by Steve Frech
I’ve never seen her so wound up.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m going to go over and talk to her, okay?”
“Tell her that I’m sorry. If I had known—”
“Sandy, it’s fine. Keep the place going. You’re amazing. Smile. I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay.”
“Big smiles on everyone, okay?” I add, nodding to Tom and Sheila.
Sandy tries to smile, but she’s so rattled, it looks like she’s baring her teeth.
I have to leave it at that. I move around the line and make my way to the corner booth.
As I approach, she stops writing. Her eyes follow me from behind those dark, tinted glasses. Every other part of her body remains still.
“Mrs Trifauni?”
“Yes?” Her voice is clipped and surprisingly low for someone so small. I have to assume it’s from years of smoking.
“I’m the owner, Jacob Reese. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says, and extends her hand.
Her spindly fingers are ice cold. After we shake, she gives me her card, which I tuck into my pocket.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee or a latte?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
“May I join you?”
“Of course.”
I slide into the seat across from her.
“I hear that you’ve already met my associate, Sandy.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to forgive her.”
“What for?”
“For mistaking you for someone who was loitering.”
“Her response was perfectly natural. She should prevent loiterers.”
I twist backwards towards the counter. Sandy is trying to pretend like she isn’t watching us. I give her a big thumbs-up. She’s mortified.
I turn back to Mrs Trifauni. “I am a little confused, though.”
“Oh?”
“Mr Tiller said you were coming tomorrow.”
“Yes, but when I scout a potential franchise, I want to see them at their most ‘normal’, not when they are on heightened alert because I’m there. I got here around seven this morning and decided—”
“Wait. You’ve been here since this morning?”
“Yes,” she replies, as though nothing could be more normal. “I wanted to get a feel for the town, how your shop fits in, and how it might fit in with other towns.”
“And what do you think?”
I catch the faintest trace of a smile on her lips. “It’s charming.”
I have the distinct impression that this is as close as she gets to gushing. She’s completely under The Hollows’ spell.
“I also wanted to see your opening procedures and what the early business was like,” she continues. “So, I watched from across the street.”
I’m stunned. “I want to make sure I understand this, Mrs Trifauni. You’ve been scoping us out since seven this morning?”
“I need to know everything about this place,” she says, continuously clicking her pen like it’s an uncontrollable tick. “I want to see every customer’s experience from the moment they walk in the door to the moment they leave. It’s the only way to know if Groundworks is worthy of Alliance Capital’s money. What I want from you and your staff is to go about your work as if I am not here.”
“We can definitely do that, but before I get back to work, are there any other questions I can answer for you?”
She clicks the pen and uses it to point near the register. “Is that a dog bed over there?”
Shit. I was going to get Murphy’s bed out of here tomorrow morning before she arrived.
“Yes,” I answer, frantically trying to come up with an explanation.
“Do you normally have a dog in here? So much so that it has its own bed?”
It’s obvious she doesn’t like it, and I’m reminded of Mr Tiller’s warning.
“We have a lot of locals come in with their dogs and sometimes, if the line is really long, we let them crash while their owners wait.” It’s not my best lie, but I try to work in a positive business spin by mentioning that we regularly have long lines.
“Well, if we move forward, lapses in health standards like that will have to go.”
“Of course. Absolutely.”
Her eyes scan me from behind those glasses, and then drift down to the notebook. She rapidly clicks the pen, and begins scribbling some notes. Although the pages in the notebook are unruled, her writing forms perfect rows across the blank pages.
“Anything else I can answer for you?” I ask.
“No. I believe I have everything I need.”
“If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I won’t.”
I smile. “I’m quite certain of that.”
My little joke works, and I can see that trace of a smile return.
I hop out of the booth and go to the register. I collect Murphy’s bed, take it through the back to the parking lot, and toss it into the truck. Once back inside, there’s a short break in the line, and I gather everyone for a quick pep talk.
“Okay, guys, listen up. She’s fine. She’s a little strange, but she wants to see the place in action. So, big smiles. You guys are getting triple overtime, tonight, and I’ll pay you in cash at the end of the shift. Cool?”
They all eagerly nod.
“Everyone just keep doing what you’re doing. It’s gonna be great.”
*
This is the longest six hours, ever.
The shop is slammed. Outside the window, The Hollows is in full Halloween splendor, and everyone who comes through the door is giddy with anticipation. I, on the other hand, feel like a bomb is about to go off. Occasionally, I glance over at the booth and she’s not moving. I swear, she might be dead. I want to go and hold a mirror under her nose to see if she’s still breathing. Instead, I keep going. Sometimes, I’ll hear the sharp click of her pen over the din of the customers, reassuring me that yes, she is still among the living.
My cheeks start to hurt from smiling, and I know I’m not the only one. The crew is feeling it, too. Sandy has recovered. Out of all of us, she’s holding it together the best. When it slows down, I tell her to take a fifteen-minute break.
“I’m gonna go run around the parking lot and scream for a few minutes,” she says, blowing by me.
“Knock yourself out.”
“Junior partner!” I hear her faintly yell as she opens the back door.
It’s drawing closer to closing. We’re like marathon runners with the finish line in sight. I’ve been enjoying this. The shop is alive with laughter and conversation. My crew is knocking it out of the park, and I haven’t thought about Laura or the events of the past few days for hours.
Eight-thirty hits and I tell Sandy to put out the “closed” sign. The place is still packed. A few more people straggle in and jump in line until finally, I send Tom outside to instruct anyone else who tries to come in that we are done for the night.
I check Mrs Trifauni. She’s no longer paying attention to the shop. She’s staring out the window at Main Street. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad sign, but at this point, if she’s not impressed, there’s nothing we can do about it.
The last order is served, and we start breaking everything down. The crew and I are beat. Sheila begins sweeping the floor. Tom wipes down the cappuccino machine. I’m covering all the food items in cellophane and storing them in the fridge. Sandy is taking care of the register.
An hour later, the last guests are leaving, with the exception of Mrs Trifauni. I thank the last couple as they leave, and lock the door behind them with a flourish.
We’re done.
“Mrs Trifauni?” I politely call from the door.
She looks in my direction.
“I’m going to walk my crew out. I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
She nods.
I lead Sandy, Tom, and Sheila through the swinging doors to
the food prep station in the back.
“Wait for me in the parking lot,” I tell them.
They leave, and I head into the office. I go to the safe, pull out a thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills, and go through the back door.
The night air is bracing. Stars dot the sky and the moon has an icy-blue glow.
I join Tom, Shelia, and Sandy under the lone light. I take five hundred dollars from the stack of money I’m carrying, and divide it between Tom and Sheila. “You guys were amazing today. Go have some fun.”
“Thanks, boss,” Shelia says.
“Thank you,” Tom adds.
They walk away down the alley as if they’re afraid I may realize I’ve made a mistake.
I turn to Sandy.
“Well,” she says, “there goes a good chunk of the day’s profi—”
“And you,” I say, stomping on her last line. I hand her the remaining five one hundred-dollar bills. “Thank you.”
“Jacob, you don’t have to do this. That’s almost a fifth of the day’s profits.”
“If my guess is right, we just made a lot more than that.”
She looks at the cash like it might bite her.
“Sandy, take the money.”
She gingerly grasps it and puts it in her pocket. “Thank you,” she says.
“Thank you.”
We have a moment that feels a little more than employer and employee.
“I should get back in there,” I finally say, and turn to the door.
“Knock ’em dead!”
“Don’t say that. She’s old.”
Sandy’s laugh carries through the cold air as I open the door and go back inside. I find Mrs Trifauni in the booth, right where I left her, staring out at Main Street.
“Care if I join you again?”
She turns and smiles—an honest-to-God smile. “Have a seat.”
I believed before, but now I know—we did it. All the tension rushes out of me as I sit down for the first time in hours. I also realize how tired I am. My feet are killing me.
“So, what do you think?” I ask.
“I think it goes without saying that I’m extremely impressed. You’ve got quite a little product here.”
“Thank you. I’ve also got a very good team.”
She nods appreciatively, and flips open her notebook. “I do have some ideas that I want to discuss with you,” she says with a few clicks of her pen.
“Fire away,” I reply, remembering Mr Tiller’s warning about her desire to flex her “creative muscles”.
She clicks her pen one last time and consults her notes. “What I have in mind is a chain of Groundworks boutique coffee shops. Now, one of the best assets for Groundworks is, of course, The Hollows, and that one can’t travel. What Alliance Capital would do is find towns like The Hollows and set up shops. It would be a part of the brand. Towns could wear the fact that they have a Groundworks Coffee like a badge of honor.”
“Great.”
She flips a page. “Getting down to brass tacks, I love what you’ve done with the décor. Was that your call?”
“Yep.”
“It’s fantastic, but I worry that it may be cost-prohibitive to replicate in other locations. This location would be the flagship, and would stay as is, but other locations would be more basic.”
“Sure.”
She flips another page. “Also, your team is good, but you need more. Other locations will have a bigger staff. We’ll flesh out a more detailed structure later.”
“Okay.”
Click.
I stop. It sounded like she just clicked her pen, but I didn’t see her click it. I must be really tired, because it sounded like there was an echo through the shop. She makes no indication that she heard anything. I glance around but shake it off.
“Another aspect we’ll have to address is the menu. I like the options that you have, but there are too many. We’ll have a team of experts who will work with what you have and come up with some new recipes that will streamline the menu and cut down on inventory.”
“Okay …” I answer, my voice wavering.
She looks up. “Don’t worry. This is all standard stuff. Groundworks will still have a unique menu. We’re only going to make it more efficient.” She goes back to her notebook.
I’m not worried about the menu. It’s the furthest fucking thing from my mind.
What caused my voice to waver is the big fat cockroach that’s climbing up the wall behind her. It lazily wanders closer and closer to the back of her head.
She’s still talking, something about advertising, but I can’t hear her.
The cockroach begins moving in more spastic dashes, getting closer to her hair. From behind her seat, another cockroach emerges.
She’s looking down in her notebook, giving notes, but it’s like she’s on mute.
I’ve got to get her out of here. I have to keep her from looking back. I have to bring this to a close before she sees them.
“Look,” I say, trying to keep my voice on an even keel. “It’s been a long day. Would you like to head over to the local bar, and continue the conversation over a glass of wine or something?”
“That’s all right. I’m almost done,” she says, not looking up. “I want to talk about management structure for each location …”
A third roach appears in the corner, near the window. I’m trying not to breathe. It dashes onto the glass, getting closer and closer to her peripheral vision. It scuttles down towards the table.
No. No. No. No. No.
It halts just above the table’s surface. It’s perfectly still except for its antennae, which swing back and forth from its glistening head.
I’m so fixated on the cockroach that it takes a second to register that she’s stopped talking. I look away from the roach and across the table. She’s staring straight at me. No, not right at me. She’s staring just past me, over my shoulder.
Something breezes across the back of my neck.
I turn.
The back of my seat is covered in big, thick cockroaches.
I spring from the booth.
Roaches scurry and scuttle across the floor.
They’re everywhere.
Chapter 5
It’s one o’clock in the morning.
I’m sitting under the lone light post in the parking lot behind the coffee shop.
Helen Trifauni is long gone. At the sight of hundreds of roaches crawling across the floor, she immediately headed for the exit. I pleaded with her, but what was I supposed to say? She left without a word.
I ran to the office, grabbed a binder from a shelf, and found the number for Envo Exterminators. These aren’t the guys who come to your house to take care of some ants. These are professionals who work in the food service industry. Most health boards give you a grace period of forty-eight hours to solve any violations they find during an inspection. You have to stay closed for those forty-eight hours, but if you can correct the problem, you can open back up, and keep your health grade. If not, you have to live with the health grade they give you, and as everyone knows, when you go out to eat, the difference between an “A” or a “B” on the door makes all the difference in the world.
This is so much worse than a health violation.
I would have rather have it happened during an inspection. Instead, I just watched millions of dollars walk out the door.
After I called Envo, I called Mrs Trifauni to explain that this had never happened before. She didn’t answer. I left messages, begging her to look at the years of pristine health inspections the shop had received. She didn’t respond.
I sat back in the chair in the office in stunned defeat. A cockroach ran across the keyboard. I swore, stood up, and decided to wait outside in the parking lot for Envo to arrive.
I’ve been sitting on the pavement with my back against the light post, my arms wrapped around my knees to guard against the cold. I’m still trying to process the fact that the dream of the franchi
se is over. Not only that, if this gets out in town, I may have lost everything.
The thing that finally drives it home is a text from Sandy.
Okay. I can’t wait until tomorrow for you to tell me. You have to tell me now. How did it go?!!!
I don’t have the heart to answer.
The white van finally swings into the parking lot. There are no markings. These guys don’t advertise on the side of their van with cheesy graphics of bugs being zapped. They’re discreet professionals, and very expensive.
The van parks, and a crew of four men in white coveralls hop out. I catch a glimpse of the interior of the van through the open sliding door. It’s loaded with sprayers and bottles of chemicals. The driver, a big guy with a full beard, moustache, and hair pulled into a ponytail, walks up with a clipboard.
“Are you Jacob Reese?” he asks, consulting his clipboard.
“Yeah,” I reply, getting to my feet.
“I’m Kyle McGuire with Envo Exterminators and this is my team—Paul, Chuck, and Donnie.”
They nod in acknowledgment and I nod back, even though I’m not concerned with learning their names.
“Dispatch said you have a little bit of a roach problem?”
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my eyes. Fatigue is crashing down on me. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“I understand, Mr Reese. If I was a restaurant owner, I wouldn’t be happy to see us, either, but we’ll take care of it. Just lead the way.”
I take them inside. I try to explain what happened and how freakish it all is. I’m sure they’ve heard it before and have yet to believe it.
The lights are on, so most of the roaches have gone for cover, but occasionally, one will sprint across the floor and disappear under a counter or behind the bag we use to collect the dirty cleaning rags. The men all have flashlights. As we proceed to the restaurant, they shine their lights into any darkened crevice they find, and small black shapes scatter. The team takes their time as we pass the shelves where we keep our large bins of coffee beans. I show them the refrigerators where we store our cream, milk, and other perishables.
I’m slightly comforted when I hear one of the crew, I think it’s Chuck, mumble something to the effect of, “This all looks good.”
