Chapter Text
It began just like any other morning would: an onslaught of people rushing in to get their cup of morning Joe while still trying to make it to work on time. Monday mornings were always the worst for this because some had a tendency to oversleep. But it fed into the positive feedback loop of feeling extra tired, getting more coffee than necessary, which then meant falling asleep later than one would, only to wake up groggy the next morning again.
Ging was half spaced out, barely paying attention to the order he was completing before the chime of the door alerted him to a new customer. He didn’t look up.
“Another tourist?” asked Cheadle under her breath. Ging finished putting the spritz of whipped cream on top of a frozen mocha, passing it to a customer waiting by the counter. Tourists weren’t common, but they weren’t uncommon, either. “This one’s uh, really something…”
Cheadle rarely commented on customers, he might as well get a look to see what all this fuss was about. Ging looked over by the door, and spotted a man wearing a suit, but not just any sort of suit, no, this suit was a teal plaid. It was an eyesore if he ever saw one. But the fabric was nicely cut, perfectly fit to his frame, which if he had a smidge less self respect he would call attractive. Was this a custom made tux? Judging by how ugly it was, probably. This man clearly had bad taste.
“Do you think he’s lost?” Ging joked back. “We don’t serve kopi luwak here.” Cheadle rolled her eyes.
“What?”
“It’s the most expensive brand of coffee in the world, you feed it to a civet to digest and-”
“I’m quite fascinated, tell me after work. I took that family of eight last Friday, it’s your turn now,” she said sarcastically. Ging sighed.
Working at a café was not his forte. It wasn’t anyone’s strength, except maybe Piyon who was so apathetic about the job it didn’t seem to bother her. No, if Ging had it his way, he’d be spending more time in the library, scouring through books of ancient texts to work on his thesis project.
“Can’t you get Kanzai to do it, I think he’d have fun with this one,” sighed Ging, grasping for straws in real life and metaphorically.
“Quit complaining and actually do your job,” snapped Cheadle. “The quicker we get through these customers the more likely Netero’ll let us leave early.”
“As if that’s so much better,” said Ging under his breath. “Can’t wait to get off work fifteen minutes early. I’m already planning what I’m going to do with that huge chunk of time.” Cheadle ignored him.
He sighed, straightened out his apron, and faced the sparkly blond man before him. Well, here goes nothing.
He waited a few seconds. No reply.
The man simply smiled at him, not even looking at the menu.
“If you don’t know what you want, how about letting someone else go in front while you figure it out,” said Ging. The corner of the man’s mouth twitched.
“Excuse me? I know exactly what I want. But I’m afraid your attitude should be taken off the menu,” he said. Ging rolled his eyes.
“Just tell me your damn order,” he said, sticking a piece of paper to the side of the cup. He knew this type, they always had the most complicated of orders. Last time he dealt with rich hipster bullshit he added kombucha to the menu and kept a few in the fridge. Hopefully it would be just that.
“Language,” mused the man. He suddenly got a beep on his blackberry, pulling it out to check a few emails. Kanzai tugged at Ging’s sleeve.
“What,” snapped Ging.
“That’s Pariston Hill, don’t you know? I heard he owns enough yachts for them to be considered a navy-”
“Who?”
Kanzai facepalmed.
“I’ll tell you later, just don’t fuck this up,” warned Kanzai.
“I’m here to serve coffee, not suck the cock of capitalism,” Ging cut back. Kanzai shrugged and started up the blender again.
“Can I take your order now, or do I have to answer your riddles three?” Ging smirked. Pariston Hill was not amused, though it was hard to tell. His face seemed to lack any sort of wrinkle, perhaps it was pumped with botox. Maybe he wasn’t even human. His eyes were glossy and brown, the kind that just seemed to keep Ging staring into them, trying to read an emotion but not quite able to discern what he was looking for. They were objectively pretty eyes. Damn those eyes.
“I’m going to need three shots of espresso, half decaf and caffeinated half hazelnut tears-”
“Nuts can cry?” interrupted Kanzai. Pariston ignored him and continued to rattle off.
“Just a dollop of honey, and I can’t stress this enough, a dollop, nothing more nothing less-”
“Right, I’ll make sure to get you the absolutely correct dollop dosage,” Ging said, giving a sarcastic salute. Pariston was not amused. Or maybe he was. It was hard to tell.
“Two goat creams, one cow cream, and half a horse cream. Oh, and I’d like a berry blend to top off with some freshly cut passionfruit to distribute evenly throughout the drink. Make sure I have two tablespoons of prune syrup. I need a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg on top of the whipped cream but it’s absolutely crucial that they do not mix,” listed off Pariston.
“Ah, of course, this is absolutely normal to want and possible to achieve.”
“And before I forget, I need you to make it based in oat milk,” said Pariston.
“Obviously, because the cow cream, goat cream, and horse cream will pair just swell with oat milk,” said Ging.
“Yes, exactly,” said Pariston, either ignoring the sarcastic comment or being dead serious. Ging finished scribbling down the ridiculous order onto the post it note, just barely having enough room.
“Oh, and make sure it isn’t carbonated, it’s bad for your teeth,” added Pariston, taking out his blackberry for half a second before clipping it back onto his belt. Ging squinted. Was that even enough time to check the time or a message? Did he even turn it on? What was he waiting for? No, why did he care. This was just again another problem customer, ready to receive half-assed service so he’d never step foot inside the premises again.
“Sir, this is a coffee shop. None of our beverages are carbonated.”
“Well you’re really missing out on an entrepreneurial opportunity there, aren’t you,” lectured Pariston. Ging blinked. Twice.
“How could I overlook a hot carbonated drink, you know, throats are overrated, I’ll give you that,” said Ging. “Hey can I get a name for whatever sort of expensive laxative this is,” said Ging, looking down at the long list of ingredients he’d scribbled down.
Cheadle leaned in closer, curiously, to catch a glimpse.
“Seriously, if he manages not to shit himself before finishing this, I’m tempted to give it to him for free,” said Ging under his breath.
“Hem hem,” said Pariston, clearing his throat with a glare that could melt ice. “You don’t know who I am?”
“Am I supposed to?” Ging asked flatly. The corner of Pariston’s lip twitched slightly.
“You mean you don’t know? I show up to town, and you have absolutely no idea who I am?”
“I see about a hundred people a day, you’re not special,” said Ging. Pariston looked as if Ging had spit on his shoes.
“You know what? Fine,” said Pariston. He handed over a hundred dollar bill. Ging pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. He made a mental note to thank Piyon for restocking the register that morning before her shift ended.
“It’s not good to carry a bunch of cash around on you, someone could mug you for it,” said Ging, snidely, as he handed Pariston his change. Pariston quickly added it to his money clip.
“I’d like to see them try,” he retorted.
“Ten bucks says-”
“Ging, remember Netero’s Golden Rule?” asked Cheadle, spinning him around to point to the plaques. Ging squinted to read the overly cursive lettering.
“The customer is always right.”
Ging sighed and went back to work. What a drag.
“Do we have any passionfruit?” asked Ging. Kanzai knit his eyebrows together, confused.
“First of all, I’m not gay. Not that I have a problem with the gays or anything, they’re cool I guess. But that is an outdated term, dude. Rude. Second of all, I don’t think any of us are passionate about our jobs-”
“Kanzai, and I mean this with all the implied vitrol you can imagine, how the hell did you get a bachelor’s degree, Jesus fuck,” exhaled Ging, opening one of the drawers to find the receipts of store purchases. He looked through the list of inventory, scrolling down for some of the items. One by one, he started crossing them off, or circling them.
No passionfruit, no figs, no goat or horse cream, but for some godforsaken reason, prune syrup was a thing.
“Hey Cheadle-”
“Whatever it is, no,” said Cheadle, putting whipped cream on her customer’s drink.
“Oh come on, don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to try prune syrup?”
Cheadle was deader inside than an emo middle schooler.
“No.”
“Aw, no fun.”
Ging looked at the back of the syrup container. The expiration date was over a decade ago. To risk it, or to not risk it, that is the question… Bottoms up.
He looked back at the list of ingredients he lacked. Time to get creative, like a caffeinical alchemist. Strawberry flavored marshmallows were basically fruit. A dash of feta cheese should curb his desire for goat cream. Oat milk? Almond milk would have to do.
A few other bad decisions later, and the brewing was complete.
“I have one crappucino for a ‘Trust-fund Ken Doll Lookin’ Ass Motherfucker’.” Ging read the label he wrote as Kanzai practically choked on his laughter. Pariston stared at him, arms crossed.
“What, changed your mind?” asked Ging, pushing the caffeinated nightmare towards him. “It’s for you.”
“Well, if you insist…”
Pariston took a sip of his drink, nose scrunching up almost immediately. He took the water of a customer sitting at a table and took a sip, cleansing his palette.
“Pardon my French, but qu'est-ce que c'est que ces conneries, hein?”
“Due to this being a café, I lack most of the ingredients you asked for. I improvised,” said Ging, rolling his eyes. “And before you want to get fancy by insulting me in other languages, I’m just going to let you know I’m fluent in seven, have a working proficiency in two more, and am learning another four right now. No, you don’t get to know which ones.”
“So you gave me the wrong order,” said Pariston, taking a step far too close to the counter than was likely comfortable. Ging winced. He looked over at Cheadle, who pretended not to see him. Thanks, Cheadle.
“It’s an, um…” Ging’s eyes darted around the café. Think, Ging. His eyes landed on a bookish looking woman with dyed purple hair, wearing a crystal around her neck. “See, we’re really in touch with spiritual energy and the sorts of vibes we’re feeling. It’s an experimental form of serving coffee that my boss taught us, he’s a master at the art of vibe-to-taste. You take in the natural vibrations and harmonies of the person, and then you just feel what they would like.”
Pariston didn’t budge during the entire skit of bullshit.
“Okay, well your skills are subpar because you gave me almond milk,” said Pariston, demonstrating a hearty thwack to the side of the cup, sending the strange liquid onto the counter, floor, and worse, onto Ging himself.
“Oops. I dropped my cup.” Pariston said, as flatly as he could. “Need a napkin?”
Ging looked down at his soaking wet apron, the stench of feta cheese and prune syrup most prominent.
“Nah, I think I’m just going to stand here looking like I pissed myself,” said Ging. Pariston simply smiled. The smug bastard. “Yes, I’d like a napkin. Fuck.”
Pariston Hill handed him a singular napkin, wrist limp as he stuck it over the counter. Ging snatched it from him before walking into the kitchen. The scent of whatever Ginta was baking always cheered him up when he needed to take a time out from whatever hell was happening in the main room. Almost always.
“Oh did the lactose intolerant kid puke on you again? Really, I think you should ask his mom to stop letting him order cow milk-”
“No, a grown man in a tuxedo spilled his drink on me,” said Ging, taking off the apron to stick in the sink. “And I’ve learned my lesson about the kid, I let Kanzai handle that little bastard’s orders.”
“I don’t think it’s cool to call children bastards in this day and age, I think if women want to have kids outside of wedlock we should empower them,” said Ginta. Ging squinted at him.
“I lack the mental energy right now to unpack that so we’re just going to throw the whole suitcase away."
“Right, made things weird again,” said Ginta under his breath, quickly scribbling down “don’t make things weird” under his list of personal goals in his notebook. “Since you’re still presumably clocked in, want to give me a hand with the macarons?”
“You know what? Sure.”
And so what if the macarons got a bit fucked up after Ging tried to make them. They were a lot harder to position on the cream than he anticipated. Ginta had done most of the baking, but it was enough of a task that he almost forgot about the bougie blond busybody.
Ging brought the finished macarons out to the front. He opened up the glass holder and started arranging them by color on the display.
“Dude, next time one of your customers makes a mess, clean it up yourself. I know you have to go to the timeout corner sometimes, but I can’t always be dropping everything to keep everything on schedule,” said Kanzai. Ging let out a grunt to let him know he was heard, yet ignored.
“Speaking of your customer,” said Cheadle, gesturing over to the back of the café. Sitting on one of the couches near a coffee table was none other than Pariston Hill, typing quicker than Ging thought was humanly possible on a black laptop.
“He’s still here? Damn, does he not have a life?” asked Ging.
“Apparently not,” said Cheadle. Suddenly, her face went white as she looked at something from behind Ging.
“Ging, Cheadle, Kanzai,” said their boss, Netero, putting the “be right back <3” sign on the front counter. “I need to see you three in my office.”
“Shit, what did you do now,” said Ging to Kanzai, who sighed in defeat. The three of them crowded into Netero’s small office, standing uncomfortably close together.
“So, it has been brought to our attention, curtesy of Beans, that our café has received a one out of five stars rating on Yelp,” said Netero.
“Wow, shocker,” said Ging. Neither Kanzai nor Cheadle laughed at his comment. He crossed his arms, feeling a bit out of place. No, everyone was taking this seriously. He should, too. “So was it a bot?”
“No, I have reason to believe it was a customer one of you three served today,” said Netero. He gestured over to Beans, who was sitting on the bean bag that was taking up half the room. No wonder it was so cramped in here.
Beans cleared his throat.
“Allow me to begin reading the review, but I will warn you that there is some foul language. I hope that this will not impact your view of me-”
“Just read the damn review, Beans.”
“Right, right.”
★☆☆☆☆ “Trust-fund Ken Doll Lookin’ Ass Motherfucker”
Quite frankly, I would have rated 0 stars if given the opportunity, for this miserable excuse for a café, if you can even call it that, doesn’t even deserve one. I would have expected better than a “lone star service” from the so-called Lone Star State, but it was an overblown cringe-zone that I cannot condone.
The most egregious installation was the discourteous service by a particular boorish employee, who I will not be naming lest he get fired. Though I’m not sure he would mind that. Rather than be greeted with a smile, I was greeted by a scowl and hangover breath. Not only did he take thrice as long as expected to make my order, he got it wrong, claiming that it was a “new, experimental form of serving coffee” where he would “extrapolate my order through my vibes”. I, for one, do not believe in such hoaxes. I have no idea where he would get such an impression from me. Secondly, he failed to read my vibes correctly, since I only use oat milk as a milk substitute, never almond milk. Almond milk does horrible things to my skin, and worse, it’s a miserable excuse for milk. It is simply unacceptable that someone who spends so much time mixing beverages for slightly above our “minimum wage” doesn’t know that.
The coffee was palatable, barely, but I needed something stronger than 3 measly shots of espresso to wash away the bitter taste he left in my mouth after such a brash encounter.
Unless you wish to experience the once-in-a-lifetime chance of being called a, quote, “Trust-fund Ken Doll Lookin’ Ass Motherfucker” don’t bother putting it on your bucket list, no matter how funny or provocative the name may seem. Do not be charmed by their mist of deceit!
-Pariston Hill
“As Netero’s secretary, I do think it’s my job to get to the bottom of this and find out which employee was the one mentioned-”
“Ging.”
“Kanzai.”
“Ging.”
“Shit,” said Ging, realizing Cheadle decided to side with justice over friendship. “In my defense, he dumped his entire order on me-”
“Aht, aht, aht,” said Netero, waggling a finger at him. “Remember my mission statement? The reason why I hired you in the first place? Working in customer service jobs builds character. It teaches you a patience you otherwise wouldn’t have. It humbles you in ways that I think are necessary to function in today’s society.”
If Netero wasn’t funding his full tuition, Ging would have quit the first time a customer tried to stuff an entire sandwich down the sink. Which was day two.
Capitalism was a bitch.
“Am I fired?” asked Ging. Netero’s gaze softened. Shit, this was it. The classic “you’re a good guy, but we just can’t have you around anymore” speech. Or was it possibly the “you’ve been a thorn in my side since the day I hired you, adieu pour toujours, fucker” speech. Either or, at this point, he felt a certain numbness inside. Fuck it, it didn’t matter. He’d just take out loans like everyone else. He didn’t need Netero’s seemingly endless supply of funding.
The moment that thought crossed his mind he already missed it. Did this make Netero a sugar daddy of sorts? Ging worked at his café, and Netero paid for his college. Wait, no, shit, that’s just how capitalism worked.
“Ging, you look like you’re going through all five stages of grief at once,” said Cheadle. “Fascinating.”
“No, you’re not fired,” said Netero. He pulled out the employee task lists and scribbled something down. “But I have a very special task for you, now. I want you to turn that one star rating into five stars. Do whatever it takes, I don’t care if he makes you milk a horse for crying out loud!”
“Funny you bring that up, he did want horse cream,” said Ging. Wow, that was a sigh of relief if he’d ever had one! Netero wasn’t firing him? Even though his generally unpleasant demeanor was caught in writing? Maybe there was a God afterall. Or maybe Netero just had compassion.
“Then go milk a horse, for crying out loud. Remember, Ging, this is a learning opportunity. Make friends with the man, he’s human, just like us,” said Netero. Ging waved him off, still riding the high of not being fired.
“Right, right,” he said, leaving the room. Getting this rating up coudn’t be that hard. He’d dealt with hell customers left and right. And besides, if push came to shove, he could always make a bunch of burner accounts to flag the message as spam and get it removed.
But something inside him wanted more than that. No, this was a project, something only he could do. As he looked over at Pariston Hill from across the café, he smiled. He’d give him the best damn service he’d ever see. And after being impressed, he’d change his rating. This game was only just beginning.