The Grind

Morning for me began at five A.M. with red blocky numbers glaring in the dark along with a repetitive siren blaring into the stillness. I watched the offending digital clockface of my phone '5:01', hoping I'd lose the staring contest, close my eyes, and fall back to sleep.

When the noise didn't stop, I was forced to stretch out my hand from the warmth of my blanket and blurrily feel around for the power button on the side of my phone. Sliding snooze on the touch-screen had come to mind, but I cleverly turned down my touch-screen sensitivity when abuse of this invention rendered me late to work yesterday; now reading '5:07'--what happened to all the numbers in between? I found the button, held it down, and sat up in the dark, eyes trying to adjust to the idea of seeing.

When five thirty had rolled around I was already showered, hair had been pinned up, uniform thrown on, and I was just stepping out the door. The building I'd moved into was only 5 floors, but with no elevator. Moving everything in last week had proven to be a task I wasn't entirely up to when faced with wanting my couch up in my living room. I'd left the couch in the first floor lobby while I looked for help, but upon my return it was gone. Someone in this building, probably someone on the first floor...took a couch...someone stole a couch--who steals a couch--my couch?

This thought plagued me every time I walked through the lobby on my way out and visions of some undeserving, jobless, bald man reclining on it fueled my walk 8 blocks down to The Daily Grind--work. I'd slosh through the wet snow, boardering on angry and wanting to be understanding. What made it hard to drop it was that this was the first of almost all my belongings to go missing. My bed frame was taken as I'd dragged up my mattress. My table and three out of four chairs went missing--though they were taken from the little u-haul I'd rented. All I had was a chair, mattress and linens, clothes, a corner table, and my box of kitchen stuff. The thoughts ended as I put my hand on the glass door and inhaled the warm scent of coffee.

I'd been here a week and so far it seemed ok. I'd always heard awful things about New Yorkers; rude, inability to enunciate, and always in some big rush. It wasn't particularly true. The place was always busy, but customers were nice for the most part; calling me things like 'dear' and 'honey', they mostly found a nook and buckled down for an hour or two, and I typically understood everything they'd said. The accent was real. Amusing too--but I tried not to smirk. I'd come from a state with an accent stereotype and the title massholes and went either of those things.

"Good morning! Welcome to The Daily Grind, what can I get for you?" I surprised myself with my cheerfulness and decided to just ride it with an accompanying smile. The man who approached the counter gave a half smile of his own and while keeping his head facing me, stared down at the counter. The smile faded and stammering, followed by awkward silence, lingered for some time. A red headed man in his forties peeked out from behind the awkward younger man and asked if I'd take his order--his impatience evident.

My attention turned back to the man in front of me, eyes darting up and down. I'd noticed then how extremely exhausted he'd looked; bags under his eyes, pale, waxy skin.

"Do you know what you'd like?" I'd offered in an even tone, giving one last chance before I had to move on to the next customer.

He'd put a hand on the back of his head, parted his mouth to say something and continued looking at the counter.

I didn't want to be rude, but I couldn't afford to get in trouble for the hold-up, either. "Why don't you grab a seat and I'll be able to help you when the line goes down?" I offered a reassuring smile--half wondered if he was touched in the head and didn't want to be insensitive.

"Oh...kay," he finally spoke and seemed relieved somehow. He looked up at me for a moment and then somewhere else. I followed his eyeline-my nametag, "Kate." He put his hood up and went to the back--probably to sit at one of the small booths.

People poured in well past eight A.M. It was like this every weekday--so far, Monday was the worst with nearly twice as many customers with what felt like half as many co-workers. The constant demand to repeat orders and rush around gave way to a suddenly empty cafe. My two co-workers drifted around doing various cleaning tasks while discussing how they're drug-lords pushing caffeine on addicts. It was a bit of an exaggeration, maybe too much so for my humor to grab hold.

I breathed the breath I'd been holding for what felt like all morning and beganmy morning ritual of checking my social feed until I remembered the awkward man from earlier. Lost somewhere in the back of the restaurant, I imagined, he probably felt forgotten and resorted to eating the paint off the walls. I ducked under the brown checkered counter to look for him.

Against the back of the cafe, at a corner table nested into the wall, he sat with his hood up and eyes glued to his phone. I was surprised he'd waited all this time--I felt badly for having forgotten him.

"Hi," I gave a small wave, "remember me?"

He didn't acknowledge me and continued looking at the phone. I opened my mouth to try again and he'd spoken up, "medium coffee, milk, no sugar and a medium chai latte with almond milk." Suddenly he a mastery of the English language.

I wasn't entirely sure what to do in this situation. I knew how to make his coffee, I knew to take the twenty he had folded up on the side of the table even though we aren't a sit-down, I knew I should tell him I'd have it for him in just a moment...I didn't know how to respond to someone who was--like this. Void of humanity. I wouldn't call it awkward as much as I'd say careless and uninterested in participating in society.

When in doubt, stick to politeness, "I'll be back with that in a few." I slid the twenty off the table and tried to think of how to interact with him upon my return.

Less than five minutes later I had a cup in each hand and was back at his table setting the duo down. I watched him, still fixated on his phone, and tried to think of something to start a conversation. He'd be social whether he liked it or not.

"You must really have trouble getting going in the morning, huh?" I laughed lightly and was met with a questioning look.

"Hmm?" His attention held for more than a second this time and I found myself to be the one stammering.

"Oh, uhh, the coffee. I mean them both. The coffee and chai--and--" I stopped trying when he smirked, letting me know that I was the awkward one at this point. "Right," I fished out his change and placed it on the table, "this is yours."

"No."

"Yes," I cocked an eyebrow, "it's your-"

"It's yours." He said plainly and powered down his screen.

"Oh...thank you?" My new goal was to end this conversation as soon as possible, run behind the counter, and pray to the coffee-bean gods that he wasn't a regular and I'd regain my composure.

"I'm ok with mornings."

"What?"

"You said I have trouble getting going in the morning," his speech patterns were broken, holding onto some words just slightly longer, "but I don't."

Though it looked like he was looking at me, I recognized he was looking at something past me, behind me. I turned to look and saw nothing. When I looked back at him, he went from looking actually at me now, to the table, and then back at me, trying out eye contact. This in turn made me self conscious.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean anything with the morning comment-"

"You drink chai.?" It almost sounded like an accusation in the guise of a question. I thought about it for a moment--I did drink chai occasionally.

"I guess, but-" I cocked an eyebrow.

He slid it towards the empty seat across from him, maintaining eye contact better than I, and smirked again, though less strangely. He seemed smug. He was smug. What was he up to? "You told the woman ahead of me that you love chai-" in answer to the question I never asked.

"Smooth," I folded my arms and shifted my weight to one foot, "what's the catch?"

He feigned a look of shock and shrugged, "No catch, just chai." It almost felt charming if not for the face he'd made, as if it were painful to say.

"I'm at work, can't sit. Sorry." I allowed my voice to a stern tone.

"Places like this have Wi-Fi," he shifted.

"Okay?"

He pressed his fingers together, "not here, though. Why is that?"

"We have Wi-Fi, just not for customers."

"I know. I, uhh, need to check my email, data's capped." He held up his phone for a moment as if by showing me his phone I'd understand his plea.

I half wondered if this is why he tried with the chai, "E-mail?"

He nodded. Something about the size of his eyes and his sunken in features made him look puppy-ish. I threw up my hands, "It's coffeebean and javajavajava, all lowercase," I looked around to make sure my co-workers weren't around, "just for a few minutes, right?"

"Yeah, I'll just check it and done." He seemed reasonable, polite--but sketchy. What was the worst he could do? Play Candy Crush and download mp3s?

The login was Randy's; fellow co-worker whose login I had to use to ring up anyone's order until I get one of my own. Also may be using it to surf around during down-time, but everyone did that here. It wasn't particularly the most original login, but I'd known Randy for a few days and nothing about him was original. I'd keep that opinion to myself.

I left him and the chai at the table and returned to the daily grind myself, occasionally peeking my head around the corner to see if this guy was done checking his "e-mail." About an hour later he pattered off, giving a slight wave and a "thanks" that sounded uncertain.

Work ended at six that night. The eight block trek felt longer in the dark, the cold felt colder, but I was thrilled with the idea of sleep. I was in love with it. I made it to my brick and concrete building, climbed five flights, and landed on my mattress. I'd been bitter earlier for my bed frame being stolen, but at this point, I'd been grateful for having my mattress.

I'd woken up before the alarm and stretched out under the covers. It was the first time since the move I didn't feel exhausted. I drew my appendages back in and hugged my pillow and inhaled deeply. Things finally felt ok. I didn't feel rushed. I didn't feel down. I'd just enjoy the moments before the alarm, watching the sunlight crawling up the adjacent building.

Then it hit me. Adrenaline and panic broke the peace. Of course I'd felt rested, the sun was up. It was winter! Sunrise happened at 7.

"Shit!" I repeated as I got up, skipped the shower and got dressed. My brain was wracking over why my alarm didn't go off. I'd remembered setting it. I'd remembered letting the sensitivity again.

I grabbed my phone and woke it up to see the time, "update in progress"was what I got accompanied with a status bar nowhere near being filled.

"Great! Just great!" I didn't have time to solve the great mystery of exactly how late I'd be, so I'd chosen to book it down the stairs and to work. About two blocks away I noticed commotion; cop cars flashing lights, a crowd of people, and The Daily Grind's doors propped open in the snow.

"What the?" My curiosity had over taken me. Had something happened? It seemed exciting. It was then that my phone vibrated to life--the update must had finished.

When I'd woken it up, my desktop had been replaced with my work picture and a headline "Suspected of cyber attack.--" I couldn't read anymore. My hands began to shake and I looked back at the scene not too far, "Oh my god."

I'd stumbled forward with anxiety creeping up, leaving a sour taste I my mouth. I had hit my phone's home button, to see the time '8:23' and all of the missed calls. Some from work, some from the area, my mom. My phone vibrated to life in my hand, reading 001, but I wasn't entirely sure what kind if number it was.

"Hello?" When I heard my voice, I'd realized how freaked it I'd been.

"Go home, stay inside." It was masculine. Short. Demanding.

"What? Who is this?" I covered the phone with my hand and ducked closer to a nearby building.

"It doesn't matter who I am, what matters is you getting back to your apartment unseen." The stern tone broke down and sounded more concerned than frustrated, but the frustration was there--I didn't know why.

"No, I'm just going to explain-"

"That's not going to work, they're not going to believe you. Listen," I heard wind whipping past his phone, "the cops are the least of your problems." Something about his voice was familiar. The longer he spoke, the more I recognized this speech pattern.

"Who is this? Who are you?" I looked around frantically.

"I'm going to help you."

"Help me by answering my questions," how did he get my number, "What the hell is this?" I unconsciously kept moving forward, only aware of this when my voice got high and I realized that someone would hear me.

"Look, Kate, I'll fix this-"

"Fix this?" I crossed the street, still whispering, "Kate? How do you-" I started to piece together who it was, how he'd known my name, "Why would you fix this? What is this?" I tried my best to whisper yell. "What are you going to fix?" It took me a moment to fully realize that if he was offering to fix it, "You? You did this?"

"yea, not to you. Not on purpose."

"Not to me? It feels like it's to me! My picture's online saying I am some cyber person!"

"Not on purpose," anxiety was rising in his voice and I'd almost felt badly, "Look, you just have to-"

"What did you do?"

"You need to get going. It'll be hard to help you in prison."

"Prison?" I sank to my knees, causing some stares. "Oh my god, I'm going to jail." My hand touched the heavy snow.

"Get up."

"I'm going to jail and I didn't do anything." I'd begun to cry and hugged myself. "What am I supposed to do?" I asked to no-one specifically-, maybe god. Was he listening?

"Get up," came from behind me, coupled with a pair of hands trying to pull me onto my feet. I stood up with assistance and turned to see who it was guiding me forward with a hand on my back.

He. It was a he. Him. That awkward Wi-Fi guy from yesterday. He had another hoodie pulled over his head, his eyes still slightly bulgy with bags under them. I shrugged him off and he withdrew quickly, seemingly more upset than I.

"Don't touch me." My knees buckled and this time the anxiety would not settle for being a mild discomfort; I leaned forward and wretched, puke splashing onto the slushy sidewalk. My body tried to go down again. My mind kept trying to comprehend how much shit I was in. I knew it had to do with me giving away the Wi-Fi login. No-one needed to tell me. He retried touching my back and holding me up by my arm and I tried shrugging him off. I cried.

"Hey, hey, it's ok," he tried shushing me and putting my arm over his shoulder, "let's get you home first."

I didn't need to tell him where home was, we'd limped there under his guidance, and it was the most unsettling thing that he'd known where I lived up until he entered my door-code into the key pad, then that became the most unsettling thing.

We'd gotten up the five flights and I sat in the hallway, trying to breathe, while he fiddled with the lock and opened the door. His face held a determined look until he'd shut the door behind him and led me to my mattress. I'd gotten down on it without mentioning how horrifyingly stalkerish he'd been having known where I'd lived, key code, and Howe to pick locks, and sobbed into my pillow instead. 27 and I was sobbing.

He went to put a hand on my back-I could see from my peripherals, but took his hand away before making contact, and chose to tilt his head and look empathetic instead.

"I didn't do anything," I cried out, "You did." I fiddled with the blankets, trying to cocoon myself. "Just go the fuck away. Turn yourself in." I'd found a comfortable position curled up around my pillow, "What am I supposed to do?"

"I'll fix it. I'll fix it," he continued to look more and more anxious, perhaps a reaction to my tone. I still wasn't sure if he was all there, or who he even was. He just messed up my life and it was my fault for giving him the Wi-Fi login. Even if I pleaded my case, I feel like I'd be nailed for it. I tried to figure out who'd be worse than the cops? Probably gangs or the mafia. Was the mafia even still around?

I tried to stop sobbing in front of him and he managed a hand on my shoulder--though I felt awkward for him. "What am I going to do?"addressed to nobody in particular.

"It's ok," his hand still on my shoulder, "I'll fix it."