The Espressologist

12

"Oh, my God!'' I say, gripping the door handle of Katie's car. Katie said she wanted to see the whole Espressology thing in action and offered to pick me up and bring me to work. She lets out a low whistle next to me.

"Holy crap," she utters in a quiet voice. We are both staring at the line of people wrapped around the corner at Wired Joe's.

"Is this ... do you think ... I mean ..." I babble. My butt is suddenly glued to her passenger seat. Heck no am I getting out of this car.

"Jane!" Katie breathes. "Oh wow, Jane! Is this all for you?" I look from one person to the next down the line of waiting customers. There are teenagers through senior citizens of all races and both genders standing in line, wearing their thick winter coats, scarves, and gloves. I try to say something, but my mouth is suddenly really, really dry.

"I ..." I start, intending to tell Katie to take me right home, but I can't finish my sentence because I'm distracted by Katie's shocked expression.

Katie is still staring at the line. "There's got to be at least fifty people standing out here," she says. "It's like they are waiting for concert tickets or something."

I press my forehead against the window and stare.

Suddenly I feel myself fall out of the car as Derek yanks the door open.

"Do you believe this? Do you believe this?" he says, excitedly pulling me out of the car like a mother lifting a toddler out of a car seat. Derek reaches in, grabs my backpack, and slings it over his shoulder. Katie yells something about going to find parking and pulls away from the curb.

Just then I spot the Channel 7 news van up on the curb and a reporter talking into his microphone. "What do coffee and love have in common?" he says. "Everything, if you ask these people lined up outside this local Wired Joe's."

"No, no," I moan. "Is this really just for me? I mean for Espressology night?"

Derek nods enthusiastically and puts his arm around me. He leads me away from the line and to the back entrance of the store, right next to the Dumpster. I can faintly hear the reporter interviewing a woman in line.

"This is freaking nuts, Derek. I can't do this!" I protest, shaking my head.

Derek pulls me into his office and helps me out of my jacket.

"Yes, you can, Jane. You are a pro at this. Look at all of the people who came to get matched. I've never seen anything like it!"

"Me neither," I say, slumping against his desk.

"Relax, Jane." He slips the red Espressologist apron over my neck. "Forget about the news. I told them you'd be too busy for an interview right now."

"An interview?" I squeak out. The closest I've ever gotten to television was when I was nine years old and the ABC weather anchor showed my crayon drawing of a rainy day that my mom had sent in. I glance down at my hands–they are red and shaking a bit.

"Ignore the line. Don't even think about it.

Concentrate on one person at a time and remember how much fun you had last week." Derek starts to rub my hands in an effort to warm them up.

"You are freaking me out with all of this touching, Derek."

"Sorry, sorry," he says. "I'm just pumped."

I am relaxing slightly and actually feeling a bit of excitement in my belly. Either that or I am going to throw up all over the first person in line. But no, I can do this. I mean, I have done it. I'm going to march myself out there and I'm going to make love happen for a lot of people. I'm going to ... but before I can complete this thought Derek pulls me out of his office and pushes me right to the front of the store. Right in the middle of my pep talk to myself.

"HOORAY!" A huge cheer breaks out in the store.

People are clapping and hooting and it is all for me.

There have got to be at least another thirty people standing in line inside the store. Sarah, Daisy, Brenda, Frankie, and Em are behind the counter ready to take orders and make drinks. And even Seth, aka the Macchiato Maniac, is here, and he has never worked a night shift before. He's a coffee master and extremely fast and precise at making drinks. Em is looking at me and shaking her head with an "I can't freakin' believe this" look on her face. I give her my "I can't freakin' believe it either" face.

"All right, all right, everyone," Derek's voice booms.

"Everyone calm down and we'll get started right away.

Let's let her through, people." He pushes into the crowd, making me a path. I give my best homecoming-queen-riding-atop-afloat wave. The clapping slowly dies down and I'm in a room full of super-jazzed-up people. I take my seat behind my table and set up my laptop and notes.

Deep breath.

"Okay, who's first?" I ask.

"I am. ''

A woman in a bright pink tracksuit with shiny silver stripes pushes her way to the front of my table.

"Honey, I'm Darla. Darla Davenport from Oak Brook.

You matched my very best friend in the whole world, Debbie Archer, last week, and she is so blissfully happy.

You've got to pass some of your magic coffee love my way."

I can't help but laugh at this woman's enthusiasm.

"No problem," I say. "Give the barista behind the register your drink order and then we'll chat."

"I'd like a medium cinnamon mocha," she says to Em, snapping her gum in her mouth. She twirls around to face me. "You get that, hon? That's my favorite drink–a medium cinnamon mocha."

"Got it," I say as I type my notes into my spreadsheet.

Ah, this is an old-timer. Cinnamon mochas, which are basically just mochas with added cinnamon syrup and cinnamon on top instead of whipped cream, have been off the menu for a long time now. I can see Daisy giving Em a questioning look out of the corner of my eye. I'm not worried though; the Macchiato Maniac will know how to make it. Darla pays Em and then places both hands onto my table.

"Okay, Darla, age and interesting tidbit?"

"Oh, I'm forty-five years young, baby doll. And my bowling average is 180. That's pretty interesting, isn't it?"

She blows a bubble.

"Yeah, that's great."

Hey, if I don't match her, maybe I can hook her up on Em's ex-boyfriend's bowling league? I jot down the rest of Darla's data and tell her if I find a match I'll have him contact her soon. Darla takes her cinnamon mocha from Seth at the pick-up counter and leaves. I survey the line.

"Next?" I call, and my jaw almost hits the table. "Ginny?"

"Yeah, I'm next," Ginny says. She slowly approaches the table.

I look around for Melissa, but I don't see her.

"You're here alone?" I ask, still surprised. I don't get why she's here. She and Melissa were just ragging on me earlier in the week about my Espressology.

Ginny nods.

"Hmm, okay," I say with hesitation, trying to figure out if this is going to turn into some nasty trick. "Go ahead and place your order at the counter and I'll begin entering your information." I look down at my sheet and mumble to myself, "Ginny Davis, small nonfat latte ..."

"Um, no," Ginny interrupts.

"You're not Ginny Davis?" I prepare myself for whatever crap she's about to put me through.

"No, obviously my name is right. The drink is wrong."

"What? I've made you at least half a dozen small nonfat lattes myself"

"I know," Ginny replies with a sigh. "That's because it's Melissa's favorite drink."

"Oh." I suddenly feel sorry for Ginny. She can't even order what she wants to when she wants to. "What is your favorite drink, then?"

"I want a large mint mocha-chip frappycap, affogato style," Ginny says, and I'm absolutely floored at how completely polar opposite this drink is from what she usually orders. I glance at Em, who is ringing Ginny up, and I can see a look of appreciation on her face. Not a lot of customers know what affogato means–it's basically the frappycap with a shot of espresso floating on top.

"Sassy," I say, and Ginny giggles. You know, she's not half bad when Melissa isn't around. "I'm guessing you're eighteen?"

Ginny nods.

"Interesting tidbit about yourself?"

Ginny takes a moment to think. "Once a month I read my poetry at a poetry slam in a small café on the South Side."

"Really?!" I half ask, half yell. Who is this girl? Ginny smiles again. After I get the rest of her info, I tell her I'll have her match contact her once I find him.

"Thanks, and, Jane"–she points her index finger back and forth between me and herself–"we do have a doctor-patient confidentiality thing here, right?"

"Huh?" I give her a strange look.

"You won't tell anyone I was here, right?" she asks.

"No. Not if you don't want me to."

"I don't. Want you to, that is," she says.

"No problem."

Just then Daisy bellows out, "Large mint mocha-chip frappycap, affogato style."

"Well, that's me," Ginny says. "Have a good rest of the night."

"Thanks, you too," I say, still not sure how to take in the whole interaction.

I've been working nonstop for three hours, meeting people, taking notes, and making matches as fast as I can.

I've made five on-the-spot matches so far tonight, and I know there are a few more matches I can make once I have time to go through my notes. I'm exhausted. The line has finally dwindled. At least everyone fits in the store now, and no one has to wait outside. I'm stretching my arms up over my head when Derek comes up beside me at the table and whispers in my ear, "Do me."

A sudden wave of nausea washes over me and I bring my arms down to my side at lightning speed. "Excuse me?"

I choke. "Do me," he says again.

I look him in the eye. "Ever hear of a little thing called sexual harassment in the workplace, Derek?"

"No!" he yells, straightening and suddenly looking as horrified as I feel. "No, no, no!"

He leans down, puts his hand to the side of his mouth, and whispers, "I mean match me with someone."

His eyes dart left to right to make sure no one is listening.

"You want me to match you with someone? That is so cute."

"No, it isn't cute, and you better not tell anyone else about it. Just match me with someone and e-mail it to me.

My favorite drink is a medium gingerbread soy latte."

"Awwwww ," I say, surprised that a super-commercial Christmas drink is his fave. Derek glares at me and returns behind the counter to help take orders.

I help four more people: two slightly pudgy and balding brothers in their early thirties, a tall blond lesbian (my fourth lesbian of the night), and this beautiful super-leggy brunette catalog model. Now I'm face-to-face with a rather interesting character. Next in line is a girl with the blackest dyed Halloweenish-looking hair I've ever seen, a black zipper hoodie, a black T-shirt, and the most enormous pair of black baggy jeans (seriously, each leg looks like it could double as a skirt for me) covered in chains. She gives Sarah her drink order and then looks at me, expressionless.

"My name is Glinda," she says, glaring at me through eyes heavily coated in mascara and thick eyeliner.

"Like the good witch?" I ask. Whoops. Bad move.

"Yeah." She narrows her eyes and gives me a sarcastic smile.

"Sorry. Favorite drink?"

"Medium eggnog latte," she says. Oh puke, I hate eggnog, but whatever floats your boat, you know? "Age?"

"Twenty-five." She looks exceedingly unhappy to be here. "All right, Glinda, can you tell me some interesting tidbit about you? Just so I can get a better idea of who you are."

"Hmm." Her face softens while she thinks. "I'm a bad-ass singer. I even got to try out in front of the judges for American Idol when they came to Chicago."

"Omigod!" I squeal. "You met Simon, Paula, and Randy?.'" I am a hard-core reality TV freak.

She nods. "But they never showed my audition on TV

"Oh, bummer!" I say, typing her information into my laptop. Suddenly, I stop. Derek is off to the side grinding a one-pound bag of espresso for a customer. I look at Glinda, then at Derek, then at Glinda. Aha! Yes, yes, yes!

Could she be any more perfect for him?