Lemon Tree ((WIP))
This was supposed to be a summertime gig. Pull some levers, scrub some dishes, make a couple bucks an hour with promises that I was gonna help my uncle get the family business up on it's feet. Honestly, I never expected the Lemon Tree Cafe to last more than a few weeks. Its coffee machine was a shady online auction find - “vintage” as Uncle Ken likes to call it. The poor thing sputters like a sickly old man behind the bar, coughs out grainy coffee and whines when it steams. When I started here, I didn't care enough to bring it up, to tell him that a shitty coffee machine would make for a shitty coffee shop. Uncle Ken's an adult, I figured, he knows what he's doing. And even if he doesn't, well, that's got nothing to do with me. Sometimes I miss not caring about this stupid place.
My cousin Jenessa was there with me for that first summer. She's always been a good kid, with an eye for detail and the decency to nod and smile at her dad's silly ideas. Not much of a talker, but it was nice to have someone to trade quiet looks with when the vegan lemon squares burned in the oven, and just sit with in those hours-long stretches between customers. Sometimes she stole away to the Starbucks up the street and came back with a pair of lattes that didn't taste like mud, and we'd dump them into our plain cardboard cups and hide the evidence under the sink. But when August came around it was back to high school for her, and I found myself wiping tables and counting ceiling specks all by myself. I know I could've handled it just fine on my own, but when Uncle Ken talks about looking for a new hire, I don't argue. There's only so much time you can spend with just your thoughts and ambient mood music to keep you company, I guess.
The Lemon Tree Cafe was a dream of his in college, Uncle Ken tells me. A cozy little fair-trade coffee house, tucked away in some hidden corner of the city, with big push seats and walls covered in paintings, all originals by starving, undiscovered artists. He says it was supposed to be the kind of place where people could just hide away from it all, to muffle the noises of the fast-paced world outside, whatever that means. It took two months for him to be satisfied with the atmosphere, after four wall-to-wall coats of mint green paint, two different sets of hardwood tables, and weeks of meticulously selecting just the right instrumental tracks to loop over the PA system. It does have it's charms, I guess, if you can ignore the clunking old machines behind the coffee bar, and the sludgey taste of the drinks they spit into cardboard cups.
A "help wanted" sign goes up in the window, but Uncle Ken turns away our first two applicants. The first is a cute blonde college girl, boasting coffee shop experience that our family is clearly lacking. After her interview, Uncle Ken shakes his head, tells me that she doesn't "feel right" for the place. I don't know what that means, but I have a feeling it's something to do with her low cut top, and the sorority symbols tattooed on her wrist. The second interview is with a gawky boy with a pockmarked face, who flaps his hands as he speaks and laughs like a goose. Uncle Ken smiles and says that he'll call, but he never does. Still not the right "feeling." I wonder what he's looking for.
Then it walks through the door, that "feeling," the one he's been waiting for. She's short and stocky, with big hips and a crooked smile. She wears her mohawk knotted into a bun in an attempt at professionalism, but leans back in her chair during the interview, steals glances at me that I can't quite read. She calls herself Sloan Kim, and she doesn't have a resume, but says she'll be happy to tell Uncle Ken whatever he wants to know. Judging by the look on his face, he's already enthralled.
"I've never worked in a cafe," she says. "Not officially, anyway. My cousin used to work at an indie place in Seattle, and the manager let me hang around behind the bar and see how everything worked. It's been a while, but I've been looking for a coffee shop to work at - a real one, you know? None of this corporate nonsense. I want to work for somebody who built themselves up from the bottom, took a risk and really made it happen. That's the kinda boss who really knows what he's doing. There's that kind of atmosphere you get from a place like that, something you can't find at some cookie cutter franchise."
Uncle Ken eats it up. He watches her face, his eyes crinkled with the ghost of a smile. Sloan arches her back, rests an elbow on the back of her chair with easy confidence. When he asks about her work history, she rattles off odd jobs - bussing tables, pumping gas, summers of picking vegetables and lending a hand at tattoo shops and art galleries.
"What I really want is to be an artist someday. I guess that's not a stable career path, but if I can work in a creative environment, I'll be happy with that."
She knows exactly what she's doing. Her almond eyes never leave his face for long. Her tone shifts with his posture - when he leans forward, she presses on, when his features relax, she changes the subject, so smoothly that even I don't notice at first. Uncle Ken isn't the hardest man to read, I know, but there's something strange about watching someone string him along like this. For the life of me I can't decide if it's sad or brilliant.
A pair of customers breeze through and I don't get the chance to see how it ends. I hear Uncle Ken's laugh, and the brass bell above the door signals that Sloan Kim is gone. Later, as I'm running a wet cloth along the black tabletops, Uncle Ken comes to me, smiling.
"So what did you think of her?" he asks, and I know exactly who he means.
"She seemed nice." I don't have anything else to say. And if I did, it wouldn't make any difference.
"I think she's got it," he says. "You know, that...free spirit. That energy. That's what I want representing the company, don't you think?"
If it was energy he wanted, the boy from the other day had plenty. But he didn't hold himself with that same cool assurance, and he didn't have a mohawk. I think I know what my uncle was after, even if he doesn't have the nerve to say it. He wants style. I don't know if that's the best business model, but I don't care enough to press the matter. He can do what he likes.
She left two references scribbled on a napkin, which Uncle Ken leaves with me. "Do me a favor and check these out?" he says. "It's just a formality." I don't know what I'm supposed to ask them, but it doesn't matter. Both numbers have been disconnected. He isn't very concerned when I tell him about it. He's got a good feeling about this one.
She's ten minutes late on her first day. When she arrives she greets us with an easy smile, and doesn't offer any explanation. All through training she's quiet, attentive, and does everything just as Uncle Ken tells her. If she really did lurk around her cousin's old shop, I doubt she payed much attention. I can't help but notice that she sips at her practice drinks just once, and then her chapped lips form a hard, straight line while her throat seems to tighten. But she cradles her cup, swirls it idly as she listens to him speak, only dumps it when she makes another, mutters something about not wanting to let them grow cold.
After a few days, Uncle Ken trusts us to run the shop on our own. When we're left alone after the lunch rush, I lean back against the counter and ask, very casual, "Do you like the coffee here?"
"I don't drink coffee," she says with a laugh. " 'S just janky bean water."
"I thought you said always wanted to work at a coffee shop," I say, and she shrugs her shoulders.
"Oh, I did." She doesn't sound guilty in the slightest. "I told the manager at Jim's Hot Dog Hut that I always wanted to sell hot dogs. Told him my cousin had a hot dog stand in Santa Fe that I used to push around with him in the summertime."
"Did you?"
"I don't have a cousin."
I have to smile. I pegged her for a liar, and I was right, but she's the most honest liar I've ever met. There's a second where she hesitates, twisting her cleaning rag in her hands, but then she relaxes, leans back against the bar opposite me.
Since we've been alone, her eyes haven't left mine, not even to flicker to my arm. Part of me knows she's been looking. When my back was turned, while my attention was on the customers. Everybody looks. I realize that I'm rubbing at it, feeling the scar tissue through the fabric of my shirt, right above where an elbow used to be. It's an old habit that usually draws attention, but Sloan is careful. She smiles up at me, and I think it's genuine.
"Your boss is nice," she tells me. "Too nice, probably. He's new to this, isn't he?"
"We just opened up this summer." There's a chime behind me, and we're no longer alone. I turn to smile at a pair of lunchtime stragglers, and Sloan lowers her voice.
"I've worked for guys like that. Don't have a clue what they're doing. Shit managers, but at least the interviews are easy."
The patrons reach the register before I have the chance to respond. I don't know what I could have said, anyway. That's my uncle she's talking about, though she isn't wrong. I know I shouldn't be as impressed with her as I am.