Sorry, we're closed

4th April 2019

Two minutes before the cafe closed, a customer stormed in the door.

"Flat,” the man said, then paused. “White, please.” He was puffing.

“What takeaway cup? Small or large?” I asked. I was short with him because the cafe was now 90 seconds from closing.

The day had been quiet with only a few customers trickling in after lunch. I spent most of the day completing tasks outlined on a laminated checklist that said, Closing Duties, so when the time did come to close, I could swiftly leave. The beach was beckoning that afternoon for the weather was desert-like: very torrid and no wind. I had already changed into boardshorts.

“Do you mind if I have it here?” he asked, pleading. “In a ceramic cup?”

I would’ve refused, but he looked defeated, standing there against the counter, tie loosened, top button undone, his broad shoulders slumped. Like he couldn’t catch a break.

As a barista, I don't necessarily feel like I play an influential part in society, just as I didn't feel autonomous when I worked along a conveyor belt in a cheese factory. So when the man pleaded, I welcomed the sense that I, Jayden, a humble employee at a community cafe, had the fate of this man’s aspirations in my palm.

“I guess I can do that for you,” I said. I was gloating now.

“Thank you so much,” he said. "Really."

He didn’t know I was doing him a favour, though, because I forgot to mention the cafe was now officially closed. So when a lady eventually sat down with him, he returned to the bench and tossed $4 on the counter. “And another flat white,” he said, although with a very different tone, almost dismissive like he knew he was now firmly grasping the fate of my aspirations in his Herculian palm.

I made and delivered the coffees and began the final closing-up tasks. While cleaning the coffee machine, I watched the man and lady jump straight into, what seemed, a very heated discussion. The man was shouting and wildly gesticulating; the lady meanwhile was silent but intensely concentrating on him and mouthing words under her breath, like she was trying to cast a spell on him.

A friend who was working in a clothing store next door and had been eavesdropping on the conversation walked into the cafe and said, “I think they’re going through a divorce. They’re talking about who will get custody.”

“Bugger,” I said. I regret I wasn't more sympathetic, but I was preoccupied thinking up strategies on how I could get them to leave or at least hurry up. The flat whites, after all, were still full.

After completing every task, I sat on a table two metres away from the couple trying to look impatient. I thought, If they don’t figure the cafe closed after seeing me stack the chairs, mop the floors, turn off the lights, vacate the cafe, lock the doors and pile the days worth of bin bags next to them, then maybe they’ll catch on if I sit here quietly in boardshorts giving them a cold stare.

They didn’t catch on, of course. The man was shouting louder now; the lady continued to just stare at him, still silent, which I found terrifying.

I’m suspicious of people who are overly chilled in heated moments, maybe because I’m one of them. I know that behind a relaxed veneer is Krakatoa waiting to explode. Perhaps subconsciously, we act composed to overcompensate for the disorder within. A person who pretends like nothing is ever wrong is really a human pressure cooker with a broken safety valve.

The wind turned onshore (started blowing from the west), meaning the idyllic ocean was about five minutes away from becoming a sand-storm. I was livid. Sitting on the table, I remembered a passage from ‘The Essentialist’ by Greg McKeown. In the opening passages, McKeown writes in large, block letters, ‘If you don’t prioritise your life, someone else will.’

In my failure to apply that simple maxim, I was suddenly struck with the wisdom of it. Jumping off the table, I thought: I’m ready to reclaim my aspirations.

I marched to the ex-couple and, gesturing to the empty cafe, said sternly, “Excuse me.”

But before I could say, ‘we’re closed’, the lady snapped. “WHAT?” she bawled at me.

I think she momentarily mixed up me with her ex-husband because she was staring at me with a wild ferocity I’ve only ever witnessed on David Attenborough documentaries.

And in one hair-raising moment, I resorted to survival instincts, to old ways.

“S-sorry,” I fumbled, positively scared. “I was j-just wondering if you wanted a-another coffee?”