An Unexpected Customer

I gaze down at my watch and observe the hands ticking towards six o’clock. Five minutes until opening time, and the college students are already lined up outside the door. They look more like zombies than psychology majors and graduate students, boasting unkempt hair and sweatpants that drag along the ground in a pre-caffeine shuffle.

There are always a few regulars that grace me with their business at opening, and I pick their faces out of the crowd. Jim, a second year biology major, towers a foot above everyone else and will order a French vanilla latte to sip while he crams for his early morning lecture. Rachel, the short red-head standing third in line, will want a simple cappuccino to drink before her Monday morning philosophy seminar. 

The rest of the line is made up of young adults in turtleneck sweaters and boots, rubbing their hands together in anticipation of our fall drink line that makes its debut today. The chalk board is set up behind me with our featured drinks written in orange across the top: the typical pumpkin spice latte, the chocolate pumpkin mocha, and my personal favorite, the caramel apple latte.

I sigh to myself as I unlock the door two minutes early. I might as well get it over with.

I paste a fake smile on my face as I serve my fellow university students. I spend the first four hours of my weekdays here, grinding coffee beans and mopping up spilled drinks when I don’t even drink any coffee myself. A job is a job though, and I need this one if I’m going to have any chance of getting through college without burying myself under a mountain of debt.

The shop is quickly filled with the sweet and bitter aromas that accompany the various hot drinks, and I allow the fragrance to wash over me and seep into my pores. I might not drink the stuff, but I have to admit it’s one of my favorite scents.

One by one the breakfast crowd is served to their liking, and many remain to finish their drinks and socialize at the little round tables and cushy armchairs. I get a few moments to take a breath, finally having distributed my caffeine cure to the zombies, and inspect the young people coming to life all around me.

It’s your typical coffee shop scene, with girls talking animatedly over their drinks while writers type away at their laptops, scattered appropriately throughout the space. Everything is in perfect order, and I bask in the normalcy of my routine.

My eyes shift slightly and I notice a man sitting alone at one of the tables in the corner. I didn’t see him come in, and his lack of a drink or pastry confirms I didn’t serve him. The tables surrounding him are the only empty seats in the entire shop, as if the other customers are giving him a wide berth. 

He’s sitting in the far chair, facing me, and I try not to appear like I’m staring at him. He seems so out of place in this sea of chattering students. He doesn’t have a cellphone out to hold his attention, and there’s no laptop in sight for him to work on. He’s not eating or drinking, or doing anything at all. He sits at the table and stares straight ahead, and I understand now why no one wants to sit near him.

He doesn’t belong here.

As the minutes and eventually hours tick by, I continue to perform my duty of serving and refilling coffee, but despite the absorbing work I keep finding my attention drawn back to the curious man in the corner. Every so often I find his face turned towards me, as if he’s watching my movements, and I quickly look away to search for something to busy myself with. 

What is up with this guy? I can’t see his face clearly from across the room, but he appears to be middle aged and has no visible hair beneath a plain black cap. Is he waiting here for someone? It’s been hours since he arrived, so surely he must realize they aren’t coming. 

A tiny part of me, the paranoid side that sometimes keeps me up at night, whispers He’s here for you. 

A chill rolls down my spine as I consider the thought. It’s ridiculous, of course. Why would this man want anything to do with me? As I try to dismiss the idea, his eyes turn back to mine and hold them, as if he’s trying to tell me something. 

I know that I should be afraid. I’m a young woman, working in a huge city on the edge of a campus where girls are stalked and taken advantage of every day. I should tell someone I feel uncomfortable, maybe call my best friend to pick me up from work, but for some reason it just doesn’t seem necessary. His eyes weren’t cold or calculating when they met mine. He doesn’t seem like a danger to me.   

When there are only thirty minutes left of my shift, I decide I can’t take it anymore. I grab my notepad and make my way around the counter, finally free of a line of customers for the time being. 

“Hi, my name’s Carly. Can I get you anything?”

Up close, I can finally see the man’s face and I realize I couldn’t make out any features from across the room because there aren’t any features to make out at all. His face is blank and smooth, clear of all shadows, blemishes, or any characteristics that would make his face memorable. I know as I greet him that once I turn around I won’t be able to bring his face up in my mind. 

He has the face of a stranger, through and through.

The eyes that meet mine are light, electric blue. I never knew the shade of ice could appear so warm. 

He stares at me for seconds, minutes, an hour, an eternity. I don’t know how long I stand there waiting for him to speak, but when he does finally open his mouth it’s to spout a sentence I never expected to hear.

“Don’t take the subway home.”

My breath catches. What? 

“What do you mean? Why shouldn’t I take the subway home?” How does he even know that I normally take the subway home? The stalker thoughts creep into my mind again, but I shake them away.

The man looks at me closer, as if searching my eyes for a truth only I would know. He nods once, and then repeats himself.

“Don’t take the subway home.”

He remains sitting while I back away, and he finally breaks the eye contact I was trapped in. He returns his gaze to staring straight ahead, and I shakily make my way back to the counter.

Lucy, my strawberry blonde coworker and daily savior, is tying her apron around her back and preparing to relieve me. She points her chin at the notepad in my hand, and I drop it back on the counter. My palms are sweating now.

“What were you doing over there?” She asks.

I shake my head, because I don’t know. What was that?

“I went to ask what that guy wanted, he’s been here for hours and hasn’t ordered anything…” I trail off as Lucy stares at me, pinning me with a look like I’m crazy. 

“What?” I ask testily.

Lucy looks over at the corner, then back at me. “What guy?”

I look back at the table to point the man out, but it's empty. I turn around, confused, but the man is nowhere in sight. The only exit is at the front of the shop, and he would’ve had to cross my path to get there. What happened to him?

I cross the room and place my hand on the metal chair he was sitting in, expecting it to be warm from his touch. It’s ice cold, as if it’s been vacant all day. Lucy comes up behind me and places a hand on my arm.

“Are you okay?”

I’m numb with confusion and dismay, but I manage to nod slowly. Lucy takes me back to the counter where I discard my apron and try to collect myself. It isn’t every day you hallucinate a stranger at work.

I’m cleaning up the mess accumulated over four hours of serving coffee and about to hand it over when one last customer approaches. 

“I’ll have the pumpkin spice latte, please!” The girl laughs at a joke her friend made while I prepare her coffee. I hand her the steaming cup and accept her tip with a smile.

“Come on, we better hurry before we miss the train.” The girl says to her friend.

I’m frozen in place as I watch them exit the building, my warning stuck in my throat.

“Wait-” I call, but it’s too late. Their jackets swirl in the cool Autumn wind as the door closes behind them.

What was I going to tell her anyway? That a random man I may have hallucinated told me not to ride the subway today, so she better skip out too? I felt crazy even thinking about it. 

I wave goodbye to Lucy and let the cool midday air wash the scent of coffee off of me. I stand on the sidewalk and consider my options. If I go right, I’ll follow the coffee customers towards the subway and be home in twenty minutes, with plenty of time to get ready for my twelve o’clock class. 

Or I could heed the warning of a man that may or may not exist, and grab a taxi or Uber to take me home. Unfortunately, if I hire a car, I’ll be spending my entire day’s worth of pay on a single ride I could get at a fourth of the cost by riding the train. 

How much was my peace of mind worth? 

It’s silly, I know, but I can’t stop the ominous feeling from spreading over me when I consider taking the subway. It wouldn’t kill me to take an Uber for once, and it might be nice to have a change of scenery from the drab tunnels and graffitied hallways. With my mind made up, I turn to the left and wait at the road while I call up an Uber on my phone.

An hour later I’m dressed and ready for class, grabbing books scattered across my apartment and stuffing them into my backpack. The news is on the T.V., droning on about the upcoming election and poor choice of candidates. I’m about to flip it off when a headline breaks across the bottom, cleansing the screen of the old men’s names and faces.

The scenery changes, and I drop my bag on the floor. I think my jaw might follow after it.

There on the screen is the ten fifteen train that would’ve carried me across the city mere hours ago. Now it lays in a jumbled pile, a twisted accordion that will never play its music again. The reporter discloses all the details on the terrible accident and allows the camera to pan over the mess. 

The bodies have been removed, but amidst the broken glass and dark red seats I find my eyes drawn to a crumpled coffee cup. I wonder if the pumpkin latte had been drunk before being ripped from its owner’s hands.

I slide to the floor in a heap. My unexpected customer was right.