Sam
Perfect. My past has discouraged me from leaning into that word, but I cannot describe the scene before me with a more appropriate adjective. The line of customers stretching ten deep toward the entrance of Caldwell’s Coffee is just what our town needs on transition day. An influx of visitors on Friday and an exodus on Sunday is exactly what I need as a woman looking to make her mark in the world.
Grandpa Hank keeps reminding me that autumn in Pigeon Grove is a volatile time. Tourists willingly flock back to the chaos of city life. The end of summer vacations and the beginning of a new school year shift everyone’s focus. The onset of cooler weather serves as a reminder to the upper echelon of society that it’s never too early to begin holiday preparations. Vying to be a host for the most memorable party of the season is a serious endeavor. There are precious few weekends left for frivolous getaways to small mountain towns.
I’m grateful for each uptick in traffic. I must take advantage of every single opportunity that comes my way. It’s the only way I’ll keep my profits moving northward. And that’s my overarching ambition, to revive Caldwell’s Coffee to its former glory and restore it as one of the premier businesses in Pigeon Grove. For the previous owners, Maria and her parents, but also for myself.
“Caramel macchiato, large, skim milk, double shot, extra hot, light whip, and sugar-free.”
The woman stares at her phone while reciting the order, but I know she has it committed to memory. She swipes up with her right thumb every few seconds, perfecting the art of multitasking, never looking up to acknowledge that an actual human wants to interact with her. Glancing down the line of robotic caffeine consumers, most of them do the same. I remember that lifestyle, consumed by the daily minutia of each morning, focused on whatever I believed was the most effective way to get and stay ahead of everyone else.
I note each customer’s body language and disposition, cataloging which ones seem anxious, agitated, or in a rush. They get my immediate attention. I offer a smile or engaging comment to let them know they’re seen and important. It’s a game I play, mitigating the risk associated with each transaction, fulfilling every order before too much time triggers aggravation. There must be no mistakes.
It’s an admirable quality, working toward perfection, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it’s much more than that. It’s a necessity. That probably has a lot to do with my past. Everything I’ve ever accomplished in life has fallen short of expectations, both mine and others. I’m not sure which type of shortcoming came first, but does it really matter? Failure, regardless of where it originates, is a sign of weakness I avoid at all costs.
The bell above my door rings, returning my attention to the rote process of filling orders. I stop, just before the whipped cream spraying through the nozzle exceeds what the customer would consider light. I glance up and see Luca grinning from the back of the line. He raises his palm and mouths the words good morning to greet me. His timely entrance has saved me from messing up my latest order. Without even checking to ensure I’ve delivered what she’s asked for, the woman grabs the cup with one hand while typing out a message on her phone with the other.
I grab a ceramic mug, nestle a chai tea bag in the bottom, and pour hot water from the carafe over it. Despite the line of patrons waiting for my attention, Luca’s morning order always takes priority. Truth is, I’ve already made sure there’s enough margin for error in my plan to do it all. It’s part of the game.
I begin work on the next customer’s request, a simple one I don’t need to hear because it’s the same every week, caffè mocha decaf. The polo shirt and visor give him away, but I know from experience that Mr. Walker is off to pursue his own quest for excellence, a bogey-free round at the country club. Too much caffeine gives him the jitters. Three-foot putts for par are his nemesis. Maybe I remember him because he repeats his goal like a mantra each Friday morning before his tee time. More likely, however, it’s because we share the same passion for perfection.
A cool autumn breeze blows through the open door. I see the disaster unfurl before me, a sequence of unfortunate events I can’t stop. The innocent gust weaves between each guest, slips beneath a used napkin on the counter, and lifts it into the air like a bird with momentary wings.
The metaphorical fledgling falters, though, as it floats back toward its resting place, only six inches to the right of its takeoff, directly into the coffee I just finished preparing. I grab the contaminated concoction, remake it, and assess the situation. It only took a few seconds for the slip-up to transpire. Customers who once seemed okay with a slight delay in the delivery of their order are now becoming restless. Impatience mixes with self-reproach. I shouldn’t have cut my margin of error so thin. I should have stayed more focused. Perfection has eluded me again, and I let it get to me.
“Would you like some help?” Luca leans around the counter and whispers in my direction.
“No, thanks. I got it.” I slide the cup of steeped tea toward him and smile.
He has more important things to do. It takes a long time to prepare for his lunch shift on transition day. Running a restaurant requires so much more effort than a coffee shop. I don’t want to burden him. Besides, there’s a method to my madness. Everything is under control. I repeat those two phrases in my mind, repeatedly. It helps, even if deep down I wonder if the opposite is true, that there’s madness in my method and I’m losing control. Truth is, it’s impossible for me to accept help in this state. Doing so would only be akin to admitting failure.
Inhaling deeply, I start anew. Each of the faces staring back at me has changed now. Everything is different. I need a new approach, but I find something positive in that shifting reality. This is a clean slate, a fresh opportunity for me to get things right, to achieve perfection.
I hold it together for a few more orders before stumbling again. The number of smiles turned to grimaces and frowns has become a majority. It has tipped beyond the fulcrum of manageability. One customer glances at his watch, then back toward me. He sighs, shakes his head, and leaves. Another failure. Another reset. Another personal backlash before I buckle up for another go at it.
“Sorry folks, I’ll be with each of you as soon as I can. Thanks for your patience.” It can’t hurt. I send a positive vibe and smile out into the crowd, trying my best to pacify the disgruntled set of customers who long for their morning caffeine fix. In that regard, the universe works against me. Is there anything worse than an addicted coffee drinker who hasn’t had their first, or third, cup yet?
I settle my eyes on the next customer and freeze. It’s been twenty years. What is he doing here? Why would he show up in a little town like Pigeon Grove? He always longed for the big city lights. The memory of his influence over me reinforces every negative emotion I’ve had since that pivotal point in my young life. I swallow the lump in my throat, unsure how I’m supposed to proceed. How can I speak when I can’t even seem to move my limbs?
“Café au lait, with a splash of hazelnut, please.”
My mental capabilities intercept as a self-defense mechanism. I perform the math in my head and notice the wrinkles. This man is at least ten years older than me. Physically, it couldn’t be him, and besides, Nolen Sterling was always straightforward, logical, and to the point. He would order black coffee and maybe a blueberry muffin if he felt overly rambunctious. And I’m not sure the word please has ever been a part of his vocabulary.
Still, it doesn’t stop that unfeeling and callous memory from overwhelming me. The wave of anxiety eventually passes, but everything becomes more difficult from that point forward. I focus on each customer more intently. It’s the only way I can push those negative thoughts back to the dark and protected corner of my mind from which they escaped.
I fled city life and sought refuge in this small town to break away from those recurring memories. I’m thankful for Grandpa Hank’s plea for me to help him with his business. Even though he’s slowing down with age, I know he’s fully capable of running the produce shop on his own. We both realize the truth about my choices, and I appreciate it remains our unspoken secret. Everyone in town has been so supportive and friendly since I arrived, even though I spent the first couple of years working for the competition at Pigeon Grove Country Club. Even after I extracted myself from that aggressive environment, my desire for perfection persisted. It’s a part of who I am, even if I try to hide it from people. Allowing someone else to see all my messy failures could be dangerous, so I disguise the shame I feel inside with a casual but, ironically, perfectly practiced façade.
Defying logical explanation, my day concludes with an overflowing till. Despite my periodic wanderings into daydream land, I’ve reached my day’s financial target successfully. My final customer looks innocent enough. A mom holds the hand of her six-year-old daughter. I know her age from experience. She wears the same adorable tutu that dancers wore for last year’s performance.
“Well, this must be my lucky day. I don’t often have a princess visit my shop.” She smiles at my remark and glances up to her mother for permission to speak.
“Go ahead, when someone compliments you, be sure to acknowledge them.” It’s such formal language to use when addressing a young girl, especially when that child is the one who calls you Mom. She nudges her daughter forward.
The young dancer does a little curtsy before staring up at me. “Thank you, ma’am.” When did I become a grown woman? It was just yesterday, it seems, that I was in her shoes, literally, dancing my way toward success. A familiar and uncomfortable sensation I recognize with painstaking clarity assaults me at the most innocent moments. It would be easier if I knew it was coming. I could prepare for it. But when it leaps into my path without warning, I never know what to do. My eyes dance around the room, searching for something else to focus upon, a desperate attempt to push my uneasy feelings back from where they came.
“Can I have a muffin, Mommy?” She’s so polite, but there’s no childish joy or excitement in her question that I witnessed just a moment ago.
I reach toward the case and grab one of Ginny Shaw’s delectable blueberry creations. I’m ready and willing to defy my desire for maximum profits and gift this sweet girl a treat. Some things are so much more important than the bottom line.
“Not today. You might ruin your outfit.” The mom grabs her daughter’s hand, raises her chin ever so slightly, and redirects her attention to me. “Double mocha latte, please.”
The young dancer’s eyes sink toward the floor, and my gaze lingers on her. Memories of my past mixed with the apparition of Nolen Sterling in my shop create a sense of empathy for the young girl standing before me.
“Can you hurry with my order? I’m already late.” My internal temperature rises and the hairs on the back of my neck stand tall, like a dog’s hackles. I want and need to interject, to speak up for this malleable child, to help shift her path, even if it’s ever so slightly in a direction different from mine. The smallest change can make the biggest difference.
But I can’t do it. My fear of confrontation is more controlling than my need for perfection. The woman pays for her coffee. I make change for her as quickly as possible. As the duo leaves, I’m left in silence.
The adrenaline rush of another shift at Caldwell’s Coffee is over. I’ve survived. More than that, I have prospered. I have accomplished my desire to increase profits and earnings, each day and every week, yet again. But even though I should take pride in my achievement, I can’t. It wasn’t perfect.
The illusion of Nolen Sterling alongside the disturbing memory stirred by the encounter with that young dancer and her mom reinforces a stark reality about today.
It wasn’t good enough. I’m not good enough.
