Barista for the Damned
“I have a half-caf soy caramel macchiato with whip cream for Anne!” I slid the drink to the end of the bar, two portafilters balanced in my other hand. As I slid to the sink to wash up I heard her complaining.
“This was supposed to be iced.”
No it wasn’t. I read your ticket.
But I didn’t say that, because the woman looking back over the counter at me was clearly on her way to some torture fest, with a painful looking black whip tucked under one arm and the fire of a devil in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry about that, ma’am,” I smile at her, glad for the divide of a counter between us. When she looks at me I can hear the echoes of the wailing pool, and I don’t want to go back. “Must have been my mistake. I’ll remake that for you right now.”
“Good.” She pushed it back towards me, leaving a spill across the counter.
To be honest that’s maybe the best way that could have gone. Since I started as a barista in the only Starbucks in hell I had my doubts, but I knew from experience that it always could be worse.
“Hey Bea,” Judas called, pushing the never-ending line of cups down the counter. “Will you brew another drip coffee?”
“We’re out again?” I pour out the imposter half-caf soy iced caramel macchiato with whip cream and grab a cold cup, adding it to the front of the line as I pass and head for the coffee machine. The building was supposedly built to be a coffee house, but you’d never know from working behind the counter. The tiny Starbucks was settled in the middle of the sinister recreation of Wall Street, just north of the Endless Fire and west of the deep holes where your worst nightmares live. I have a theory that it was supposed to be something else but They changed it at the last minute, just for fun. I had to cross behind the counter and sneak past the pastry case to restart the coffee machine and make a new batch.
I can’t remember when I haven’t smelled like these horrible coffee grounds. It gets under my nails and seeps into the space where my soul used to go, so that when I get out of my too hot shower at home after a hard days work it still comes from me. The freshly brewed stuff looks like hot oil and tastes worse, but it’s okay with a bit of cream… Or a lot of honey (if we had honey in Hell instead of the chunky dark brown goop They pretended was honey).
After about eight minutes of fighting with the drip machine, I get another round going, and slip away before I get sucked into a spot at the register. That was hell.
“Done.” I report, sliding into place next to Judas and picking up the imposter cup again.
I had never been to a Starbucks on the outside, so I’m not sure how accurate this horrible place was to reality. From what I’d heard from my coworkers over the years, Starbucks was something of a social phenomenon, making the coffee industry into a gourmet experience.
When I lived you got unlimited cups of black coffee for $1.15 at your local diner. There was no such thing as strains, just cream and sugar.
This job had become somewhat like an art form for me. I slid the portafilter full of ground beans into the espresso machine.
What felt like the next hour dripped by. I passed out drinks. I got a few wrong. People yelled at me. Not as many as usual. It stops getting to you after a while.
Plus, anything was better than the Wailing Pools.
Technically it was a job, to get meticulously tortured to create an ambiance right near the entrance to Hell. Once capitalism reached the ninth ring everything became about employment, about having a job that made your afterlife hell rather than just plain old torture. That was so medieval. So now afterlife was about not being at the bottom of the pile: in the Wailing Pool getting your skin peeled off by a Bic Razor. And maybe you get to the top and end up in the same Pool, but you get to do the peeling now.
The only Starbucks in Hell is about the middle. You torture as much as you get tortured.
“Bea,” Judas sighed, wiping grounds off the back of his hand. “I’m off.”
“No!” I moaned, sliding a drink to the end of the counter. “Iced Americano with six pumps of caramel and half water for Pete!”
“Woe unto that man,” Judas laughed, kissed my forehead, and withdrew, untying his apron.
It would be funnier if he didn’t do it every shift.
I braved the wave of paper cups by myself, steaming milk like my life depended on it and churning out as many drinks as I ever had.
And the time dripped by. I wasn’t even really sure how much time was left in my shift, but the groove I was getting into must be pouring out the minutes until I got to go home.
And the time dripped by.
I’ve measured my afterlife in coffee cups that were supposed to be iced.
I can see a giant cup creeping forward in the line of cups, and I know it’s going to be horrible.
“Bea! We need a drip!”
“Yeah!” I called back, sprinting behind the counter again. The scent had gotten comfortable inside me and it was on my side now. I floated back to my line of cups, zeroing in on the task at hand. I know what to do. I become the cups, the beans.
My hands floated between the grinder, the espresso machine, and the steam wand. I turn out five perfect drinks in no time, flowing through the steps while the time dripped by.
But the cup crept up on me. As it slip up the line something crawled up my throat until it was in front of me and I read the ticket.
Trenta Cappuccino
Triple Shot
Triple Shot
Triple Shot
Heavy Cream
3 Caramel flavor shot
4 packets Cane Sugar
“D”
My blood froze. Then it burned in a hot flush. Who would — ? Nine extra shots? Nine? I didn’t have time to think. I had to get started.
I pour two shots and add the sweeteners, holding my breath.
While the first shots were pouring I was trying not to hyperventilate and pour milk at the same time. There was only one explanation for this: The Devil himself had come to torment me.
It wasn’t unheard of: Lucifer, King of Hell, visiting the lowliest of people with some extra horror, just for fun.
I poured two more shots.
I’d heard a story, from my days in the wailing pool, that the top Flayer for Centuries had been cast down with us by a visit from the Devil, because he had failed to please. He had spent his afterlife passing pain down to hundreds upon thousands, using a crisp dollar bill to minutely strip what used to be people of skin. While the method on the whole was reportedly one of the worst tortures invented since solitary confinement, it lacked the appeal of downright bloody violence. The long game held no weight with the King.
I poured two more shots.
So the Top Flayer of Centuries disappeared, but the consensus is he got a personal touch. I’ve heard that he gets turned inside out and beaten for days. Or that he is made to eat his own organs without knowing where they’re from until he’s ripping his own heart from his chest. Some even say that he thinks he made it to Heaven, yet suffers, which churns his mind in silent knots.
I poured two more shots.
Those were just the stories; I’m sure the reality is worse than imagined.
I started to steam whole milk, my hands shaking. The line is getting longer and I didn’t know how much I’ve even got left. 200º comes and goes and it got to 220º before I pour it in the cup, holding off on the foam til I get all the rest.
I poured two more shots, counting on my fingers.
In the Wailing Pool They used to rip off my fingernails, one at a time. I’ve been plucked bloody bald by small birds and had my flesh cut out of places. The memories are clouding my vision.
I pour two more shots, and realize I’ve used the wrong milk.
Before I can think what to do the shots are done and it’s too late now. I can’t start over or I’ll never be done. Sweating hot ice, I top off the foam and place the enormous cup on the bar.
“Trenta Cap, Nine extra shots and Caramel, for D.” I choke out, watching the crowd of devils waiting for me. But I don’t go back to work on the next order, I wait for the Devil himself to stare me down and take this fucking monstrosity off my counter.
From the crowd of people a man stepped forward, with a horrible blond comb-over and pinched up red face. Without a second glance at me he grabbed the cup.
“That stuff’ll kill you again,” I mutter, turning blindly back to the rest of the cups.
“Uhm, first,” The man squinted at me, holding up a finger, “I’ve been in perfect health all my life, all my life, perfect. Perfect health. And I don’t need a loser like you to tell me what.”
I didn’t have time to parse out his dribbling. Now I just regret not spitting in his drink.
“I have a half-caf soy black and white mocha with whip cream for Anne!” I slid the drink to the end of the bar, two portafilters balanced in my other hand. It was iced this time, even though it wasn’t on the ticket. I know Anne well enough now.
She stepped forward, a mace tucked under one arm, and grabbed her cup without question.
It’s full caffeine, and too sweet. She’ll be wired and twitchy all day.
I can’t help but smirk into the sink.
That was the way to survive this job. The more you put on other people, the less you have to put up with. It was a way to win against the unsurmountable garbage you deal with all day. So I eye her first sip as she leaves the crowd, relishing the twinge in her brow.
“Judas, drip coffee!” I called out, finishing off an extra hot americano with sugar-free chocolate and pumpkin spice. I’ve gotten so used to working here that can feel the espresso settling in my bones. Its happy there.
Judas popped back into place next to me, shuffling cups along the counter.
“Bea,” He sighed dramatically, “I’m off.”
“No…” I answered, flatly, leaning over the counter to push the drinks up. “Sarah, I have your decaf nonfat cafe au lait over ice!”
“Woe unto that man,” Judas laughed, and tried to kiss my forehead.
I dodged the gesture, moving back to the line of drinks and pretending not to notice the broken-hearted look on his face.
It would be funnier if I didn’t do it every shift.
He left without another word and I got back to work.
After the whole “D” thing I got promoted. It just means I work more, but that’s alright with me. When I’m home I’m just itching to be back with the beans and the noise.
That’s what I think this place is really about. Wading waste high through the shit until you get used to it and find your peace.
My peace was behind the counter spitting into people’s coffees and burning milk. It didn’t matter that they didn’t know. I knew. And the Devil did too.
