Story code: ST-000330
Part 2: The Audience and the Apron
“Pour the damn coffee,” the man shouted, his voice cracking like a whip in the confined space of the cafe. “Stop acting like a victim and do your job.”
Leo’s trembling fingers descended onto the crumpled five-dollar bill. The paper felt damp and greasy against his clammy skin. He pulled it toward him, sliding it over the cold steel of the counter, careful not to let his knuckles brush against the shattered ceramic pieces still littering his workspace. He turned toward the Point of Sale system, his hand shaking so violently he had to brace his wrist against the edge of the monitor just to steady his index finger.
“Look at him, folks,” the man narrated, his tone shifting instantly back to his jovial, booming broadcast voice. “Brainwashed by the corporate liberal agenda. The kid can’t even punch in a simple cash transaction without malfunctioning because he’s in the presence of a law-abiding citizen exercising his rights.”
Leo pressed the ‘Exact Cash’ button on the touchscreen. The cash drawer kicked open, the loud, mechanical chime echoing like a gunshot in the quiet shop. Leo jolted, his shoulders slamming up against his ears. He shoved the bill under a plastic clip and pushed the heavy drawer shut.
He had to get the coffee. The dark roast urns were on the back counter. To reach them, he would have to turn his back on the man. He would have to turn his back on the gun.
His chest tightened further, the familiar, crushing weight of a panic attack threatening to close his throat completely. He forced himself to pivot, his canvas sneakers squeaking loudly against the wet floor tiles. Every muscle in his back contracted, anticipating a sudden noise, a sudden movement, a sudden impact.
“He’s turning his back on us now,” the man’s voice drifted over Leo’s shoulder, louder than before as the man leaned further over the glass pastry case. The reflection of the camera’s harsh LED flash glinted off the polished stainless steel panels of the espresso machine, casting sharp, dancing shadows across the tiled wall.
Leo grabbed a large paper cup from the stack. He placed it beneath the spigot of the dark roast brewer and pulled the black plastic lever. Steaming black coffee cascaded downward. Leo’s hands wouldn’t stop trembling. He tried to hold the cup steady, but the liquid sloshed violently against the cardboard sides. A splash of boiling hot coffee jumped the rim, scalding his thumb.
A sharp hiss escaped Leo’s lips, but he didn’t drop the cup. He bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, grounding himself in the sharp, physical pain to keep from falling apart.
“Careful over there,” the man taunted to the camera. “Don’t want to burn yourself and try to blame it on me. We’ve got it all on video.”
Just then, the bell above the cafe entrance chimed.
Leo’s head whipped around, a sudden, desperate surge of hope flooding his chest. A woman in a tan trench coat had just walked through the heavy glass door, her gaze buried in her open wallet. She took two steps toward the counter before looking up.
She saw Leo, pale and trembling. Then she saw the man in the camouflage cap, leaning aggressively over the counter with his phone held high. Finally, her eyes dropped to the man’s hip. She saw the matte black grip, the unzipped jacket, the rigid leather holster.
The woman stopped dead. Her eyes widened. Without uttering a single sound, she slowly took a step backward, reached behind her to push the door open, and slipped back out onto the busy sidewalk. The door swung shut, the chime ringing out a second time, sealing Leo back in his trap.
The isolation crashed down on him, heavier than before. He was completely alone.
Leo grabbed a plastic lid and pressed it onto the rim of the cup. It didn’t snap into place correctly; his grip was too tight, warping the paper. He forced it down, frantically wiping the spilled coffee off the sides with a brown napkin. He turned back around, keeping his eyes glued to the counter.
He placed the cup next to the shattered mug. “Here,” Leo whispered. It was the first word he had spoken. His voice sounded pathetic, reedy, barely audible over the low hum of the display refrigerators.
The man didn’t take the cup. He stared at it, his lip curling into a sneer, then looked down at his glowing phone screen. He tapped the glass with his thumb.
“My audience is making a very good point,” the man said, his voice dropping its friendly cadence, replacing it with a hard, suspicious edge. “User LibertyBell99 says you probably spat in it when your back was turned. Or maybe you put some of those fancy commercial cleaning chemicals in there.”
Leo shook his head, his eyes widening. “No. I didn’t. I just poured it.”
“I didn’t see it,” the man argued. He shifted his weight, resting his right hand casually on his belt, his knuckles brushing against the top of the holster. “The camera didn’t see it. You had your back turned to us. That’s a classic move.”
“It’s just coffee,” Leo stammered, his chest heaving. The air in the cafe felt impossibly thin. “You can check it. Take the lid off. Please.”
“I’m not drinking tampered goods,” the man snapped. He shoved the paper cup violently across the stainless steel counter. It slid too fast, the warped lid popping off. Hot dark roast splashed over the edge, raining down onto Leo’s green apron and seeping instantly into his shirt. The burning liquid ran down his chest, but the heat barely registered through the sheer, icy terror paralyzing his brain.
“Make it again,” the man demanded. “And this time, you do it facing the camera. Let the good people see exactly what goes into a patriot’s cup.”
Leo stared down at the dark stain spreading across his apron, watching the droplets hit the floor and mingle with the jagged ceramic fragments. He couldn’t do what the man was asking. The industrial brewers were massive, heavy machines bolted firmly to the back counter. He didn’t have the space to squeeze between the wall and the urn to pour it backward, and he couldn’t physically rip the machine off its mounts.
“I can’t,” Leo choked out, his throat tight. “The brewer… it’s attached to the counter. I have to turn around to use the spigot.”
The man’s jaw clenched. “Are you refusing me service again? Is that what’s happening here?”
“No, I’m just telling you how the machine works-”
“Don’t give me excuses!” The man slammed his left fist onto the counter. The metal shuddered with a loud, ringing bang. The gun shook on his hip. “You think you’re smart? You think you can use a damn coffee pot as an excuse to disrespect me?”
He raised the phone, shoving the lens right into Leo’s face, framing the young barista’s stained apron and terrified expression for the thousands of people watching.
“Listen up, kid,” the man sneered, his face flushed red. “You’re going to figure out how to make me a fresh cup right here where I can see it. And then you’re going to look into this lens and apologize to my viewers for discriminating against my constitutional rights.”
Leo’s breath hitched. Apologize on camera? The corporate social media policy was pounded into their heads during training. It was even stricter than the weapons policy. If he made a recorded statement representing the company on a live stream, he would be instantly terminated. But if he refused to speak, the angry, armed man towering over him wasn’t going to leave.
“I… I can’t do that,” Leo whispered, hot tears of pure stress prickling the corners of his eyes.
The man scowled, lowering the phone slightly as his right hand dropped to his side. His fingers wrapped around the holster’s leather retention strap, and with a sharp, deliberate flick of his thumb, he popped the metal snap open.