Confessions From A Coffee Shop (2 page)

On my first day, I discovered that the rest of the employees called him Harry Pooper. His real name, Harold Potts, was an unfortunate coincidence. His real claim to fame was being the longest-working employee at this branch. Yet he was constantly passed over for promotion, and the manager never let him work the register since he annoyed most of the customers. About all Harold was good for was making great drinks, and fast. When there was a rush, I wanted Harold manning Big Bertha; that’s the name I gave the screaming banshee coffee machine.

To say that I wasn’t impressed when I met him would be an understatement. But when Harold once called out sick for three days in a row, and our pissed-off supervisor threatened to fire him, my thoughts changed a little. Harold wandered in the next day looking healthy but clutching a medical certificate, which he set down on the counter.

I peeked at it. His doctor’s name was Atticus Finch, and his office was located on 643 Mockingbird Lane.

I thought for sure Mark, the boss, would know Harold was playing him for a fool. Surely Mark would recognize the name Atticus Finch from
To Kill a Mockingbird
, right?

He didn’t. Harold had turned his note in as if it were just a typical morning, and then he’d trotted out of the back office and put his apron on. I studied his eyes: vacant as could be. And that was when I’d started to like Harold.

“Oh man, Cori, last night I was at this bo‌—‌” He looked up at me sheepishly as I prepared for the next onslaught of assholes in suits. “Bar,” he continued.

I was positive he had been going to say bookstore. Harold loved graphic novels, but as he couldn’t afford all the ones he wanted to buy, I knew he read them for hours in the bookstore, nursing a cup of coffee. He had never confessed that to me, but I’d seen him in the same bookstore on many occasions. I had never noticed Harold until I’d started working at Beantown, but then again, he just wasn’t the type of guy people noticed.

Other Beantown employees bullied him ruthlessly, and Harold took it. I felt bad for him. But on this particular morning, I wasn’t in the mood to listen to his whining, so I tuned him out. Not that Harold noticed.

Given a lull in the store’s business, he picked up his story right where he left off. I checked my watch every five minutes, and then the clock on the wall, hoping I would somehow magically enter a time portal and my four-hour shift would be over. I still had to fine-tune my lecture for class that evening, and my ambition to make it top-notch waned with each passing minute. Ten minutes later, I was considering just pulling out notes from two years ago and going with that.

Pull it together, Cori.
If I didn’t start putting more effort into my teaching, I wouldn’t be able to find a higher-paying gig, which meant never quitting Beantown Café and always saying “one Bean Supreme coming up” until my death. I tugged on the apron strap around my neck. Gosh it had felt good when I’d burned the old one.

I knew Kat wouldn’t find a job anytime soon. Steady work just wasn’t her thing. She was an artist. My aunt owned an art studio, so I had been around artists all of my life. Not once had I met one with a drive for self-preservation or a grip on real life. They thought on a different plane. Sometimes I wished Kat was more logical, but then I reminded myself that the world needed artists. And I needed Kat. Life without her would be miserable.

I hated working at Beantown Café to get us out of debt, but I knew I would work at the coffee joint full-time if it was the only way we could be together. I would even tattoo their silly logo‌—‌two coffee beans holding cups‌—‌on my ass, if need be.

From the moment I met Kat, I knew she was the one for me. Three years later, I still knew it.

Kat’s childhood hadn’t prepared her for the working world either. Her father was so old-fashioned, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was 157, instead of fifty-seven years old. I felt trapped in a time capsule whenever we had to have dinner with Kat’s folks.

“You’d think a university professor would make enough to cover the bills,” her father once said to me.

Kat was appalled. All the color drained from her face, but she didn’t say anything at the time. She was usually outspoken, but not around her parents. It broke my heart to watch her interact with them.

The night after he said that, when I got home, Kat had prepared my favorite meal‌—‌eggplant parmesan‌—‌and had run a hot candlelit bath for me. I soaked in the tub, sipping a glass of wine she’d poured me, while she put the finishing touches on dinner. She hadn’t said it, but that was her way of making it up to me. And Kat has never made me feel bad about our money problems. I think she carried a lot of guilt, for obvious reasons.

But that was not to say I was entirely blameless.

Chapter Two

Unlike Kat’s family, mine appeared normal‌—‌at least on the surface. My Aunt Barbara was the one who owned the gallery. A typical Bostonian woman, she wore sensible but expensive clothes and no makeup, unless on the town or at a gallery opening. Some may have called her dowdy, but I wouldn’t suggest saying it to her face, or mine. Even if I didn’t play ball anymore, I was close to six feet tall, lifted weights, ran, and was in excellent shape. Plus, my uncle taught me to box when I was a kid.

Aunt Barbara loved art of all types, and she was a decent painter. My aunt also knew she wasn’t the best painter, so she was content to own a gallery and showcase those who were better. I also thought my aunt preferred being out of the limelight. Organization was her thing. Need help getting life in order? Go to her.

She was also probably one of the worst cooks I knew, which didn’t mean we never went to her house for dinner. Every other week, my family congregated at Aunt Barbara’s to pretend we liked her meals. It was a tradition. The other weeks, we ate at my parents’ house, where my mom cooked. Mom excelled in the kitchen, but none of us ever gave her too much praise. It was an unspoken rule out of kindness to Aunt Barbara.

I wasn’t sure why my aunt was such a horrible cook. Her husband, Roger, had upgraded her kitchen so many times that she had gadgets and appliances that made most chefs drool. But the upgrades did nothing to improve the final product. There was not enough salt and pepper to help her bland and boring dishes. But I loved her for trying.

Aunt Barbara sounded normal, right? Here was the hitch. My aunt and uncle were happy, and they got along great and were best friends. However, they slept in separate bedrooms. Roger
always
had another woman on the side. Somehow, my aunt either lied to herself completely, or just didn’t care about her husband’s affairs. None of us ever talked about it. Never.

I couldn’t live that way, but who was I to judge others? If they were happy, more power to them. It took a lot of restraint for my mother not to say anything in front of Roger. The youngest child, my mother idolized her sister from the beginning, and Roger’s infidelities cut her to the bone. Only Mom’s respect for her sister kept her mute. The revelation that my father might be having an affair was the closest Mom had ever came to criticizing Roger. But Mom was so self-involved she probably couldn’t see it that way.

My mom, Nell Tisdale, was the opposite of Barbara. Her clothes were flashy, but not over-the-top. Some women in their fifties didn’t understand they couldn’t dress like teenagers. My mom got that, but she was not ready to be an old woman either. She always looked put-together with flawless makeup and a toned body that she worked hard for by running every day and working out three times a week. Some might consider my aunt frumpy, although no one would think that about my mom. When I was in high school, I had to endure listening to all my guy friends talk about how much they wanted to fuck my mother. And mom knew it. She flaunted it. If I had to choose one word to describe my mom, I would cheat and say “attention-seeking.”

I didn’t think Mom had low self-esteem, but maybe she did in a way. It seemed more like my mother just craved attention. After all, she had always been used to getting it. Right from the start, she was a beauty.

While Barbara was an average painter, my mother was a brilliant writer. She had awards coming out the ying-yang. Mom published her first book at the age of twenty-one and received instant success and fame. None of her novels have flopped‌—‌not one. She’s never failed. And even though Mom drove me completely batty, I couldn’t have asked for a better mother. Oh, we didn’t always get along. We loved to bicker. But my mom would kill any son of a bitch who hurt me. Think a mother bear was protective of her cub? Just wait until meeting my mom.

So what was unusual about my mom? She was sex-crazed. My mom wasn’t like Roger. She didn’t have affairs. But she talked about sex.
All. The. Time.
It made me uncomfortable‌—‌really who wanted to hear about their parents fucking? Not me.

Mom knew I hated hearing it, and to be honest, I thought she talked about it just to get under my skin. It was another of her attention-seeking ways. Unfortunately, I let her get to me, which only added fuel to the fire. Those were the women who raised me. Now for the men.

My father, Warren Tisdale, went by the name “Dale.” He was taciturn, but not in a hurtful way. Dad didn’t have the best childhood. He never mentioned it, and I didn’t think he had figured out how to talk about feelings, but that didn’t mean he was off-limits for me when I needed him. I could go to my father and chat with him, and he’d listen. Not once did Dad offer me advice, but he was always willing to listen, night or day. And he gave the best hugs‌—‌ones that let me know he loved me. My father may not have said it, but he showed it. It was probably a good thing he didn’t talk much because Mom never shut up. It was a relief to have one parent who would listen and not try to outdo me when it came to speaking about things that were troubling to me.

My mother thought he was the most handsome fellow ever. I didn’t see that, but I’m glad she did. I couldn’t handle another cheater in this family. My mom also thought he was a sex machine; I always shoved my fingers in my ears when she said this.

Dad was just shy of six feet, like me. He had salt-and-pepper hair, kind brown eyes, and his stomach was starting to jut out over his belt. He had zero fashion sense, and super-skinny legs. None of that mattered. He was my father, and I loved him. He was pretty much a typical father of his generation: quiet, a good provider, and a person who stayed out of the limelight.

My uncle was also extremely involved in raising me. This shocked the few people who knew about his infidelities. Roger was handsome for his age. He reminded me of Sean Connery but without the Scottish accent. Silver hair added to his appeal and rugged good looks. If anyone needed backup in a bar fight, he was the man. In his younger days, he boxed, and his nose hadn’t been straight since.

I never defended his infidelities. I didn’t get it and I never will. However, over the years I learned to love the man, despite this flaw. I would feel like a shit for not recognizing all that he has done for me. He’s been there for me since I was born. Roger was the one who got me interested in basketball. Neither of my parents were sporty. Yes, my mom worked out, but she had no ability at any sport, unless poker counted. I wouldn’t suggest playing cards with her‌—‌she cheated, I was sure of it, but I haven’t figured out a way of proving it.

Roger was an athlete, and he saw potential in me. We started with shooting hoops in the backyard. Then he signed me up for teams and clinics. One summer, he paid for me to attend an elite basketball camp. Mom wasn’t happy about that since I was away for weeks. She liked having me close to home, and I liked being close to home, but I still had a blast at the camp. When Harvard asked me to play on their team, my mother was thrilled, even though they wouldn’t offer me a scholarship since Ivy League schools don’t allow scholarships. I didn’t play for Harvard in the hope of winning an NCAA championship. (Let’s face it, Harvard was never a contender.) My family had attended Harvard for more than a hundred years‌—‌actually closer to two hundred years, but I was the first Tisdale to play any sport at the institution. I took great pride in that.

Some people were surprised when they met me, since many associated my name with basketball. I was not Shaquille O’Neal tall, although I towered over my mother. My hair was thin, mousy brown, and never held a curl. Every stylist who ever tried curling my hair quit after the first hour. My eyes were deep blue but always looked bloodshot, probably since I was always sleep-deprived. I had pale skin: fish-belly white in winter and more of a pink shade in summer. My teeth were straight, except for one at the bottom front, which jutted out because I refused to wear my retainer once my braces were removed. Being stubborn could be a total bitch. Thankfully, my teeth were as white as can be, thanks to my dentist and my obsession with brushing them. Doesn’t everyone brush their teeth five times a day or more?

A few years ago, I was riding high. I was in a master’s program at Harvard and had several short stories published. It’ll sound smug, but my stories were brilliant. I was the new “It” girl. The daughter of famous Nell Tisdale, I was making my own splash in the literary pond. An agent approached me. Publishers wanted me to write a book. My agent brokered a deal. I had it made, absolutely made.

My book deal was an impressive arrangement for a newbie. Not J. K. Rowling or Stephen King big, but it was pretty fucking good. I even went on some local morning talk shows with my mother.

Kat loved all the attention I was getting. People started to recognize me when I was out and about. Foolishly, I proclaimed to my spendthrift girlfriend, “All of our money worries are over. From now on, you can spend, spend, spend.”

At the time, I knew Kat loved to shop. I gave her a blank check, and now I could no longer cover it. God that made me feel like a failure.

I’ve had my life planned out since birth. Mom and Aunt Barbara used to joke that I’d grabbed the bull by the horns as soon as I popped out. Nothing stopped me.

I skipped crawling completely and started walking well before my first birthday.