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It’s September, but summer hasn’t quite faded. Todd thankfully peels off his greasy, sweat-soaked uniform, drops it in the hamper, and steps into the shower. The water is just on the cool side of comfortable, and he sighs in relief as it sluices down his skin, washing the day down the drain. He squirts shampoo into his palm and starts lathering up his hair.
Working fast food was just supposed to be a temporary stop, professionally speaking. He hates it, grits his teeth through every shift, but it makes him enough money to pay the rent for his shitty studio, to cover his utilities, so he can’t afford to quit. The customers are jerks, his manager doesn’t give a shit about him, and his coworkers are all either twenty-somethings dating each other, or working moms who just want to collect a paycheck and get home. It sucks. He used to get off each shift and go around town, or sit on his old laptop, submitting job applications, but three years in, it’s still the only job he can find.
Well, the only job he’s been hired for.
His shift is six am to two pm, and after a quick stop at home to shower and change clothes, he goes out again to earn more money. Man cannot live on rent alone! He doesn’t make enough to pay for groceries, or clothes, or –
Or Amanda.
It’s been three years since all of that went down, too. Since he lost his old job, since Amanda and his parents had found out that he lied about the Pararibulitis, since all of them cut him off. He doesn’t try and contact them anymore, he doesn’t know how they are, but every month he transfers enough money to Amanda’s account to cover her medication. It’s a lot. It’s every spare penny he can wring out of his paycheck, and more, but he knows that it’s his responsibility to send her $475 every single month, no matter what.
So every day, he leaves the apartment again and heads downtown with his guitar, and he busks. He plays popular tunes and oldies, slips in the occasional Mexican Funeral tune, when he’s surrounded by young punks and can stand the memories, sings what people want to hear, and what they’ll pay him to play. He sits on a milk carton or a stoop, an empty coffee tin on the ground by his feet, and he plays.
Today, Todd heads to Pioneer Square, an old Joy Division shirt hanging off his narrow frame and his soft guitar case slung over his shoulders. He doesn’t bother with the milk crate today, knows where there’re some nice steps to settle on, and he gets off the bus two stops early to get a chance to stretch his legs. He turns the corner to an open plaza where tourists congregate, and is surprised to see a sign he doesn’t recognize, where the tea shop used to be. The tea shop has been closed for a few months now, and the new sign says ‘Café Wendimoor’. The windows are clean and the door is open, and Todd can see a bustle of curious customers trickling in and standing in line.
He shrugs. Hopefully this means more people will stand around and listen to him.
Across the square is a set of steps leading up to a statue of some shitty white guy, and Todd sits down and sets up his meager equipment: electric guitar, mini portable amp, coffee can. And he plays.
He knows his voice isn’t bad. It used to be good, back when he was doing three shows a week, and rehearsing on his off days. Now, he just sings on the street, occasionally in the shower, and it’s not bad. Certainly good enough to accompany whatever it is that people like to hear. He’s got range, and knows what to play based on what people are wearing. Mumford and Sons, if they’re wearing weird-colored jeans. Bon Jovi for men with socks and sandals. Johnny Flynn for the students with beanies, and Beatles for anyone whose clothes are obviously thrifted. Florence and the Machine or Katy Perry if they’re wearing Uggs. People walk by and drop in a few quarters, or stand around for two songs, maybe three, and give him a dollar or two. Sometimes, he sees a five or a ten go into the can, and he makes an effort to make grateful eye contact when that happens. Every bit adds up, he knows that now, and busking can mean the difference between sending Amanda all of the money she needs, and sending Amanda all of the money she needs and getting to eat dinner that night.
Now, Todd plays for a few hours before his throat gets too dry to continue, and he wraps up with Marvin Gaye, shaking a laugh and a few more dollars from his listeners. “I’m Todd,” he says, switching off the portable amp, coiling the wire, “and thank you for listening. Every dollar helps.” It’s been a decent afternoon – not one of his best, but certainly enough to pocket $40 for Amanda, and a bit more beside. The air has cooled down from the afternoon heat, and he pokes through the coins in the bottom of the can, decides he’s got enough for a bit of a treat.
The door to Café Wendimoor jingles when Todd opens the door, and he hesitates just inside the door, making sure there’s enough room for him and his guitar. The crowd from earlier has thinned out, so there’s actually no line and a few open tables, and the man behind the counter is smiling at him, very brightly. He waves. Todd scrunches his eyebrows together in confusion, but hesitantly waves back.
The man is tall-ish, has neatly combed brown hair, and a bright yellow apron covered in coffee stains and smudges of food. When Todd steps closer to the counter, he sees that it’s also embroidered with the word 'Dirk’ and several kinds of flowers, in a dark orange. “Hi!” he says, waving again, this time only two feet from Todd’s face. Todd blinks, and waves again as well.
“Hi,” Todd says, and then awkwardly clears his throat. “Um. Can I get a –” he trails off, realizing he has no idea what he actually wants yet, and takes a step back to look at the specials menu over the cashiers head. There are the usual coffees and lattes and teas, and one entry written in curly pink letters that says “Grand Opening Special - Ask Me!”
“Get a – ” the man prompts, face still holding on to the sunny smile, and Todd huffs out a nervous laugh and steps closer to the counter again.
“What’s the grand opening special?” he asks.
“Oh!” says the man. “What a great question. Tell me three things about yourself!”
“What?”
“I need to know something about you before I can make you something special,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be special, it would just be on the menu. For example, my name is Dirk,” he points at the embroidered letters on his apron, “I really like pizza, and I’ve never had a pet cat, though I really want one.”
Todd blinks. “So what special drink would you make for yourself?” he asks, curious despite himself.
Dirk beams even more brightly, if that’s even possible. “Given my name, and my dinner and pet preferences, I tend to make myself a hazelnut mocha.”
“I could order one of those,” Todd tried, but Dirk shakes his head firmly.
“Oh no,” he says earnestly. “That’s a me drink. I need to make you a you drink. Tell me three things about yourself!”
“Um.” He casts around for some facts about himself, maybe something interesting, even, but his mind is suddenly blank. “Uh.” He finally settles on, “my name is Todd, I play the guitar, and I have a sister.” Fuck, why did he tell Dirk his name? Why did he mention Amanda? And it’s obvious that he plays the guitar – it’s on his back! What the fuck?
“Perfect,” Dirk says, oblivious to the way Todd is cursing himself out in his head. “I have just the drink for you. That will be three seventy.”
Todd hands over four dollar bills and, when given the change, tips it reluctantly into the tip jar, and steps aside to watch Dirk make the drink. He grabs a ceramic mug, and Todd opens his mouth to correct him, to ask for a to-go cup, but something stops him. Maybe it wouldn’t suck to sit in this cute café and drink it here? At first, it looks like Dirk is making a standard latte, but he adds a pump of syrup from two different bottles, and shakes some kind of power into the bottom of the cup, and then on top of the foam as well. When he turns back around with the finished drink, he looks surprised to see Todd so close to the counter, and holds it out to him. “Here,” Dirk says. “Give this a try.”
Todd takes the mug, careful of the heat, and his fingers brush Dirk’s on the handle. His skin is warm, and Todd swallows, then pulls the mug to his face and breathes in the hot steam. It smells almost spicy, and he takes one more appreciative sniff before carefully sipping from the edge. His eyes widen.
“Dirk, this is amazing,” he says, and takes another taste. “What – what is this?”
Dirk looks smug. “That,” he says, “is an almond spice latte.”
“Shit,” Todd swears. “This is the best latte I’ve ever had.”
“I am very good at what I do,” Dirk says.
“You really are,” Todd agrees, strangely earnest for something as simple as a drink. The two men look at each other for a long moment, and Todd feels like he should say… something, say something at all, but before he works up the nerve to open his mouth and say whatever it is that he thinks he’s supposed to say, the bells on the door jingle again, and the moment is broken. Dirk looks towards the door, then back at Todd, and towards the door again.
“I’ll, um. I’ll be right – I’ll be right back,” he says to Todd, and steps back to the register, greets the new customer.
Todd is frozen for a long moment, but his shoulders are sore, and he doesn’t think he can drink this whole latte standing up, so he walks over to a table near the front window and sinks into the chair, and starts in on his almond spice latte.
Damn, this is really good.