{"id":198,"date":"2024-11-13T21:20:19","date_gmt":"2024-11-13T21:20:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-1\/?page_id=198"},"modified":"2024-11-30T03:27:16","modified_gmt":"2024-11-30T03:27:16","slug":"the-third-barista","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-1\/the-third-barista\/","title":{"rendered":"The Third Barista"},"content":{"rendered":"

by John Timm<\/span><\/p>\n

I start and end my day with coffee. Every day. Go ahead, tell me I\u2019m addicted\u2014I can wear that label with pride. My routine consists of a small, boring breakfast at my apartment, followed by a far more enjoyable visit to the neighborhood coffeehouse, Mucha Moca. It\u2019s a tiny, one-off place. Not the corporate sterility of a Starbucks, not the fuzzy, Do you want a hug with that latte?<\/em> of a Dutch Brothers. Just great coffee, bakery, sandwiches, a space for me to write, and a couple of baristas to provide a pleasing visual dimension.<\/span><\/p>\n

My roommate and I moved to this neighborhood over a year ago. On the first morning, I took a walk around the block, found Mucha Mocha, and it was love at first sight in more ways than one.\u00a0 During my initial visits, I finally worked up enough courage to ask one, then the other barista their phone numbers. Turns out they both had refined the art of the polite \u201cno.\u201d So, I dropped that idea fast and resolved the matter in a far more creative way: I invented a third barista.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

I was on a screenwriting assignment, working on short deadline with both my client and my creditors\u2014nothing new for me. This day\u2019s task, introduce the female love interest in a TV romcom about film making. Laptop open, coffee mug to one side, I began:<\/span><\/p>\n

INT – COFFEEHOUSE – DAY<\/span><\/p>\n

A SCREENWRITER, 30-ish and unassuming, sits at a small table. He begins typing on his laptop. He pauses to reach for his coffee.\u00a0 He looks up. DAPHNE, 25, appears out of nowhere and is now seated in the chair opposite him. She wears a barista uniform.<\/span><\/p>\n

DAPHNE<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 I didn\u2019t mean to startle you.<\/span><\/p>\n

SCREENWRITER<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019ll admit you\u2019ve got me at a bit of a loss. You look exactly like someone I — it\u2019s hard to explain.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0DAPHNE<\/span><\/p>\n

Don\u2019t try. And can I bring you a fresh cup? You don\u2019t mind, do you?<\/span><\/p>\n

It was absolutely crazy. The ideal woman of my mind\u2019s eye. Right across from me at my table. Exactly as I was imagining my character. I never knew those kinds of powers existed within me. Maybe it was the longing, the loneliness, the need for true love\u2014whatever that is\u2014that had built up over time, one failed relationship after another. Regardless, my script idea had taken wing on my laptop. For whatever reason and for better or worse, I had created Daphne. Daphne, the third barista.<\/span><\/p>\n

Fast forward. Every morning I would now eagerly trot to the coffeehouse. I\u2019d wait until my little invention was free and walk up to the counter. Little did she know the I was her maker. That were it not for me . . ..<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

I felt more comfortable with Daphne than I had with any woman I\u2019d ever known. She was a touch person by nature. When we sat together engaged in even the most trivial conversation, she\u2019d lean forward, eyes focused on mine, and reach out for my arm as if by instinct. And there was something about her voice that made me melt every time she spoke. Soft, full of joy, borderline erotic\u2014the sound lingers to this very day. We soon broke through any barriers to familiarity and became what the vernacular calls an item<\/em>. Now, instead of that boring breakfast alone in the apartment, it was an egg frittata at Mucha Mocha, or sometimes a bagel with cream cheese, my favorite. And freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee. Yes, coffee, made by my very own barista, Daphne, the third barista. At the end of her shift we would leave together, her hand in mine, a firm grip of interlaced fingers, my laptop in the other. I was never more productive. My script assignment was zooming to completion with dozens more buzzing around in my head, waiting their turn.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Fast forward. One problem solved, one yet remaining, a problem by the name of Lily, a\/k\/a, \u201cmy roommate.\u201d Ah, Lily. A former classmate from film school. The most intelligent being I\u2019ve ever known. Well on her way to a Golden Globe or an Emmy. Witty, sarcastic\u2014a sarcasm that could cut through steel\u2014and one hell of an aggressive tennis player. A friend with occasional benefits. Almost love, but not quite. I can\u2019t say we didn\u2019t both try to make it work. So many things in common. Movies, food, good sex. Only now, we\u2019d become just bookmarks in one another\u2019s life. Nothing broken because there was nothing left to break, nothing except the inertia of a relationship going nowhere.<\/span><\/p>\n

Within a week, on an evening when Daphne was working late, Lily and I had a discussion<\/em>. A calm discussion. A foregone formality. Lily moved out. Daphne moved in the next day. Done.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Fast forward again. Saturday farmers markets. Late night Fellini film fests, Sunday brunch,\u00a0 an afternoon at the beach. A montage of good times. All the while, Daphne growing in independence and spirit as I watched with pride. \u201cYou have your writing. I think I\u2019d like to paint. Or learn to play an instrument,\u201d she\u2019d say. Soon the apartment wall would be covered with giant splashes of color on canvas, and the sweetness of her voice would accompany delicate strains of her violin as we wound down the days together. The Adagio in G<\/em> of Albioni, the theme from Schindler\u2019s List<\/em>, those last, lingering moments of Scheherazade<\/em>. She could render tears from stone.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

But like so much in my life, it was not meant to last. Alongside the good came the typical arguments, the fights over money, the close living in a tiny apartment. In time it became too much for both of us and we, as had so many others, parted. At least it was on good terms, or so I thought.<\/span><\/p>\n

This time it was I who would leave. I found a new place nearby and after a few days came back to pick up the rest of my belongings. Funny thing, on entering I heard not one but two familiar voices. Yes, in my apartment that was no longer my apartment I heard the two of them, the two women of my recent life. Together.<\/span><\/p>\n

My entry had gone unnoticed. Good. I took advantage of it and crept closer to the kitchen, listening. The conversation was more jovial than I might have ever expected from two former rivals. Cheery, chatty, lighthearted. And the topic wasn\u2019t exactly me, but rather how to get my things out of there and how quickly.<\/span><\/p>\n

As if standing on a diving board for the first time, contemplating the water below and recalling all the terrible stories of hitting rocks and being paralyzed for life, or landing flat on my stomach in a painful bellyflop, or just plain looking stupid, I entered the kitchen. Lily\u2019s books piled high on the floor. Daphne\u2019s easel, music stand and violin case over in a corner. Both women turned their attention to me. But somehow, my entrance wasn\u2019t all that important to them. Lily made no effort to get up, to approach or greet me. Not even the suggestion of a hug. We\u2019d become stranger than strangers, if that\u2019s possible. And the response from Daphne was nonchalant to the point of dismissive. \u201cWe\u2019ve boxed up everything except the flat screen on the wall. You\u2019ll have to do that yourself. Otherwise, your shit is ready to go.\u201d I didn\u2019t see that coming at all. I\u2019d have been happier if she\u2019d at least thrown something at me.<\/span><\/p>\n

I looked back to Lily. No help from that quarter, either. \u201cGot to hand it to you, Jace. In Daphne you finally succeeded in creating a memorable character.\u201d Classic Lily to the very end.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Somehow I\u2019d succeeded in losing the woman whom I had created with the deepest marrow of my being, built from the dust of my imagination, Daphne, the third barista. And lost a friendship, Lily, in the bargain. Good job, Jason. Back to a vacant square one in your social life.<\/span><\/p>\n

That night at my new apartment, I stayed up past the news. Past Colbert<\/em> and the Late, Late,<\/em> Show<\/em>. I fell asleep on the couch, got up to pee at 3:18 and wandered off to my bed. It was barely six when I awoke for good.<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019ve never done anything like it before. I\u2019ve never done anything like it since. It went out into the street and stopped at the first bar I found open. I\u2019d passed the place a thousand times. It looked what I\u2019d call \u201ckitschy\u201d English, which is probably why I\u2019d never entered. Inside, it was pub dark, made darker by the heavy varnish of the booths and tables. A dart board, a CHIVE ON poster, a barely illuminated OLD SPECKLED HEN sign. I ordered one of the latter from the server, a tired-looking woman in some sort of short outfit I guessed to be that of an English barmaid.<\/span><\/p>\n

Two pints later, I realized drowning my sorrows wasn\u2019t working. I got up, dropped a tip on the table, smiled an empty smile at the server and exited the place. The morning was the usual Expect the cloud cover to burn off by eleven<\/em> kind of morning. Fog, dew, mist, whatever you choose to call that curtain that overhangs the coastline at dawn. I pulled up the collar of my jacket, hunched down, and walked several blocks, aiming for nowhere in particular.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Headlights searching for parking places. Muffled conversations. Shrouded forms marching in gray masses, obedient to the white walk sign, scurrying as the red wait warning began to flash. It was then that I saw them, the two of them. They were across the boulevard. Together. Arms around each other\u2019s waist in tight embrace. I could have called out to them. But why? More to the point, how? What do you say when you see that your former lovers\u2014one of them of your own creation\u2014are now lovers themselves? The vision evaporated rapidly as the two joined figures melted into the surrounding gloom.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Fast forward one final time. I\u2019m back to those boring breakfasts at my apartment. And even though Daphne the third barista is gone, I still go to Mucha Mocha every day. When I asked about her the morning after she disappeared with into the mist with Lily, they said no one named Daphne worked there. Or ever had worked there as far as anybody knew, including the owner who happened to be on the premises at the moment.<\/span><\/p>\n

Meanwhile, day after day I pound away on my laptop. So far, I\u2019ve not rediscovered the ability to dream another barista into being. But it hasn\u2019t been for lack of trying:<\/span><\/p>\n

INT. – COFFEEHOUSE – DAY<\/span><\/p>\n

JASON, a screenwriter, 30-ish and unassuming, sits at a small table. He begins typing on his laptop. He pauses to reach for his coffee …<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

by John Timm I start and end my day with coffee. Every day. Go ahead, tell me I\u2019m addicted\u2014I can wear that label with pride. My routine consists of a small, boring breakfast at my apartment, followed by a far more enjoyable visit to the neighborhood coffeehouse, Mucha Moca. It\u2019s a tiny, one-off place. Not Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":81,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":27,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"template-left-sidebar.php","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-198","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/198","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/81"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=198"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/198\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":532,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/198\/revisions\/532"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=198"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}