The Cyber Cafe

Chapter 10: The Cyber Cafe

The sun was barely up in the sky when I finally opened my eyes to my alarm ringing me awake. Good job alarm, I’m awake now. I still felt a little boozy from the night before. Nothing that a little coffee can’t fix. I got up from my bed, as the images of last night's taxi home replayed in my head. It’s alright, I’ll make that back in tips today I’m sure.

I soon would have to go back to the hill for my first day at the cafe. This however, wasn’t your run-of-the-mill, grab-a-cup-a-joe, cafe. This was an internet cafe. One of several that were sprinkled around the city. The internet cafe served two purposes. It served coffee, and it provided its customers internet. Pretty simple business model if you ask me.

For starters, each one of these internet cafes had brandished its own type of coffee, hoping that it would make it stand out amongst the others. As someone who has tried all different labels and flavors, I can vouch that they all pretty much taste the same, only with different names. Yet the owners of these types of cafes had hoped to attract clientele that would keep coming back for their coffee, and not the internet porn.

Inside each one of these shops there were typically three, to upwards of ten, desktop computers set up, and ready to scroll. Each internet cafe had their own set of rules, but they all typically followed the same format. Buy a drink, and you get a handful of minutes on the internet. Plan to stay longer? No problem, leave your ID at the counter, and enjoy your web surfing at an additional ten to fifteen cents a minute.

Time certainly would add up fast, often surpassing the free time, and absent-mindedly turning those extra minutes into hours online. Customers who would come in for a hot cup of coffee would frequently end up frozen in front of the screen, losing themselves down the rabbit hole of the world wide web. Yet every single time, they would come up to the counter with a surprised look on their faces when it came to covering their bill, shocked that they now owed upwards of twenty dollars or more.

I stepped off the bus downtown, and decided to huff it up to the hill. I passed by Cyberdogs on my way, a quirky internet cafe that slung vegan hotdogs on the side. The interior of this place has always been a wonder to me, with dozens of the most random framed pictures hanging on the wall. Still, after surviving two recessions, numerous constructions, downtown changes, and minimum wage hikes, the place still stayed in business for what must be almost a decade now.

Although, as a vegetarian, I would have loved to work there, Cyberdogs wasn’t where I would be starting my new job today. No, my destiny awaited a little further up the road on Pike street. Right past Plymouth Pillars Park, on the edge of Capitol Hill, and sandwiched between two hair salons, was the little unheard of internet cafe known as Uncle Elizabeth’s.

I walked in and was greeted with a moderately busy cafe atmosphere. Three patrons sat on the computers, leaning in towards their screens, clicking on their mouses with their right hands, whilst sipping on their coffees with their left. Some punk rockers sat at one table, and two loud and flamboyant gay men sat at the table next to them. Two young Seattle Central students occupied the area in front of the espresso bar, face deep in their printed articles, and wide open textbooks. Some lady was counting her change at the counter, when Chris, whom I was there to relieve, spotted me.

“Hey! You must be Erin,” Chris burst with joy upon seeing me. It was my first time meeting the guy, but boy was he excited to be relieved. He then tipped over the large plastic tip jar in front of him, left a crisp dollar inside, and then quickly pocketed the rest.

“Hiya, I didn’t catch your name,” I mumbled, as the hangover had just hit me.

“It’s Chris,” he introduced himself and reached out his hand. “Pleasure.”

Chris was your basic Seattle barista dude. He wore a handmade necklace that dangled low over his sternum, and a v-neck t-shirt to show off the jewelry. He had skin tight black pants that almost looked like leggings, and sleeve tattoos on both of his arms. He wore his hair long and up in a bun, he had a girlfriend that he’d been seeing for the last three months, but was considering ending things soon.

“Here, let me show you how the register works,” he started, and brought me back behind the counter.

Just then a customer walked in and right up to us. It was a middle aged woman with dark hair and a mousy way about her. She stood there silently and stared up at the menu with frightened eyes by the sheer amount of choices drawn up on the board, then back down to us, continuing in awkward silence.

“Hello,” Chris broke the ice. “What can I get for you?”

“Uhm. I’ll have a, mmm. I’ll have the, uh,” the woman spoke indecisively. “A small cup of coffee please.”

“Sure thing. For here, or to go?” Chris asked.

“Oh, uh, uhm,” the woman started up. “I’ll have it for here.”

“Fantastic,” Chris spoke sarcastically. “Will you be hopping online today?”

“Oh my. Uhm,” the woman stuttered. “Sure,” she finished.

Chris then proceeded to ask the woman for her ID, which led to an even longer awkward pause, and the inevitable explanation of the internet cafe system. After a few moments he sent her with her cup of joe to the open computer facing the window overlooking the street. Then he turned back to me.

“Okeedokee. Let’s see. Ah yes, the register,” he remembered, and showed me how the ten year old heavy piece of junk worked. He revealed to me where the milk was kept, where they held the coffee, the espresso machine, and most importantly, how to control the music. He left shortly after his brief, half explanation of how the job worked. I could have used a little more guidance but, hey, I had this, so it really didn’t bother me so much.

I threw on Modest Mouse’s “Lonesome Crowded West” on the stereo just as my first customers came strolling through the door. It was two guys around my age. As they walked in, I had to smell myself real quick just to be sure I wasn’t still carrying the stench of last night’s debauchery, because both these guys reeked of booze. Vodka to be more precise.

I poured them their drip coffees and watched as they somehow managed to spill cream into their to-go cups and not all over the floor. The cute one with the shorter hair paid and tipped two dollars. You never really know with some people, especially those you wouldn’t expect, almost always were the ones to leave the best tips.

As soon as they left, another customer came through. Then another. And another. Though not as quickly as I’d have liked. There were often periods of deadness. Long excruciating moments where I would find myself wiping the same part of the espresso machine over and over. Or sometimes I would go and just stand outside to smoke and drink coffee, thinking to myself of how incredibly boring and easy this job truly was. It was during these excruciatingly slow times that I felt like it would be more entertaining watching paint dry, or flies fucking.

Or so I thought.

Yes, on this first day of working at the internet cafe, I soon discovered my secret hidden passion for people watching. You see, most other cafes had a steady stream of similar dressed and like minded people. Cafe Vita had their hipsters. Kaladi Brothers had their queers and their gays. The clientele that came through Uncle Elizabeth’s, to put it mildly, was extraordinarily diverse.

Take the coin counting lady from earlier today, for example. One could speculate by watching her, that she had some obviously serious trust issues lying somewhere in the deep crevices of her life. Or the middle aged man on the corner computer, who is undeniably surfing the web for porn right now. But not only that, he is printing out his most favored images on the cafe’s printer. Hell, at twenty-five cents a colored copy, he’d have better success down at the Lusty Lady.