and a milk frother screamed like nails on a chalkboard from the back of the room. It was the perfect ambiance for the small cafe Charlie worked in: first dates were grateful that the loud sounds of the espresso machine filled any of their awkward silences, as were the bustling college students that used the noise as an excuse to be distracted from the exam they didn’t feel like studying for. 

The cafe Charlie worked in was a small, European-esque place with huge, plush chairs and warm lighting. The owners had plastered the walls in Renaissance-adjacent artwork that faux art buffs would stare at for hours while sipping their cappuccinos with their pinkies raised. Charlie always giggled to himself when he saw them: little did they know that his boss bought those prints off Etsy and that he made their cappuccinos with oat milk instead of regular. 

Charlie hastily turned off the screaming frother, burning his hand on the scalded milk in the process. He quickly set down the pitcher and sucked on his palm to cool the burn. Not wanting the milk to get cold, he wrapped his blistered hand in a damp rag, picked up the milk pitcher, and pressed on. The rag was tattered and it scratched against his raw, dry, skin. Charlie winced; his pain abated, though, at the thought of the too-hot milk going to the on-the-go business man who was clearly in a rush and had asked him to please make it quick burning his tongue on the first sip of his overpriced latte. The steam blistered against Charlie’s face when he poured the milk into the customer’s to-go cup. 

The slightly balding, middle aged man who came to the counter to get his drink winced when he felt how hot the cup was in his hands. A sly smile crept onto Charlie’s face–it numbed any of the pain left in his hand or his reddened cheeks. 

“Are you sure this is mine?” the man asked. “I don’t remember asking for it extra hot.” 

Charlie chuckled faintly and calmly replied, “I’m not sure what you mean, sir. That’s the standard temperature for all of our drinks.” 

The man stammered in response, clearly trying not to show how close the cup in his hand was to burning off his fingerprints, “O-Oh! Uh–” 

Charlie innocently cocked his head and gave the man a pitiful stare. 

The man still looked bewildered, but the heat had gotten too much for him to handle–he put the steaming cup down on the counter, sighed in relief, and said in submission, “It’s okay, I’ve gotta get running. Yeah, it’ll be fine. Thanks.” 

 Charlie smiled his bright customer’s-always-right smile and wished the businessman a good rest of his day. He moved on to the next drink in his never ending line of orders. 

Charlie wrote off making every other customer’s order extra hot without them asking because he saw it as a service to the rest of the coffee shop: without him, things would be too quiet around here. Too mundane, too humdrum, whatever you want to call it. Charlie was a born jester who just so happened to be moonlighting as a barista for the time being–guess he never did grow out of that class clown phase. 

Charlie took the job his freshman year of college, back when he still held on to the naive belief that he would be able to manage work, school, and a social life while still remaining sane. A few months into this juggling game, though, he quickly realized this feat was going to be impossible. The dominos started falling one after the other, starting with flaking on plans so many times that people had learned not to invite him anywhere and ending with an academic probation letter from the dean’s office. Practicality dictated that the one part of Charlie’s life bringing in money should be the last to go, leaving him to face his staggering queue of orders with no plans to cancel on, no tuition to pay, and a Prozac prescription. 

Charlie knew his situation was dire, yet he could never fully articulate what was wrong with his life, per say. Every time he began to feel a twinge of resentment when putting his eight hour shifts in his calendar, a scratchy, garbled voice stopped his wheels from turning. 

Still a better career outlook than a communications degree, the voice barked. God, what were you thinking with that one? Multi-Level Marketing scams, or what? NFTs? Psh. At least here, you can make tips. 

The voice was not only sharp, but it knew exactly where to cut. It nipped his pity party in the bud every time and unfailingly flung him back into the fray of obnoxiously loud coffee grinders and high-pitched complaints from stay-at-home moms. 

The only thing that numbed Charlie to his ear-splitting workplace was when he got the chance to ruin someone’s day. He couldn’t be annoyed by his surroundings over the sound of his own maniacal laughter and the reins whipping in his hands. Intentional mishaps grew to become Charlie’s favorite hobby–not only did he get the satisfaction of turning customers into lambs for the slaughter, but it also kept him distracted from all the other things he wasn’t doing with his life. 

Charlie had become an expert in the field of trickery. He was acutely aware of every type of person that came into the cafe: there were the ones with pixie cuts who would call for his manager when they realized something was off with their order, the timid ones who were afraid to ask if he gave them the wrong order, and the polite-ish hot heads. These ones were the most fun–they seethed with rage when Charlie made a ‘mistake,’ but never involved management in their complaints. (Anti-establishment, too proud, not worth the effort…who knows? And, to be honest, who cares?) They were rare, but always a treat when they crossed Charlie’s path.

 They were the ones that would sit there and squirm. It was like pouring salt on a snail, and Charlie was happy to watch them blister on the sidewalk. 

Around 1 PM that Thursday, an angry-but-not type who Charlie hadn’t seen before walked through the entrance of the cafe. A young girl, probably his granddaughter, accompanied him on his left arm. The man looked around seventy and had slicked-back gray hair, smile lines, and a permanently creased forehead. He held a folded newspaper in one hand, and the other was wrapped around his granddaughter’s shoulder. She was pretty: young (about the same age as Charlie), clear skin, and an almost-symmetrical face. By the looks of her straightened brunette hair and sweater vest tucked into a pleated tennis skirt, Charlie assumed she was a student of sorts. Probably went to some prestigious, overpriced private university, for that matter. No way she would prance around in that costume of an outfit, otherwise. 

The old man motioned his granddaughter to take the open table by the front-facing window, then made his way to the counter while his granddaughter got settled in. The table was rickety, but she shoved sugar packets under its teetering legs to stabilize it. 

The man carried a cane (despite the fact that he didn’t lean on it), and though the crow’s feet bordering his misty eyes suggested he was a softie at heart, something about his upright posture and the way he stared Charlie down while placing his order suggested there was an iron fist lying dormant beneath his calm exterior. 

Charlie was chomping at the bit. He couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into this one.

“An americano, please. Hot, and with a splash of half and half.”

Charlie was giddy with anticipation at the thought of seeing the man’s kind facade crumble. “Anything else for you?” Charlie asked, nodding towards the girl who had just sat herself at the table.

The old man turned his head over his shoulder to look in her direction. “No, thank you. She’s just here to keep me company.” He returned his gaze to Charlie. “How much do I owe ya?”

Charlie bounced his leg in anticipation while he rang the order up, bursting at the thought of the myriad of ways to push the man’s buttons. 

“$4.75 today, sir.” Charlie flipped the automated tip screen to the man and didn’t bother to check how much he left. He was far too busy concocting his plan of attack to care about this man’s obligatory generosity. 

The man finished paying, then turned the tip screen around and made his way to the table where his granddaughter was sitting. Though his legs hobbled as he walked, he seemed happy to feel them moving, at all. 

He set down the newspaper he was carrying on the table, which his granddaughter started flipping through as he took his seat. She ripped out the page with that day’s crossword on it and splayed it between. A pen appeared between her fingers from thin air and she placed it in her grandfather’s shaking hand. She made sure his knuckles were firm around its plastic grip before she let go.

Charlie could have people-watched them for longer if he wanted, but instead he hopped into action as soon as the old man turned his back on the cash register. He dashed to the espresso canister labeled ‘DECAF’ and started to grind the beans into a fine powder. The coffee smelled sour, almost rancid. It was a marked contrast to the usual nutty scent of its caffeinated counterpart, so much so that Charlie was worried his prank would be almost too obvious. He continued with his plan, though, pressing the grinds into the portafilter and securing it in the espresso machine. He pressed the doubleshot button and watched light brown streams trickle down from the espresso machine into the bottom of a white ceramic mug. Once the machine finished pumping out the acidic decaf shots, Charlie filled the rest of the mug with hot water and added a splash of half and half, exactly as directed.

Not willing to wait for the old man to limp over to the order pick-up area, Charlie personally walked the coffee over to his table. The crossword sitting between the man and his granddaughter was already about a quarter of the way filled out in wobbly printed letters. As Charlie walked over, he noticed that the granddaughter read the clues out loud to the man and followed along with her finger by pointing to each word of the clues as she read. The old man’s brow furrowed a tad at being treated like a kindergartner, but his face still lit up with pride every time he conjured an answer. 

Charlie slowly approached the table. The mug was shaking in his hands, he was so excited. 

“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but here’s that americano for you. You have a nice day.”

Charlie set the drink next to the newspaper and responded to the man’s emphatic thanks with a polite nod before running back behind the counter to watch his hard work pay off. 

The man stirred in two sugar packets before taking a sip. His granddaughter held the base of the cup steady for him while he used the wooden stirrer, but he still managed to spill a few drops of coffee on his crossword puzzle in the process. 

Charlie anxiously tapped his foot, impatient for the man’s imminent puckered lips and disdained scowl. Charlie was trying to spy as inconspicuously as possible from behind the espresso machine, careful to look as nonchalant as possible in case the man shot a resentful glance in his direction. 

The old man brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. God, finally. The minutes it took for the old man to divert his attention from his granddaughter to his coffee felt like an eternity. But, all that didn’t matter now–Charlie’s moment had come. 

But the man’s expression didn’t change. After a long sip of acid-washed decaf, the man set the cup down on the table without so much as a puckered lip and returned to his crossword. He smiled at his granddaughter as she read him the next clue. His coffee got cold.

Charlie was bewildered. He couldn’t fathom a reasonable explanation for the old man’s lack of reaction. Was the coffee from the wrong tin, was Charlie only convincing himself they were sour? Was it possible his plan wasn’t grand enough, that his interference was so insignificant that the man truly didn’t notice anything was amiss? Even after the man tossed his empty cup in the trash and left the cafe arm in arm with his granddaughter, Charlie couldn’t stop wondering where in the fuck he went wrong. 

Though the old man’s aloofness rattled Charlie, he was able to put it out of his mind after a couple of days. He continued to relish in his small acts of deviance for the rest of the week and had nearly forgotten about the guy by the time one o’clock rolled around the next Thursday. 

His granddaughter sat at the same rickety table as before and began to hunt for the crossword. Charlie’s heart started racing from the moment the pair walked through the front door–this was his chance to redeem himself. He was determined to get the man to notice him slip up this time. 

Once again, the man hobbled to the counter while his granddaughter took her seat. 

“An americano, please. Splash of half and half,” the man said. He smiled and softened his gaze. “And put it in a mug again. I liked that.”

Charlie hardly paid attention to what the man said. His words went in one ear and out the other–Charlie was too busy playing out all of the possible ways to deceive the man to hear what he was saying. After he finished saying whatever it was he said, the man gave Charlie a toothy smile and hobbled over to his table, still refusing to put weight on his cane. 

Charlie didn’t wait for the man to sit down. He ran to the espresso machine and began to enact his plan: three extra shots’ worth of espresso dripped out of the machine. Charlie smiled as he topped the americano off with hot water and a splash of half and half, then he proudly brought the unbearably strong drink over to its victim. The man smiled at him when he approached. 

“Thank you. Appreciate it lots, son,” he said.

Once again, the words didn’t register–Charlie couldn’t have said ‘you’re welcome’ even if he wanted to. His head was racing as he dropped off the coffee, then he once again sprinted back to the service line and took a spectating spot behind the counter. 

The old man raised the mug to his lips. Surely he would have to recoil at this bitterly overly-caffeinated concoction, maybe even do a spit take! Much to Charlie’s disappointment, though, the man didn’t even flinch. No, he did just the opposite: he took an even longer sip than he did for his apathetic decaf and the corners of his mouth raised when he was done, as if he had dared to enjoy it! 

Charlie was boiling over with rage. How dare this geezer desecrate his craft? It seemed there was only one sensible explanation: the man must have been senile. Maybe there’s something about losing your sense of taste with age. Yes, Charlie thought, that has to be it. He couldn’t stomach the blow to his ego that came with considering that his pranks hadn’t worked and began to concoct a plan for how to test the limits of the man’s waning taste buds for next Thursday. 

The man continued to come in week after week, and Charlie still could not manage to break him. No matter how egregious Charlie made his intentional mishaps, the old man refused to avert his gaze from the crossword to give him any affirmation that he had succeeded in annoying him. He didn’t give any sign of notice when Charlie replaced his americano with regular drip coffee, nor when his drink was three shades darker than usual because Charlie had substituted almond milk for his usual half and half. His face didn’t even change when Charlie added a few pumps of hazelnut syrup to his usually unsweetened drink; no, he just kept grinning the grin that rested on his wrinkled face every Thursday afternoon and continued to work his way through the crossword. He listened intently to his granddaughter’s soft voice and beamed with pride every time he got to bring the trembling pen to the page.

His coffee always got cold. 

Over time, Charlie’s idea that the man was senile morphed into an intent, agonizing paranoia that the man was plotting against him. With each escalating prank that went unnoticed, Charlie became more convinced that the man was trying to get back at him for his antics by refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had pulled anything off, at all. 

He had had enough of the man’s counterstrikes. Determined to win the war once and for all, Charlie hatched a grand plan that was sure to crack his poker face. After the cafe closed one Wednesday night, Charlie lingered after his coworkers left. He locked the front door, then crept to the table where the old man and his granddaughter sat each week. He pulled all of the sugar packets out of their ceramic container in the center of the table. He tore a small slit in the corner of each of them, then poured the sugar out and made a neat stack of the empty packets. Once all the packets were empty, Charlie grabbed a container of salt from the kitchen and began to carefully refill them through the small tears he had made. He worked grain by grain until they looked brand new.

It took Charlie hours to accomplish the feat. But, finally, he sat in front of a table full of spilled salt and a full ceramic container of deceptive sugar packets. He beamed at pride at his work before replacing the container in the center of the table and wiping the excess salt crystals off its wooden surface. He quickly swept the floor and cashed out the register, then strode out of the back entrance. 

Charlie had never before walked to his car with more zeal. He moved with a pep in his step and a wide smile covering his face. 

He arrived at work fifteen minutes early the next day. He felt like a kid on Christmas morning: he couldn’t sleep out of excitement the night before, too eager to see what Santa had in store for him under the tree. 

Charlie spent the entire day looking at the clock. The ticks of the second hand were louder than the screaming milk frother. In fact, Charlie didn’t hear any sound that wasn’t the clock ticking or the door opening; his mind was blank except for the image of the old man spitting out his salty coffee and realizing he lost their battle of wits. 

People came and went at the old man’s table while Charlie anticipated his arrival. They all used the salt packets he planted, but Charlie couldn’t take pride in their repulsion. Their lips puckered and their foreheads creased, but what would have once been amusing to him was now mere background for the clock that was teasing him with its sluggish pace. 

The hour hand struck one and the man had yet to walk through the door. The minutes passed, and Charlie was unable to concentrate on the orders he was taking while his anticipation mounted. He was quite the sight to be had: he looked like he had just seen a ghost, his forehead creased and the whites of his eyes visible. He stared at the door so intently it seemed he was trying to telepathically will his foe to walk through it. He impatiently tapped his foot with so much force that he threatened the integrity of the soles of his non-slip sneakers. 

By the time the man was a half hour past his call time, Charlie was inconsolable. His head was swirling with confusion…today, of all days! 

He must have been spying on me last night, Charlie thought. How else could he have known not to come in? Yes, he must have been tailing me! He saw me replace the sugar packets.

Charlie scoured his mind for when the operation could have been compromised, but couldn’t think of any times he wasn’t looking over his shoulder, triple-checking to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He had taken every necessary precaution–he was totally alone. 

The security cameras! Charlie firmly decided. Bastard must’ve tapped in. More savvy than he looks. 

Oddly enough, Charlie’s anxiety dissipated at the thought that the old man was merely one step ahead of him, that his adversary had already launched a counter strike. To be attacked was better than to be ignored; at least now, there was still a battle to fight. 

The clock continued to move and the man continued to play hookie. By closing time, all of the imposter salt packets were used  up by people they weren’t meant for. Charlie sighed and restocked the empty ceramic holder with regular sugar packets. His lungs were filled with an awkward mix of disappointment and pride–he couldn’t decide if the man’s absence was the ultimate failure or victory. Charlie turned his key slowly as he locked the door that night, and he kicked stones across the sidewalk on the trudge back to his car.

At one o’clock on Friday afternoon, it was only her that walked in. The tip of her upturned nose was red and her usually pin-straight hair had texture running beneath a layer of frizz. She held a newspaper under her arm and took small steps while approaching the cash register. 

It was the first time Charlie had heard her voice. He’d seen her lips move while she read the crossword clues to her grandfather, but he had never been able to hear her over the bustling sounds of the rest of the cafe. 

She had a soft, demure voice. She spoke so quietly that Charlie had to keep his eyes locked on her lips to make out what she was saying. 

“I’ll have a hazelnut latte. Hot, and in a mug, please.”

She quickly put her head down and dug through her purse to find her wallet. Charlie glanced over her shoulder at the door to see if her grandfather would walk through it, but its hinges remained stationary. The girl paid her bill and turned to take a seat at her usual table.

Charlie called out to her as she walked away. 

“Do you need an americano today?”

The girl turned her head over her shoulder to face Charlie. She tucked a piece of her unkempt hair behind her ear and looked at him. Her eyes welled with a strange sense of gratitude and despair, and her hushed response was filled with grief. 

“No, thank you. Not today.” 

She took her seat at her usual rickety table and splayed the crossword out in front of her. The table wobbled, and she bent down to shove some sugar packets underneath its uneven legs. 

Charlie made her latte without question, but was still convinced the old man would come striding into the cafe at any moment. He’d gloat in his ultimate victory, shout praise to his granddaughter for her oscar-winning performance. It’d be a sight to be seen.

Charlie brought over her drink and set it down with a smirk, smug with the belief that he was in on their grand scheme. The girl looked up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. 

“Thank you,” she whispered before returning to her puzzle. 

She really is a good actress, Charlie thought as he walked away. She gave no indication that the old man was going to come bursting through the door at any moment and the quiver in her lips was almost realistic enough to convince Charlie that something was wrong. 

Charlie returned to his station behind the counter and waited for the scene sequence to play out. He watched the girl silently finish the crossword. She mouthed the clues to herself and filled in the squares with neat, lowercase letters in black ink. Her latte went untouched. 

When she was done with the crossword, she sighed and stared at it for a minute. Then, she folded the newspaper so the crossword page wasn’t visible from the outside and placed it neatly in her bag. 

She stared out of the window at the busy road in front of the cafe. She only averted her gaze to reach for her now lukewarm coffee, which she sipped while staring at cars racing by. 

She gently put the empty mug on the table and folded her hands in her lap. After a moment, she sighed and firmly placed her palms on the table to push herself up. She gathered her things and looked for a place to return her dirty dish–upon seeing no designated dish return, she placed her mug on the counter and thanked Charlie for his service by shoving a couple of ones in the tip jar.

 Charlie gave her a gracious nod. “Have a good day, miss!” he called out, hiding his knowledge of her and her grandfather’s secret plan behind the visage of an endearing smile. Part of him (make that most of him) still believed this really was all an act. Hell, he was jealous of their commitment at this point. 

The girl was halfway out of the door when she stopped in her tracks. Charlie’s heart skipped a beat: at long last, vindication! She slowly turned around to face the slobbering dog of a barista who was begging at her feet for her to crush him. 

Her voice had the same tenderness as it did earlier, but it was louder this time. She enunciated her words and locked her gaze in the center of Charlie’s forehead like a laser from a gun aiming straight for him. He was desperate for her to pull the trigger and put him out of his misery. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

Charlie’s face sunk. The pistol dropped to the floor. 

She took a long breath in and continued. “This was my grandfather’s favorite coffee shop because of you. He always thought you were so kind: it was his favorite part of the week to see his favorite barista personally deliver coffee to our table. He loved the life you always had in your eyes when you took his order. I think he saw a little bit of his younger self in you, if I’m being honest.”

Charlie was frozen. He stared, stupefied, at the girl. He scanned her face for any sign of a tell, but couldn’t find any. Her words cut him deeper than any other blow could have. 

He was an imposter, even in the role he had curated for himself.

His crowning achievement lay shattered on the floor, collecting dust in a million pieces. 

The girl looked down and laughed. “Yeah, he was always willing to cut you some slack when you made a mistake. He never really cared about the coffee, honestly, but it was still a little bit of a shock that time you accidentally gave him the hazelnut syrup. Boy, did he love that one! He thought you were an innovator, the da Vinci of independent coffee shops.” She looked up and sighed. “I know it’s silly, but I really did want to thank you. You made an old man’s life one hell of a lot better.”

With nothing more than a soft smile and teary eyes, she waved goodbye and closed the door behind her. 

Charlie leaned on the counter for support, stumbling under the weight of what she had just said. He couldn’t bring himself to accept her gratitude. If he did, he’d just be pretending to be the good guy in a story where he was supposed to end up in hell–a reverse fallen angel. 

Charlie’s throat burned with the taste of the old man’s piteous reverence. It scratched the inside of his esophagus and made him want to scream at the top of his lungs. 

“And can I have that hot?”

Charlie’s trance was interrupted by an order from a particularly annoying-looking businessman. Irritated that a customer cut off his cathartic episode with an order for another stupid, overpriced drink, Charlie instinctively reached for the canister of decaf coffee beans when he went to make the latte. He took a long inhale from the canister and allowed the acidic scent to fill his lungs, but the beans’ stench didn’t bring him the same delight it used to. He glanced over at the old man’s empty table and felt a strange sense of calm come over him. 

He knew he had lost, but his forehead was soft. The redness faded from his cheeks. The girl’s words stopped burning the back of his throat and now felt like the warm ginger tea his mother used to give him when he had a knot in his stomach.

Charlie put the lid back on the decaf canister and reached for the normal coffee. 

The cafe grew quieter in the days that followed. The milk frother didn’t scream as much and there were less murmured complaints in the air. For once, Charlie didn’t have to read people’s lips to hear them speak.

The man’s granddaughter still took her seat every Thursday at one o’clock. She sat with her crossword until her coffee got cold, reading the hints aloud to herself and making sure to fill in each and every square. She ordered a hazelnut latte every time she came in, but Charlie was sure to slip in a different flavor each week.