Double

Now that my rent had doubled, art modeling alone wasn’t going to cut it. After my first gig of the day, I visited Isaac at the coffee shop. I figured I could use some caffeine to jumpstart the job-brainstorming process. 

In the shop’s early afternoon quiet, Isaac, who wore his favorite short-billed cycling cap, chatted away while pulling expert espresso shots. He recalled a recent date with a guy he’d met on Myspace. This dude was a bit too into coffee while not being enough of a fan of water. “…so then I said to him, ‘I advocate drinking one cup of water for each cup of coffee consumed, to both hydrate and reap the bonus benefits of flushing caffeine through the system.’ And he was like, ‘No way, dude, that’ll fuck with my workout flow,’ and I was like, ‘Well, speaking of flow, coffee is diuretic’…’ And he didn’t even laugh!” Isaac loved a good pun and had an encyclopedic mind full of tidbits such as these. Clearly, this guy didn’t deserve him.

“Here ya go. Lemme know what ya think.” He handed me a latte. “Hemp milk. It’s a new thing we’re trying,” he added conspiratorially. “One sec, gotta put this in the window.” He picked up a Help Wanted sign printed on neon pink paper.

“Oh shit. Didn’t know you were hiring. D’you think they’d hire me?” Isaac knew about my food service experience. I had never worked as a barista, but I was willing to learn. I needed to make money fast and had dropped any lofty principles about not doing jobs that weren’t my calling.

Isaac shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” 

I took a sip of the latte. “Nutty,” I said.

Using Isaac as a reference, I applied. A few days later, the powers that be called: 32 hours a week at their busiest location, four 6 a.m.-2 p.m. shifts. Starting pay: 7.50 an hour plus tips.

When I got off the phone, my partner, B, jumped up and down and hugged me. “Congrats, dude! Aren’t you excited?”

“Yeah…” My stomach told a different story. “I’m just a little anxious about having to actually do something that early.” I’d never been a morning person.

“Naw, you’ll get used to it. Ya know, the human body can adapt to just about anything. I didn’t think I was a morning person either before boot camp, but that turned things right around. I’ve worked that shift, and it’s great—go in, get ‘er done, then have the rest of the day to yourself.” B, an optimist and a fan of The Secret, always urged me to manifest my desires as opposed to focusing on fear. Seeing as I desired a steady paycheck, I was willing to try.

Thankfully, the shop was just a short bike ride downhill from our apartment. At Isaac’s suggestion, I bought an old 10-speed off Craigslist for 20 bucks—questionable brakes, but it would do. 

The night before my first shift, I tried not to disturb B as I tossed and turned on our futon, unable to settle. I had also booked a modeling gig later that afternoon, so would work from 6-6 with a one-hour break. I now regretted my overzealous scheduling. But hey, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Twice the rent meant twice the work.

When my alarm shrilled at 5, I wondered if I had slept at all, though I must have since it woke me. 

I arrived at the shop sweaty and invigorated from the dawn-tinged ride there. Isaac showed up two minutes later, parking his bike next to mine. He unclipped a weighty carabiner from his belt loop and used one of the many keys to let us in. It was a comfort, working this first shift with a friend. 

We kicked off the morning with espresso shots. Isaac pulled them since I didn’t yet know how. In a speedy burst, he showed me everything else I needed for the job. Only after a successful trial period performing lesser barista tasks could an employee earn espresso training—company policy.

Uppers addicts aren’t the friendliest bunch, and caffeine junkies are no exception. 15 minutes before we opened, a few started prowling outside, some even knocking on the windows. When Isaac unlocked the door at 6:30, they skipped any pleasantries and rushed in, barked orders, and left with their stashes sans thanks or sense of humor. “Caffiends,” said Isaac. I gave him five for that one.

New baristas spent shifts ringing up customers and fetching tea, coffee, and pastries. Busy busy busy, I punched numbers and pulled levers and tried not to burn myself and bantered, mirroring and deflecting. Today it kept me awake, but I could sense the monotony ahead. 

At 9:30, a lull—most people were at work by now, coffee procured. Famished, I ate the most caloric meal I could assemble—a croissant spread with cream cheese. Vegan Isaac helped himself to a Clif bar. This trial period lasted only two weeks, he assured me. If I made it through, I would receive full barista training, learning to craft perfect cappuccinos and lattes.

“I dunno, two weeks seems long. I’d like to speak to the manager,” I quipped. 

“Well today, that’s me.” Isaac pointed two thumbs at himself before whirling around to steam some hemp milk. “The one downside to this stuff—it sounds like a screaming pterodactyl when you steam it.” Right then it let out a piercing burble, and we laughed. 

Isaac told me about the shop’s hot-mess management crisis. The often-absentee manager was, in Isaac’s words, “drama.” Certain responsibilities that should’ve fallen to her, such as showing me the ropes, were left to others, like him. She was supposed to be here today, in fact.

“Then you should be getting manager pay.” I pantomimed making it rain with an imaginary stack of bills.

Isaac played along, pretending to strip. “Ha, I wish.”

Morning passed with sporadic bursts of customers, luring me into a false calm. Afternoon’s energetic slump brought a rush until the tail end of our shift. A listless and frazzled line of caffiends formed, all ordering the same highly specific beverage—proof of collective consciousness. Only Isaac could make white chocolate mochas, a multiple-component espresso concoction. I stood helplessly at the register, trying to keep the horde at bay as Isaac churned out drink after drink, pausing only to wipe his brow. 

Someone I couldn’t see let out a loud groan, guttural yet whiny, the type emitted to ensure one’s annoyance is known. The line rippled as the groaner cut through to the door, slamming it on the way out. What next, a riot? And all because I couldn’t make espresso, no fault of my own?

An irate man leaned over the counter. “What, sitting pretty while he does all the work?” Before I could respond, a woman interceded. “That’s a new trainee, they don’t learn how to do lattes ‘til later.” 

“Mind your business.” He glowered but refused to look at her, then stormed out.

“Good,” said someone, “one less person in line.” Everyone muttered approval.

The woman was next. She leaned in, voice lowered. “Don’t mind him. Ya don’t need assholes like that in here. He has mental problems. I mean, I have mental problems too, but at least they only make me mean to myself, not other people.”

I also kept my voice low. “Thanks. I know how that is, but you seem like a good person, don’t be mean to yourself. I’d love to give you a drink on the house. What’ll it be?”

“That’s sweet. I’ll just take a coffee, dear, so you can get it and speed things along.” Dear? This woman was what, maybe 40? I didn’t think anyone under 60 had ever called me dear, but I would take it. I could see how soft moments at this job were to be held (for lack of a better word) dear.

Before I left, I filled a to-go cup with Northern Lights Blend. Light roast meant less caffeinated, right? Appropriate for afternoon, but with enough buzz to give me energy for my modeling gig. What I really craved was a latte, but after today’s lattepalooza, I couldn’t bring myself to trouble Isaac.

I downed the coffee as I walked—more like bounced—to the art school. Wow was I amped up, maybe too much so.

As I waited for class to start, sweat rings formed under my armpits, spreading on my satin robe. Eyes blurred with anxious fatigue, I didn’t look too hard at the students, but I did notice many of the coffee shop’s signature white to-go cups dotting the desks. While these had always been ubiquitous in town, they now struck me as a stalking presence. The last thing I wanted at my second job was a reminder of my first. Hopefully none of these students had witnessed the debacle of today’s rush. They must frequent the shop’s other branches or have bought coffees after my shift, I reasoned.

The teacher asked me to begin with twenty one-minute poses. Good—short poses were all I could bear, what with more Northern Lights Blend than blood pumping through my veins. I set my digital timer for twenty minutes total and counted each minute in my head. When I peeked at the time left, I saw I’d undershot, my internal clock too fast. I pivoted to face the timer, counting along silently for the remainder of the poses. The space between seconds stretched excruciatingly as my heart leapt against my ribs. 

On my five-minute break, I chugged water, hoping it would calm me, but it seemed to do the opposite. Isaac’s voice piped up in my mind: I was reaping the bonus benefits of flushing caffeine through the system. The last thing I needed. Then I remembered something else he’d said way back before I was hired: Contrary to popular belief, the lighter the roast, the higher the caffeine content. Great—I’d tweaked myself out for a job in which stillness was the one rule.

After another set, I prayed the teacher would keep up the short poses that matched my speedy state. She requested one long, standing pose for the rest of class. I hoped my face appeared placid, hiding my dismay. 

As I stood for the first twenty minutes, my legs felt like they might be involuntarily shaking. I couldn’t tell if the muscles were twitching, or if I had pins and needles from already having stood for so long today. Unlike at the shop, I didn’t have the cushion of a mat or sneakers, or the diversion of banter and busy work. A rivulet of sweat dripped from my right armpit down the side of my body. I envisioned a waterfall and imagined riding down it, frolicking in a lake, anything to distract myself…but now, and because of the liquid I’d consumed, I needed to pee. I side-eyed the timer. Ugh, just ten minutes in—maybe I could hold it? I’d broken a pose only one other time.

But no, you know what, I was a human being, with human bodily functions, and yes, I was getting paid $12 an hour—more than at the coffee shop—but it wasn’t enough for torture. These artists could wait.

“Sorry, I need a minute.” I twisted my torso, shook out my limbs. A few people sighed, brushstroke rhythm broken. 

And then a loud groan. Despite my determination to get to the bathroom, I froze. It was identical to the groan at the shop, unmistakably so: guttural yet whiny. I couldn’t help but shiver through my hot coffee sweat. It was one thing to encounter the same pleasant person at both jobs—grateful to be served coffee at the first, happy to do artistic renderings of my nude body at the second; it was quite another to face someone so overtly unimpressed by my performance on all fronts. I hated that the cause of the groan both times had been my inability to complete a requisite task. Having no better idea of who had made this disgruntled noise unsettled me further, increasing my urge to pee as my muscles defensively clenched. Would this continue? My schedule demanded enough without a vocal, unknown detractor at not one but two places of work.

As I pulled my robe on, the teacher approached. “Is everything okay?” I couldn’t tell if she was asking in general, or because I was up on the platform shaking and sweating, face likely twisted in distress.

“Yeah, I apologize, I just really have to pee. It snuck up on me. I don’t usually do this.”

“No worries, dear, go! You’re an excellent model. You have a lot of…energy.” The universe must have known I needed all the “dears” I could get today. 

And then The Groan. Again! And still with no obvious culprit.

I must have glared, because as I walked away, the teacher hurried after me, whispering, “Don’t take offense, it’s not personal. Nothing in this class is.” Easy for her to say—she hadn’t spent the day being groaned at! She continued, “Some of these students have special needs.” 

Upon my return, I did notice a few students had special needs. Perhaps that wasn’t the proper terminology, I wasn’t sure, but some stared or muttered or twitched. One androgynous person with an easel set up in the corner, away from the semicircle of the class, rocked forward and back. Their gender presentation reminded me of my own when I wore clothes. I struck my pose again and they stilled and resumed painting with laser focus. 

To distract myself from bodily suffering, I wrestled my thoughts into an attempt at meditative gratitude. Cash register number visuals and auditory Groan ghosts tried to invade this state, but I fought them off. My life could be much worse. Here I was, a gainfully employed muse. 

When the teacher said, “Okay, beautiful work everyone, see you next…” exhausted relief washed over me, a euphoric numbing. The students took their time cleaning up, some waiting on the help of the teacher or carers who arrived. 

As I made my way to the door, I caught sight of the painting by the student from the corner, who was standing in line to rinse their brushes in the sink. They were talented, work abstract but capturing the essence of everything: the diffuse afternoon sun from the windows, sharp shadows from the clamp light, and in the center of it all, a figure, jittery yet solid, emanating lines of caffeinated energy. It’s not as though I mistook anyone’s art for myself—I was a set of forms for artists to interpret and capture as they wished and were capable. Like the teacher had said, it was best practice to take none of it personally; but in this moment, I felt seen.

I tried to make eye contact with the student, wanting to give them a thumbs up and a smile to show I appreciated their work, but they avoided my gaze. Just then they accidentally dropped their brushes and let out The Groan. 

Aha! I exhaled a long breath I hadn’t known I was holding. The Groan was not aimed to punish or shame me for my particular incompetence but was a reaction to any obstacle in this individual’s path. What was that again about not taking things personally? From the student’s painting, I could see they had gained more than frustration from my presence in class. I had done my job the best I could, just as they were likely doing their best while moving through the day’s challenges. Tonight, I would sleep well.

On my way out, the teacher flagged me down. “You’re such a great model, and my other model just cancelled—any way you’re also free this time tomorrow?” I was, and I needed the $36. Catching up on rest would have to wait.

Sunset teased the edges of the sky as I backtracked to gig #1 to collect my bike. Transformed from a place of recreation to employment, the coffee shop had already lost its luster. Seeing it less than twelve hours before my next shift struck me as an affront. 

Too tired to ride up the hill, I was about to walk my bike the miles home when B texted. Hungry, she wondered if I might like to meet at our favorite Thai fusion spot, which happened to be down the block. My stomach, hollow and angry from too much coffee and not enough food, decided for me. I couldn’t really afford it, but the thought of slogging home only to waste my few free hours cooking and cleaning before passing out, then waking at 5 to do it again…I would put the meal on my credit card, which already carried a balance. Someday I would pay it off—all I had to do was maintain this work schedule and add a few more gigs. As I locked my bike back up, I made an effort not to look in the direction of the coffee shop.