by Cody Ryder
He took a sip, but found the whiskey’s usual rich and delicious body to be overpowering and harsh. Even the typically enjoyable warmth that spread through his stomach didn’t bring any comfort. He set the glass down on the coffee table and sat back into the couch.
The house hadn’t changed much since the time he and his mother shared it. He still had all the old furniture and most of the old decorations, not having the desire to get rid of anything or the money to replace them. Having the reminders of his parents so close brought comfort.
Memories of his mother came flooding back to him, and for the first time in a very long time, Bruce thought about what she had told him three years ago.
The world can be a lonely place.
That evening was the first time that Bruce really understood what she was talking about.
Two
It’d been about a week since Joe Jordan had moved back down to San Diego, and even after the decade he’d spent in the bay area, the city hadn’t lost its feeling of home. He’d always missed his hometown, but he didn’t realize just how much until he’d returned. When he’d opened the The Standard store up north, Joe had maintained a healthy level of realistic expectations for the success of the business. Hopeful and optimistic, but deep down he was fully prepared to pack his bags and move back home if it failed—but it hadn’t. It’d blossomed beyond his wildest expectations. If at the beginning of it all someone had told him that someday he’d be opening a second location in his home city, he wouldn’t have been able to believe them. But here he was—the shop was being called the next Starbucks, he was readying to open a third and fourth location in LA and New York, and he was setting up to transition his offices down to the city he loved the most.
Joe strolled into his shop, taking a moment to do a quick scan of the place and take it all in. There was a healthy line of people waiting for their morning coffee, and customers filled the tables and counters. At the front counter, a rushed looking man in a dress shirt and tie was collecting a carrier loaded up with cups of coffee.
“Thank you, thank you,” the man said to Lyle, the store manager. Joe caught Lyle’s eye and nodded a greeting to him before the man turned around and brushed shoulders with Joe, almost dropping his carrier to the floor.
“Excuse me,” Joe apologized, but the man didn’t even break his stride and hurried on out of the shop.
“’Morning, bro,” Lyle said as Joe slipped behind the counter. He extended a hand and Joe shook it with a bright smile. “That customer just now—he comes in here twice every day. Once to get coffee for his coworkers, and again in the evening to treat himself. Always gets our premium roast. I think he’s probably our best customer. Would’ve lost his shit if he knew he’d just run into the CEO.”
“Good morning, Mr. Jordan,” the two baristas piped up as they went about filling their orders. Joe gave them a little wave. Kelly and Caleb—Joe knew the names of all of his hires.
“Just Joe, please, guys. You all holding up okay?”
“Doing great,” one of them said as they purged the milk frother with a burst of steam. The other had turned back to the register and was taking orders. Another employee, Patrick, hurried out from the back with a tray of freshly washed mugs and got a little start when he saw Joe standing there.
“Hey! Mister—I mean, Joe. Good to see you again.”
“Good morning, Patrick,” Joe smiled, giving him a friendly clap on the shoulder. Back at the flagship store, most of the workers had been with him since the very beginning, and they all knew each other as friends. Lyle had been his assistant manager and friend from college, so he’d been the most obvious choice to run the new San Diego location, but everyone else were new hires. They didn’t have the same rapport with him as all his old employees did, and it felt weird to be greeted with that tense “the big boss is here” energy whenever he walked into the room. He was thirty-three years old. He didn’t want to be a “Mr. Jordan” quite yet.
Joe went into the back office with Lyle following behind him. “You know,” Lyle said, “you wearing a shirt and tie whenever you come in probably doesn’t help wipe the ‘sirs’ from their vocab. You look hella CEO-ish.”
“Probably,” Joe smiled. “It’s one habit I don’t think I can break. My mother always told me to come to work dressed for the job I wanted. And you know what? It really helped me. Plus, I look fucking fantastic.”
Lyle stroked his beard with thoughtful appreciation. “Can’t argue with that, bro.”
Joe sat down on the edge of the desk. “So. How’s Angie? She just started school, right?”
“Oh, dude. She loves preschool. Vivian and I were worried she’d freak out—you know how attached she is—but she’s thriving there.”
Joe smiled. “That’s great, man. She and Vivian are adjusting to the move?”
“Well, Angie had no problem. Everything is a big adventure for her. Vivian is finding it more difficult to settle in, especially being a stay-at-home mom. No friends down here, you know?”
“Mm.”
“How about you, Joe? How are you settling in?”
“Oh, I’m settled,” he smiled, tapping the edge of the desk. “I’m happy to be here. I’m happy to be back.”
“Right,” Lyle grinned. “The Standard is all you need to keep you satisfied.”
“Hey, not true,” he said punching Lyle’s arm. “I’ve you got you.”
Lyle laughed. “You know, Vivian said that we see each other more than she sees me. She’s right. How messed up is that?”
“She’s just jealous of what we have,” Joe said, and they shared a laugh. “So, talk to me. How’s the team functioning?”
“Great,” Lyle nodded. “We picked a great group. They’re all really good at what they do, they got the knowhow. Business has been fantastic, as you’ve seen from the numbers.”
“And what’s the word?”
Lyle knew that when Joe asked what the word was, he wanted know about things the numbers couldn’t say—insight from customer and employee comments, local news, that sort of thing.
“Well. The word seems to be that we got in here at the right time. People have been wanting a new place to chill at, and coffee aficionados in the area are tired of driving all the way downtown or to North Park to satisfy their craving. It seems like the only other decent place to quality coffee around here is from an old mom and pop place just down the street, but they don’t do a spread. One roast, no choices. Seems like they’ll probably be gone soon.”
“That’s really a shame,” Joe said, shaking his head. “Do you know what the place is called?”
“Um… La-something. No, Le-something. I really should know; I pass by there on the way in every morning. It’s south a few blocks.”
“Thanks, I’ll find it.”
After working the register for an hour, Joe had Kelly—one of the more experienced barristas there—coach him on latte art technique and then give him a rundown on what she felt were the best roasts they were carrying. He then spent some time chatting up the customers as they came to pick up their orders before going upstairs into the space above the coffee shop, which would eventually become the main office for Southern California. It was still sparse and open; the industrial concrete walls were undecorated and the big hardwood floor space was bare. A triangle of sunlight spilled across the floor from the huge windows, casting a beautiful reflection of light up on the wall, and Joe felt a warm rush of excitement build through his body. He remembered when the San Francisco branch had been under construction, and he’d stood in the empty shop and saw a scene much like the one before him now. He’d felt like he was setting out on a great journey into unknown—would the business fail or succeed?
He smiled. Another six years and where will the company be? he thought to himself. New York, Tokyo, London… And in ten years?
His smile slowly faded. In ten years, he’d be forty-three. His thoughts suddenly shifted, moving from the future of The Standard to the future of Joseph Jordan.
Forty-three.
The thought gave him anxiety. He had his success, his business, and more money than he’d ever need for one lifetime…but he had no one to share it with.
He’d had one serious relationship in university, but broke it off after graduation when he started making plans for the business. Since then he’d dated several guys, with nothing ever really going anywhere. He found it hard to maintain relationships; most of the time he just lost interest, and these days he found that many of the men who tried to initiate something with him were more interested in Joe Jordan, CEO of The Standard than in Joe Jordan, regular guy.
Being forty-three and still single frightened Joe. Starting a family had always been one of his dreams, but as the years ticked by, he started to feel like it was becoming less likely to happen.
He glanced at his watch—it was already noon. He wanted to take a walk around the neighborhood to get a feel for the other local businesses and to find that coffee shop that Lyle had mentioned. He definitely didn’t want to get caught in a down mood.
Joe headed south down the street, and immediately began to feel his anxiety dissipate. There was no use worrying about something like that right now. It was a beautiful day outside, he was back home, and life was great.
He was interested in experiencing this veteran shop—of course, he felt a little remorse that his place might be causing difficulties for senior competition, but that was just the way of business. Any places that were experiencing a downturn would’ve gone through it regardless of The Standard being there or not; it was just a matter of time. If the customers were there but not visiting, that only meant a failure to understand their needs, and Joe was an expert at understanding his customer’s needs. He almost had a sixth sense about reading the trends—but part of it came from good old-fashioned research and knowledge. This place—if it really had been the place people used to go to for good coffee—would be brimming with experience. He wanted to know how long they’d been in business, and what he could learn from them.
“LeFlorette’s Coffee Shop,” Joe said, reading the painted red sign up above the café’s entrance. The door and front window frames were coated in a faded shade of forest green that gave the place a very quaint and homely appearance, and felt more like something he would’ve expected to see in a New England city. There was a sign in the window that said, “Freshly roasted coffee” and below it another read, “Homemade grilled sandwiches.” Just from the front of the shop, he knew he was going to like it. He turned the brass doorknob and went inside.
“Hi there!” the girl behind the counter called out in a cheerful voice. “Good afternoon.”
“’Afternoon,” Joe returned pleasantly as he quickly assessed the interior of the café. It was small but not cramped, with a row of tables against the left wall and another small cluster on the right with two couches. There was also a bar wall with stools, and two customers—the only ones there besides him—were sitting engrossed in their cell phones. On one wall, there was a corkboard filled with old photographs taken inside the café of people who Joe guessed were regular customers. Also on the walls were a few generic oil paintings of city street scenes, and some other framed black and white photos. Overall, the feeling Joe got from the place was that it was nostalgic and comfortable, but more than a little outdated. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the décor had never been updated since the place had first opened, which he now felt had to have been at least two decades ago. It was a very different ambiance from The Standard.
He took in the rich aroma of fresh coffee mingled with the savory scent of toasted bread, grilled onions, roasted meat and other spices, and he felt his stomach grumble. He walked up to the counter and glanced up at the chalkboard menu hanging up above the register.
“What can I get you?” the girl asked with a bubbly voice.
“Well, I don’t know, I’m not sure,” Joe said. “This is my first time here. What do you recommend?”
“Oh! Well, first of all, welcome. Are you here for lunch, or just for coffee?”
“I’m here for both. Are you the owner?”
“No, I just work here. I’m Julia,” she smiled. “The owner isn’t in today. So, I make a kickass latte that I know you’ll love, and our spicy chicken melt will completely blow your mind. It’s our signature sandwich.”
“Okay, Julia. I’ll take your word for it. I’ll have both.”
He paid for the meal and sat down at one of the bar stools as he watched her handiwork. She apparently was the only person working today, because she danced back and forth between the espresso machine and the kitchen, balancing both with practiced expertise. He was disappointed that the owner wasn’t in—he was really hoping to have a chance to chat with them.
The coffee tasted excellent and Julia had done some nice latte art of a rose, but the real prize taker was the spicy chicken melt sandwich. She’d grilled the bread to crispy perfection, and when he picked up one triangle half of the sandwich a decadent line of melted asiago and gruyere cheese stretched between them, threatening to pull out the reddish-orange pulled chicken, tomato and what smelled like a spicy mayo filling. The bread crackled musically as he took a bite, and his eyes widened as the rich flavors of the sandwich exploded through his mouth.
My God, he marveled. This is ridiculously good! He took another eager bite. This is so good, I don’t want it to be over.
“How is it?” Julia called from behind the counter.
“Ahmahfing,” he said with his mouth full. Joe already had planned to come back again to try to catch the owner, but now he knew he’d be coming back for the sandwiches. He took another bite, and closed his eyes in absolute bliss.
Wanting to draw in his experience with that little piece of heaven for as long as possible, Joe set the sandwich down, sipped his coffee and took a moment to soak in the atmosphere of the place. He felt a very strong feeling of warm comfort that seemed to radiate from every corner of the café, from the near-kitsch décor to the simple classic deliciousness of the food and coffee. He really liked this place, he decided, and in that moment Joe had completely forgotten that this cozy little mom and pop café was on the verge of being edged out of existence—and it was all because of him.
That evening, Joe stood amongst the stacks of yet to be unpacked moving boxes that cluttered his condo living room, like Godzilla surrounded by the skyscrapers of Tokyo. He’d been so caught up the past week with getting the San Diego office set up that he’d hardly had any time to do anything at home. Everything had been unpacked on a need-to-use basis. He scanned over the labels he’d fixed to each box, looking for his gym gear as his mind turned over his visit to LeFlorette’s that day.
Back in San Francisco, he’d of course dealt with plenty of competition—some from shops that’d been there for years, some from other new startups trying to make it into the market—and making friendly visits to them had just been a normal part of his routine as an entrepreneur in the same field. He wanted to see what they were doing wrong and on what areas he could improve on with his store, but more importantly he wanted to see what they were doing right. There were lots of quality places that he’d enjoyed, but none of them had made any real impressions in his mind—until today.
He was having trouble pinpointing why LeFlorette’s had stuck with him, after all, he’d been to plenty of places just like it that had never made any lasting impressions. All he knew is that that little café had somehow maneuvered its way into his consciousness, into a spot of concern that The Standard had exclusively occupied. He liked the place. There was something about it that had really taken him, and he wanted to go back—and the most difficult thing about it was that he did feel a strange conflict about feeling this way about a competitor. He knew what would happen to LeFlorette’s in the end, and normally that wouldn’t have affected him one way or the other, but right now he actually felt…bad.
They’re only competition, Joe, he reminded himself. And in this game, there’s only room for one to
win. That’s how you were able to get to this point in the first place.
He finally found the cardboard box with the label, “GYM/BOXING” neatly pasted to the front, and separated it from the rest of the pile, pulling out his blue gym bag that held his boxing gloves and other gear. Boxing had always been his main outlet for stress relief, and it’d been far too long since he’d had a go in the ring, and he needed it now. Tonight, he’d slam out all the weight that had built up on his shoulders over the past couple weeks. He had a technique for eliminating his stress at the gym. He’d always imagine his target—whether it be minutes in the ring, punches to the bag, or reps at the deadlift rack—as one source of stress. With every second, every punch, and every lift survived, he pictured that stress being chipped away. Destroyed, by his own willpower.
It had been some time since he’d been to the gym, and he could tell. He was eager to get in there and bash into his stress. There was one target in particular that he’d been taking on for a while now, and no matter how hard he worked himself it always seemed to linger on in his mind.
