Travis Boccoli — “spelled like Broccoli, but without the R and nutritional value” he taglined himself online — had finally bit the coffee bean and traveled up to Centropolis to visit his sister and her bougie husband. They had gotten married while he was down in Guatemala working on a coffee plantation, but the invitation never reached him. Something about living in a dirt-floor hut made you out of reach, even from ivory linen stationery embossed with real gold leaf. The night his whole family was dining on caviar and filet mignon in celebration of her matrimony, he ate the same corn tortillas and black beans as usual, feeling superior to the entire lot of them.
But once he had gotten back states-side, his family descended on him. His mother complained that he had lost too much weight; his father asked when he was going to get a real job. And his sister?
“Travis, darling, I wish you had been there!” Cleo Meachum nee Boccoli had said over the phone. “We had a small chamber ensemble of the Centropolis Symphony Orchestra play a Radiohead song so it would feel a bit more like you were there.”
He smirked at the thought of something like “Creep” or “Something I Can Never Have” accompanying her nuptials, though he couldn’t trust Cleo to know what the lyrics were to those songs. She had always been a Top Forty flake.
But when Cleo invited him to spend a couple weeks in her old apartment while the lease ran out, he decided it would be better than living at his parent’s house on the East Coast and packed up a couple flannel shirts, some jeans and his laptop. His blog, Brews with Boccoli, had just landed an ad deal from a couple micro-roasters, provided he keep his traffic up, and a trip to Centropolis would give him an in with the urban set.
So the day Cleo had announced she was having a dinner party to introduce him to a few of her and Jack Meachum’s friends, he disappeared into what looked like a local coffee roaster to taste and review some of their offerings. He knew he was in for a critic’s feast when the first thing he heard was the whining voice of some folk singer with a name pronounced five different ways, and the second thing was “Cherry almond mocha blended latte with coconut milk for Alex.”
These weren’t coffee people. These were donut-in-a-cup people. Just wait until he wrote up his treatise on the weakening of the American tastebud and used this overpriced joint as a framework. He walked up to the window and was immediately asked if he’d be interested in a taster of the barista’s newest concoction, a latte with almond milk, honey and cayenne pepper.
He smiled at the cashier — friendly in her eyes, but devious in truth — and said “Sure, plus a small dark roast, small medium roast, and an espresso shot.”
“Coffee blogger, huh?” she asked, unfazed. “We get one of you every weekend. I’ll just give you our flight so you don’t have to pretend to drink a full small size of each.”
Travis’ smile turned genuine. The girl was cute. A treble clef tattoo curled behind her ear, and when she handed him his change he saw — no, was it really? — a Scrappy-Doo tattoo on her wrist.
“Enjoy,” she said sarcastically. “I’ll bring it to you when it’s up.”
Travis took a seat at one of the cramped tables, as far away as possible from a group of loud women comparing drinking stories from the night before. One one side of him was a woman watching something on her tablet while picking purple nail polish off her nails and letting the scraps fall to the floor like violet-colored dandruff. On the other side was a tall man who had propped his feet up on the chair across from him as he pretended to read his book. Travis knew the scheme well, having perfected it while eavesdropping on his parents’ arguments when he was a kid.
He saw the cashier coming toward him with the flight of coffee on a tray, and he had less than a minute to decide whether to ask her to dinner that night. His sister wouldn’t mind one more — after all, she wasn’t doing the cooking or cleanup.