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One
Janey
Drip coffee makers, espresso machines, and French presses. My head is full of coffee brewing facts. My nose is full of the bitter but robust scent of perfectly roasted beans. Earlier this morning, I sat in the local Starbucks and consumed several options. Enough coffee to make me shake like a crack whore in need of a fix. Maybe the espresso on top of the black and white was too much.
I pace my gray linoleum kitchen floor waiting for my phone to ring and wondering if the floor was always gray or had it once been white but after years of abuse had faded?
My phone rings and I jump several inches into the air. It vibrates to the end of the card table before it takes a triple flip off the edge. I dive to save it mid-air.
“Hello.” My normally calm and even-toned voice morphs into a two pack a day smoker with a case of bronchitis. I cough to hack up the hairball or frog that’s lodged in my throat. “This is Janey.”
“Hello, Janey,” A deep thick espresso voice filters through the line. “This is Caine Stark from the Grynd.” There’s a shuffle of papers in the background and a muffled announcement. “I’ve got to make this quick.” His chuckle is low and rumbling. “Fast isn’t generally my style, not something I’d brag about, but I’m about to board a plane back to the United States.”
“I understand.” Although my pulse is double-shot hyper, my heart sinks a little because a fast interview means he’s going through the motions and has probably already chosen a person for the position. Rather than waste the opportunity, I decide to use this experience as a way to better my interviewing skills so the next chance I get to impress an interviewer, I’ll be relaxed and prepared.
Sadly, I know more about coffee than the average person at this point. It’s not like it’s going to serve me any purpose unless it’s trivia night and the subject is java, or Starbucks puts a ‘now hiring’ sign in their window. I may not be able to make a vanilla bean soy latte but I can tell you where the bean is harvested, how it’s roasted, and this year’s yield.
He breaks my rambling thoughts with a question—my first question.
“I assume you’re familiar with the product?”
This is where I’m going to excel. I’m tempted to blurt out everything I know in one long run-on sentence but I wait. “Of course. The Grind is the perfect product for me.” I wanted to sound knowledgeable, but not in the way that would tell him I spent the entire week memorizing their inventory. Their store locations. Their employee handbook.
He clears his throat. “So, you use our product?”
I laugh. “Yes, regularly. In fact your product starts every one of my mornings. Sometimes, I need it several times a day. You never know when you’re going to need that extra pick me up.”
Silence fills the space and I wonder if we’ve been disconnected. But that smooth dark chocolate drips over me. “I agree. I’m told our best-selling products have the perfect amount of buzz.”
“It must be true since everyone I know uses your product. I haven’t met a person who’s disappointed with the quality. You know it’s good when you feel it all day.”
“Wow, that is good.” A slow low chuckle begins and ends abruptly. “The position is for a quality control representative. Which means you’d have to…”
“I’m perfect for that position.” I shouldn’t have cut him off, but the caffeine is coursing through my body and my mouth is going ten miles faster than my brain. “I’m a detail-oriented professional who will stay plugged in until I reach my goal.”
“So, you’re good with testing the products? You must be willing to try to reproduce product failures based on client claims and test new products that are in beta. We understand the sensitivity of this work.”
He confuses me with that statement. How often do bean grinders fail? How sensitive can that information be? “If you’re worried about customer confidentiality, then you have nothing to be concerned about. Everything I do will be kept behind closed doors.” I make a lip-zip motion he can’t see but it makes it all the more real for me.
“Closed doors are important.” He doesn’t sound all that convincing. “Listen, my plane is boarding.”
Here is where he tells me he’ll consider my application. I hold my breath hoping for something different but know it won’t come.
&n
bsp; “Thank you for your time, Mr. Stark. I appreciate the opportunity to interview for the Grind.”
In the background an announcer calls for all passengers on Flight 4235 to San Francisco.
“You know what, Janey? I like your candor. I like that the product does not embarrass you, and that you're willing to…what did you say? Stay plugged in until you reach your goal. That’s the type of girl I’m looking for.”
Oh. My. God. Did that mean I got the job? “I am your girl, Mr. Stark.”
“Can you start tomorrow? The last girl who showed up took one look at her office and bolted. There’s a backlog of emails to work through on top of the product testing. Are you up for a challenge?”
“The bigger the better.”
He laughs. “Let’s hope that’s true. We’ve relocated our offices. We are at 926 Market Street. There’s no sign on the door, so just walk in. We’ll go over the details soon, but I have to run or you’ll be the only one at work tomorrow.”
He hung up before I could say goodbye. I throw my hands in the air and shout at the top of my lungs. “I’ve got a job!”
A loud thud sounds from the floor above me. Glinda, the not-so-good witch pounds her cane on the wooden floor. “Stop that racket, I’m watching my show.”
Goal number one is to make enough money to move out of my cruddy apartment in the Mission District. It’s a dump, but the rent is cheap, and it serves its purpose for now. Beggars can’t be choosers.
A year ago, I came home to my apartment in the Haight-Ashbury District to find my boyfriend gone. He had vanished with everything we had. Well, not exactly everything. He left a duffel bag by my door that held most of my clothes. The bastard even took my vibrating bullet. It was like he was sending a message that said, “If I can’t please you, nothing can.” Well, the joke’s on him because that little buzzing bean is the only thing that pleased me, and I’m saving up for a new one as soon as I get a new place.
Solo sexy time in this apartment isn’t an option. The old woman upstairs will bang her cane until my ceiling falls, while the guy downstairs will probably send up a client for me to service.
When I signed the lease I didn’t know that I’d be living below Satan’s mother and above a brothel.
At exactly eight a.m. I walk out the front door and hop over the drunks in the entryway. I catch the bus from Mission Street to the Embarcadero Center. It doesn’t take long to find the address Mr. Stark gave me. In front of a frosted glass window, I look at my reflection. I suppose I look professional enough for coffee. Black slacks. White button-down shirt with a cute embroidered collar. Pumps—not too tall—not too short. A ponytail hanging down my back.
I tuck a stray hair behind my ear and sigh. This is it. This is my new beginning. This job is my first step on my way out, and my way up. I grip the brass handle and turn it slowly. I breathe in the surrounding air not picking up a hint of coffee. Strange for a place all about the brew.
The long carpeted corridor eats up the sound of my shoes until I get to Office C. After a big breath, I walk inside to find the front desk empty. Off to the right a door is cracked open. The lights are flickering to life as if whoever is in there has just arrived.
“Hello.” I step up to the empty desk hoping that a secretary or someone else will come out and greet me. “Hello, is anyone here?” Of course I know someone’s here because I can hear them rustling papers and closing drawers.
“Come on in, I'm in the office to your right.” His voice is like warm hot chocolate on a cold day; the kind of day you get in San Francisco when the fog rolls in. He has a deep dark chocolate voice that sounds richer and more full-bodied than the man on the phone. Then again, the connection wasn’t the best.
