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“Iced Americano for Marco,” calls the barista from the end of the counter.
I push myself from the edge of the wall I’ve been perched on for the past few minutes and retrieve my drink from the dark wood countertop. I take a long sip, much needed from another sleepless night. I hold the drink away and look at it, impressed.
“Good, right?” asks the barista.
“Very. Best in the city that I’ve tried so far.”
I’ve been trying out a few different coffee shops ever since I had to give up my last one after my celebratory romp with the redhead barista there. I haven’t been back since. It was fun, but I’m not looking to do it again, especially now that Erica is back in my life. Or could be.
“Glad to hear it,” says the barista.
He’s a younger guy, probably early twenties. I look to his nametag. It reads Josh.
“How long have you been working here?”
“A few years now. I work part-time now that I’m working towards my teaching certificate.”
“Teacher?” I ask, impressed that’s the route he wants to go. Most people stray away from the profession these days, focused on a bigger paycheck.
“Mhmm,” he says, turning to make another order for a waiting customer.
“Good for you. My mother was a teacher when I was growing up,” I say. “She said it was the most rewarding job she’d ever had.”
“It is. Just being in the classroom now, earning my hours and experience, I swear these kids teach me something new every day. Not the other way around.”
I nod, seeing how passionate he is about it. It’s a rare thing to be passionate about the actual job and not the dollar signs it earns you. I wonder sometimes if I’ve lost sight of the job after all the deals I’ve made and the financial accolades I’ve received. I pull a couple of twenties from my wallet and slide it across the counter,so he can’t miss it, before slipping out the side door. I make a mental note to come back here, for the excellent coffee and to give my money to someone who deserves it.
Speaking with him just now reminds me to call my mother. I forgot to call her yesterday, which is usually when we catch up. I slide my phone from my pocket and scroll to her name, pressing the call button.
“Marco,” she answers, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“Hola, Mama,” I say, returning the smile even though she can’t see me.
“How are you? I missed you yesterday.”
“I know. I’m sorry. So much on my mind.”
“Work okay?” she asks worriedly.
“Yes. Work is fine.”
“You work too hard, you know that?”
“I’m fine,” I assure her.
“Mhmm,” she says unconvinced.
She’s always questioning when enough will be enough for me. As proud of me as she is, she doesn’t understand why I need more companies in my portfolio. I can’t very well explain that I’m trying to fill the void that my father left. Even after he’s been gone for years, I still find ways to impress him. An impossible task, dead or alive.
“What’s on the agenda today?” I ask, walking down the sidewalk toward my building. It’s a few blocks away, but I don’t mind the walk. It’s a beautiful morning.
“Volunteering at the library again. Oh, I’ve joined a book club too.”
“AndI’mthe one who works too much,” I say jokingly.
“This isn’t work, Marco. They’re hobbies.”
“I know, Mama. I’m just teasing.”