The Daily Grind

7:15. I rub my eyes and put on my glasses, even though it's too dark to see. It's three steps from the bed to the counter where I keep the coffee. I flick on the electric gooseneck kettle, pour a helping of beans into the manual grinder, and attach the lid and arm. I stand at the counter, waiting for the kettle, spinning the brushed-metal arm of the hand grinder. With each rotation of my arm, the beans give off a smell of grass and mulch. It takes twenty-eight turns of my grinder for the ceramic burrs to achieve the perfect size grind, not as fine as espresso, not as coarse as french press. Just as my forearm starts to ache with the twenty-eighth rotation, the kettle is ready. I insert the metal filter into the pour-over dripper on my black mug. It’s a gold-plated filter. The metal feels cold as I trace my fingers over the tiny regular holes. I shake the grounds in. I gently deliver a preliminary pour of the not-quite-boiling water over the grounds, allowing them to bubble, bloom, and fall. I smell the bitter carbon dioxide being released from the grounds. I pour again, clockwise from the center out to the edges, with a steady pace. The experts suggest using a scale so you don’t add too much water, but I have great instincts. I cover all the grounds, making sure to catch the stragglers on the edges. I give one more pour all around. As the last drops filter through, I remove the pour-over apparatus. I prefer to drink it black, partly from lactose intolerance, partly from the altered taste milk gives it.

I take my cup to the window and pull the curtains aside as it cools. It’s the end of April, but instead of a beckoning, warm, spring sunshine, it looks like rain. Down on the cobblestone street, the pedestrians pull their coats close. The rich, earthy smell of my Old World coffee teases me. I blow on it to cool it. I could add ice or cold water to drink it right away, but for the best taste, it’s advisable to let it cool down to drinkable temperature on its own. I decide it won't rain.

I go to my closet to choose an outfit and finally sip my coffee. All of my work shirts go with all of my pants, so it's not a tough decision. It'd be easier if I could just wear the same outfit every day, but apparently that's frowned upon. Today it’ll have to be gray pants and a blue checkered shirt. I’ll accessorize with the black tie my dad gave me. I pull out my leather boots with my black leather briefcase but skip the umbrella. It won’t rain. I lay everything out on the bed, nod approvingly, and drink the rest of my coffee. Time for a shower and a shave. Before I leave, I always make sure to wash out my coffee cup, rinse the metal filter and grinder, and dry everything. Otherwise I'll be thinking about the dirty dishes all day.

It's colder than it looked outside. I shiver in the wind. The metro is four blocks from my apartment. You'd think that since I walk this route every day, the path would be clear and easy. But not everyone follows the rules of walking down the road and almost every day someone bumps into me. I take the stairs down to the metro and spot a coin on the landing. I wonder how many other people passed it by. How much would a coin need to be worth for them to stop and pick it up? I look around for anyone who might’ve dropped it. It’s not worth much, but I scoop it up.

Further in, there's a busker playing the violin. He's my least favorite one, since he never plays songs I know and he stops mid-song to chat with people. But I lean down and place the coin carefully in his violin case. He stops playing and smiles.

“Hey, I appreciate it!”

“I found it on the ground back there.”

He cocks his head and stares as if he didn't hear me. “Okay. Have a good one.”

My train is running seven minutes late. How can a train already be behind schedule first thing in the morning?

I let a couple riders board before me and grab a handle. A little girl with black curly hair is staring at me. This happens to me a lot. I think children are drawn to my high-contrast features. I cross my eyes to get the girl to laugh. When she giggles, her mother looks up and scowls at me. I remind myself that I’m a stranger, the kind of person her mother probably warns her about. I look away and examine the patterns of the carpeting for the next six stops.

I always get off one stop before the office to visit my favorite coffee roastery. Since they only have espresso at work, I like to get the batch brew here. I don't recognize the barista at first, since she cut her hair. I wonder if it'd be odd to mention that I noticed. She smiles and then looks panicked.

“Ooh! Sorry, the machine broke this morning. So no batch brew today. Can I get you something else? Americano?”

I look around, confused. She’s jumped a line in the script. I didn't even greet her yet. My ankles feel hot and my armpits start to sweat. I don't want something else. She goes back to filling other customers’ orders. I'm just going to leave.

I swipe my fob to enter the office and take the stairs up to the fifth floor. The front desk staff greets me with a smile and a “How’s it goin’.” Even after five years of working here, I can’t tell if they are genuinely interested or if they greet everyone that way. There’s a long, raucous line at the espresso machine. I settle into my slot on the counter among the other laptops and monitors. 15 new emails and 9 Slack notifications welcome me.

I always take care of the Slack messages first, since they’re meant to be instant. One is to me directly, responding to my question about our team meeting next week. The others are all in group channels, sent out to everyone and no one in particular. Seven have nothing to do with me; I give them a thumbs-up. One is to my team with a question. It’s not actually my team specifically, but it’s a sub-team which I work with on our larger team, so it’s not my job but I know the answer. I fill them in and remember to add a polite greeting.

Then the emails. Two more have come in. I add labels to organize and color-code each one. A cackle of laughter breaks out at the coffee machine, pulling my head up. I could put headphones in, but I’ve been told that’s rude in an open environment like this. I should be available and welcoming to coworkers. I put my head back down and lean over the laptop. I’ve heard it’s best to respond to emails within 48 hours, so I start replying to the oldest one. It’s technically not my department, but I lay out the instructions step-by-step. I find the exact website they need to use and include that as a hyperlink within the appropriate step. I know that customer service gets annoyed if you just forward an email to them, so I try not to bother them and to cover all the possible questions the writer could have. I sign off with my customary Best, since it’s less formal than Best regards or Best wishes and it applies to more situations than Thanks. 16 more emails to go.

By 11:30, I’ve gotten it down to just 4 emails left. Another two arrive after I send a reply. I never expect more emails to come in. Other people must have empty inboxes, eagerly awaiting my response. With a deep breath, I dive back in. I’m two paragraphs into the response when my concentration is shattered by a jarring tap on my shoulder. I spin around and see a colleague in a red cardigan with matching nail polish. She asks if I want to get a coffee. I shake my head, and she apologizes and says she’ll come back later.

“When?” But she’s already gone.

Now the room is blindingly bright. Every keyboard in the room is annoyingly clacking. My head hurts just behind my eyes. I double-check my schedule for the week: one meeting this afternoon, none tomorrow, Thursday’s a holiday, two on Friday. I check for new Slack messages. One is thanking me for sending over the files they needed. There’s one announcing that lunch is being served upstairs. I’m annoyed that lunch is cutting into my work. I finish up that email and decide to head up to eat something. Suddenly my bladder feels full, so I might as well take care of that on the way.

Lunch is always the most dreadful part of the day. It’s an untimely interruption, everyone is less productive afterwards, and all my colleagues want to chat. I’d prefer not to. I slip into line behind a pair deep in conversation. The smell of beef is nauseatingly strong. The vegetarian option seems much more appetizing. I’m just about to take a hefty spoonful when I recall my vegetarian friend complaining that meat-eaters take the veggie options and leave nothing for them. I sigh and take one scoop of meat and two pieces of plain bread.

I aim to sit at my usual seat in the corner next to the window, but it’s taken. I debate taking my lunch downstairs to my desk when a few colleagues call me over and make room. We exchange the usual pleasantries. Some of my team is planning a trip together, so I give them some suggestions on the best places to visit and they invite me along. I remember to ask them questions about themselves. I turn in my dishes and see my colleague in red. I head towards her to ask when we should get that coffee, but I see she’s already holding a mug. So now I should be able to work without interruptions.

When I come out into the hallway, I hear my manager’s voice coming from the elevator. She’s chatting with the CEO. I make eye contact with my manager and wave. They laugh at an inside joke. My colleagues from lunch pile into the elevator to get face-time with them. I take the stairs.

I finally sit down to answer the rest of my emails. Somehow more have come in during lunch. I get through one response and then it’s time for my weekly meeting with my manager. I pull my grid-lined notebook and 0.3 fine-tip Micron pen from my briefcase and head over. On the way to the meeting room, my counterpart on another team offers to make me a latte. If there’s only espresso available, I prefer americanos. But I know that he’s been practicing his latte art, and I’ve been told how rude it is to turn down an offer, so I accept. It’s a smiley face in foam. I thank him and head to the meeting.

I run into my manager just outside the door and I politely ask how her day’s going.

“I’ve had better.”

I’m thrown off-guard, as anyone would be when someone doesn’t say Good or Fine. I struggle to figure out how to respond.

“Well, at least our quarterly review is behind us!” I offer a smile and hopeful eyebrows.

She looks at the floor. “This is going to be tough.” She opens the door for me. In the meeting room, I see my HR representative is already sitting at the table. My manager sits down across from me. I flip open my notebook and uncap my pen, ready to take notes.

“We really appreciate the work you’ve done here over the last five years. Your HR rep is here to support you today. She’ll be available for you to contact and discuss details later on. We want to make this as painless as possible. We really like you. This is a very hard conversation to have, and it’s not a decision we’ve taken lightly. There have been signs but nothing has changed.”

“I don’t understand.”

HR says, “You should take time to breathe. This is the best decision for everyone.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“This is very tough. Unfortunately it’s our final decision.”

I don’t hear anything. My face gets hot and my head is buzzing. “Did I miss something?”

“We’ve tried to warn you. You don’t need to do any more work. You can take your things.”

“I don’t understand.” I want to yell, but I know that’s rude. I want to cry, but this isn’t the place for that. I look at her and then HR, trying to read on their faces what I’m supposed to say. I look at my latte, smiling at me. “What did I do? What do I do now?” I hear rain begin sprinkling against the window.

HR walks me back to my desk. I feel light-headed. She closes my laptop and slides it away. She takes my fob. I place my notebook and pen in my briefcase. I have nothing else at my desk. I walk out. My colleague in red catches me on the way.

“Clocking out early? You never leave early.”

“I’ve been terminated.”

I take the stairs down the five flights. I keep replaying the meeting in my head, trying to remember each sentence, looking for where I misinterpreted something. I’m outside now. I don’t feel the wind. It’s raining. I didn’t bring an umbrella. I walk past the cafe to the metro.

I ride the metro. It smells like stale coffee. I stare at the water dripping off my leather briefcase onto the patterned carpet. Six stops go by. It’s my stop and the doors open. I don’t know what the routine is when you get fired. I let the doors close. Where does the metro go after my stop? I don’t understand. Were there warning signs? Maybe they wanted me to send more emails. What will happen to my emails? Another stop goes by. Will they just keep coming? Another stop. Where do I go?