A fanciful brunch display adorned by coffee-colored and coordinated balloon bouquets decorates a cold corporate meeting space in the grand ballroom of the Los Angeles Convention Center. Eight-top round tables draped in white linen host gilded floral centerpieces and polished tableware circled with standard-issue stackable chairs. A stock photo banner brands the event: Welcome to The Daily Grind Coffee House, Shareholder’s New Product Summit!
Decorated vendor booths line the outside perimeter stocked with coffee-themed knick-knacks, coffee table books, and The Daily Grind branded merchandise. Small-business owners smile and wave as they stand behind their tables and showcase their for-sale items. The women, accessorized with fancy hats and jeweled broaches, scan the tables and make small talk as they peruse the venue’s offerings. The men flaunt bespoke tailored suits and gather in small groups as they pass the time, waiting for the event to begin. Intermittently, the attendees shuffle about the ballroom between the vendors and the buffet station while they gab in polite conversation, before taking their seats.
The backdrop of the stage is a slideshow presentation; images of happy people laughing over their The Daily Grind coffee cups. Life is grand with The Daily Grind subliminally drilled into the attendees' minds with aesthetic marketing and thematic attention cues.
Hidden from the pleasant gathering, employees with anxious eyes and furrowed brows meticulously inspect the arrangements. They hold crystal glasses up to the light—ensuring perfect cleanliness, jot notes on their clipboards, communicate with one another through walkie talkies, and wipe nervous beads of sweat from their foreheads.
“Please refill the fruit tray!” Samantha says to a uniformed catering server. The server complies and hurries off toward the kitchen.
Samantha huffs. “Ridiculous…” she mutters, before her anxious gait takes her away to continue on her route around the ballroom. Her walkie talkie beeps.
“Samantha, Emily needs you backstage.” Without hesitation, Samantha’s legs burst into a sprint.
“I’m coming!” Samantha says with heavy breaths into the walkie talkie. She exits the ballroom through double doors and runs down a long corridor.
#
Emily Cassius sits behind a lit vanity at the center of a vibrant backstage room. Surrounded by employees in various stages of preparatory tasks, Emily holds her shoulders up and back as the unmistakable focus of the flurry of activity. At twenty-five years old, her beauty and youth match the fake smile plastered on her face.
A stylist teases her hair and shapes it into perfect waves with the precision of a trained artist.
“More,” Emily says to the stylist in a voice that demands a perfection above perfect. The stylist nods and gulps down her nerves.
A makeup artist applies foundation with a soft and focused hand.
“Don’t forget the contour. That’s not enough!” Emily says, the bark in her tone even harsher.
The makeup artist whimpers in fear at the command. Her hands quiver and she drops her makeup brush. “Sorry…” she pleads as she bends down to pick up the mistake.
Emily rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, I have to do everything around here.” Emily snatches the brush from the makeup artist’s hand and finishes the contour herself. “Where the hell is Samantha? Hello!” Her voice rises as she shouts into the ether. The room full of employees stop what they’re doing to look around them like a pack of prairie dogs.
“There she is!” the stylist says. She points toward the entrance door as Samantha jogs in.
“Ugh, there you are, my god. What took you so long?” Emily says.
Samantha takes a beat to breathe, catches her breath. The room of employees go back to their assignments.
“Sorry, I uh…”
“Is the buffet table being restocked? What about the demo?” Emily says as stress bubbles in her voice and she grits her teeth. She straightens in her chair, twists to face Samantha, and stares daggers into her eyes, waiting, without patience, for an answer.
Samantha’s shoulders tense at the attention. “Yes. I had a server restock the fruit tray and Adrian has the dem…”
“Adrian! Adrian!” Emily shouts, cutting Samantha off. She waves her away with a condescending hand and reverts her eyes toward her reflection in the vanity. She relaxes back into her chair and waits for Adrian.
Samantha releases a deep breath. A heaving chest shows her relief. Emily rolls her eyes at the theatrics.
Adrian, an assistant, decorated in his own coffee-colored and tailored suit, enthusiastically walks toward Emily with a tablet. His response is respectful, yet relaxed. He approaches with a smile and a calm confidence missing from the rest of the employees in the room.
“Did you finalize the PowerPoint? The numbers have to be perfect!” Emily says with a bite.
“Yes, Miss Emily,” Adrian says. “Everything is set and ready to go.”
“Ugh! I don’t believe you.” Emily rolls her eyes, annoyed. “Show it to me.”
Adrian whips through several screens on his tablet. He pulls up a slideshow presentation and adjusts so that Emily can see it. Not good enough. She snatches the tablet from his arms and swipes through the slides herself.
“Is my mother here yet?” Emily says when she finds no mistakes or excuses to yell at her employees more.
Adrian opens his mouth to respond, but the click of heels behind them answers before his words escape. Heads turn as Helen Cassius, CEO and the indomitable force of The Daily Grind Coffee House, enters. The room quiets as the bustle slows, stops, like they need permission to continue in her presence. She strides in; her muted mocha pants suit immaculate, a testament to her impeccable taste. An entourage fans out behind her, a satellite of aids orbiting the planet of her influence. Adrian stands up taller, stiffer. His calm confidence falls away as the atmosphere of the room shifts. Helen’s gaze sweeps the room, like a queen surveying her court. The wide-eyed employees wait for her to speak, move, anything to slice through the thick air of tension.
“Good morning,” Helen declares, her voice resonant. “Wonderful job, everyone! The setup looks marvelous. Give yourselves a round of applause.”
The room erupts in a collective relief of captured air and grand applause. Helen claps along with her employees. It doesn’t last long; the celebration falls away, and employees release themselves back to the chorus of activity. Helen approaches Emily’s vanity.
“Emily, darling,” Helen says.
“Mother!” Emily rises from her chair and rushes to greet her.
Mother and daughter come together in a warm embrace—people are watching, after all. A silent beat passes as the room holds a collective breath, a reverence for the moment. Emily melts into Helen’s arms as a smile relaxes into her face.
“You’ve done a wonderful job, dear,” Helen says as she pulls away in a harsh break. A silent communication to her daughter. Emily’s face flushes red and turns away, admitting her shame—like she should have known this was an act, and she’d missed her mark, allowing herself to take a reprieve in her mother’s arms. Stupid, stupid girl. Helen’s lips curl into a micro-smile, an understanding that Emily has received the message.
Emily must shake off her shock as Helen’s quick movement reminds her who she is, and that hugs, in this family at least, are only for show. The room snaps back into action. The spell breaks and again activity rises into the background.
“You’re fulfilling your role as I always expected you would.” Helen’s words are disjointed from the stern look on her face, and the stiff hold of her shoulders, up and back.
“We have a charcoal coffee demo.” Emily’s nerves grip her throat and her voice comes out in a high-pitched squeak. Triggered by Helen’s stiff posture, she feels forced to grovel for her mother’s acceptance. She’ll say anything, all in pursuit of even the most subtle smile. She continued, “A performance by the Bean King Band, and goodie bags for everyone. I tried to make everything perfect, just like you wanted.” Emily no longer sounds like the domineering boss-lady she was before. Under the eye of her mother, she’s as soft and scared as a child scorned for getting caught in the cookie jar.
“As you should…” Helen nods her approval. She surveys the room again with a hawk's precision, her lips curling into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
Emily reacts to the assent like she’s won a secret prize—Helen’s smile belongs to her. Eyes wide, a spark ignites in their depths as an invisible chorus sings triumph. The hint of a grin plays at the corners of her mouth, her chest lifts in a silent, prideful inhale. She gives a subtle bow of her head, as if to acknowledge an ovation from an imaginary crowd only she can see, a muted celebration of her personal victory. “Thank you, Mother! I’m so happy you’re pleased.”
An alarm on Emily’s phone blares. Emily jolts to attention. “Places everyone!”
A horde of bodies rushes through the space in an attempt to organize. The hair stylist finishes a final shape with a brush through Emily’s hair. The makeup artist blots Emily’s lip, her own lips copying the shape of Emily’s as she perfects the final color. Samantha hops off with her clipboard, and darts to the stage entrance. Adrian takes his place behind Helen, head buried into his tablet. After Adrian, the rest of Helen’s entourage take second, third, and fourth place behind Helen in V formation. The choreography of her followers is ceremonial, or instinctual, or well-trained. In unison the group moves to the stage entrance. Emily holds her breath.
