Somewhere in the Northwestern United States

Early April

My elbows were pressed against the windowsill, eyes half-lidded. Of all the slow nights I’ve had working at Big Gusto Espresso, today was among the slowest. A new drive-thru espresso place had opened a mile down the road; today was the second day of their big promotion. The rain didn’t help bring in the customers, either.

I let out a big sigh. Can’t let this get to me. Customers will come eventually. It was 4:53 AM; by this point, I’m usually serving my eighth or ninth cup of coffee. This morning, I’ve managed one. For thirteen months I’ve been a small (very, very small) business owner; a glitzy new espresso place can’t ruin that, can it?

I sighed again and threw my head back, hitting the glossy espresso machine in the process. “Shit!” I cried. I checked the back of my head, then quickly checked what was more important: the machine. I ran my hands through the espresso machine’s sleek metallic casing under the guidance of a soft fluorescent light. To my relief, there was no dent.

I had to be more careful. At 9-by-13 feet, any sudden movements can lead to a broken grinder or hole punched through the water closet/bathroom/break area. Extra care was needed because, well, I still owed a fair bit on all of it.

Big Gusto Espresso is my entire life. To be more specific, it is my workplace, my future, and a tremendous anvil of tens of thousands of dollars of debt pressing down on my chest. Two years ago, I left halfway through my PhD. Stress mixed with a healthy dose of optimism and the classic I-need-to-get-the-hell-out-of-here attack any mid-20s person gets led me to drop it all and move here. I worked a few jobs here and there until I got enough money to get started. Coffee has always been a pleasure of mine and now I can use it to connect with the world… and hopefully make a living in the process.

A year and a month later and I bought this drive-thru espresso place run by an old couple just off a mid-sized strip mall. I cleaned it up and brought my own tasty blends to the menu, keeping the original name. Right now it’s just me and another employee who works part-time, but I have big dreams of the future.

Dreams that I might have to put on hold. Another sigh.

To my relief, I hear the purring of an engine as it stirs up into my little corner of the strip mall. Thank you, customer, for rescuing me from the depths of despair!

“Good morning and welcome to Big Gusto Espresso,” I say with the most cheery expression I can muster. “What can I get for you today?”

The customer, a middle-aged gentleman driving an upscale vehicle, scans through the menu placed next to my window. In his minute of browsing, he never one lets go of his suspicious stare. The man tickled his chin, then turned to me.

“Why are your prices so expensive?” he said flatly.

My blood begins to boil. I can’t let it get to me, though. It’s bad business. “My prices haven’t changed for a year, sir. They’re actually really the lowest among my competitors, with the best quality to match.”

“I went to Machiavelli Coffee yesterday and their latte was a dollar cheaper than yours,” he said. I stared at him. I knew the comment was coming, but I couldn’t say the truth. Cutting prices that low would run me straight out of business. Machiavelli Coffee, my new enemies, had set their opening week prices artificially low. It was a legitimate business tactic from the fast-growing drive-thru espresso chain, one that their namesake would be proud. It also happened to threaten my livelihood.

“You’ll find that my drinks are a lot tastier and more than make up the difference,” I said. The truth was that I hadn’t had time to try out their coffee yet. On weekdays my schedule is usually a grueling 4:00AM to 7:00PM ordeal, after which the shop (like all the others of my ilk) closes.

“Hmph. I’m not so sure about that,” he said. The man now had his arms crossed. It was the declaration of a challenge. Alright, man. I’ll bite.

“For the price of a regular latte, I can give you an upgraded Maximum Gusto Latte at no additional charge. How does that sound?” His right eyebrow twitched up.

“Fine,” he said. “Can I use my phone’s app to pay?”

“I don’t have that functionality yet,” I said, pressing the brewing button on the espresso machine after having loaded in the grounds earlier.

“Jesus, kid. Making me get my card out. Is this 2012 again?” He handed me his credit card. I took it with a cheerful smile, carrying the same look on my face throughout the process. Within a minute, I handed him his coffee. At 26 fluid ounces, it was an obscenely large hot drink that resembled a soft drink you get at movie theaters more than coffee. Four shots of espresso and enough milk to feed a family of four… it sounded like hell. And, unfortunately, it was also a popular drink item leftover from the old owners. It sold well and it had nice margins, so I could put my personal qualms aside.

He took one sip of it and narrowed his eyes. “It’s OK, I guess.” Then he drove off. I doubt I’ll ever see him again. I double-checked that there was no one else behind him and retreated my head into my rectangular box of a business.

I pulled out a worn notebook from a shelf and wrote down ‘app payment’. It was one item in a long list of improvements I needed to invest in. Or, rather, intended to invest in eventually. Just as I return the notebook to the shelf, a I hear a sharp thunder strike the earth.

The hit reverberated across my space, making Big Gusto Espresso shake. I lost my balance and fell on the hard floor.

That was odd. The weather report mentioned rain (not an uncommon occurrence here) but no thunder. I gathered myself off the floor and looked up. The strike seemed to hit the middle of the empty parking lot in front of my window. The rain was still funneling down, but in between were fierce tendrils of blue that zapped in and out of view. As I looked closer, the source of the tendrils came into view. It was a woman.