Chapter 6
/“Foot on the brakes,” I tell myself silently as I make my way home from the cafe, afraid to drive after jumping the curb and slamming head-on into a metal dumpster about a month ago. I finish my shift at 6 pm on most days and now into November, almost my fourth month of working at the café, dusk falls earlier in the day making it dark by the time I head home. First things first: turn headlights on. Put into reverse to back out of the parking space with the foot hovering above the brake pedal. About 6 minutes or so later, I park into the driveway at home. The outside lights have automatically turned on according to the timer, enlightening the gargantuan-looking brick house on a block of otherwise modest abodes.
“Did your prince on white horse arrive?” My dad asked laughing before saying, “I’m just kidding.” Little did he know that the same gentleman I fancied addressed me by name and spoke to me for more than a minute, as I was about to enter my car. That was the last time I would see him before taking two weeks off from working at the café for my cousin’s wedding.
In those two weeks I felt like something was missing. I felt upset at not having shifts in which to catch a glimpse of whom I referred to now as my gentleman caller. But ever since taking off for the wedding, half of which was in Texas and the other half in New York, labor has been getting cut and my shifts upon return were far and few between, sometimes reduced to a single shift per week. I then contracted COVID during the wedding and could not return to the café as soon as I anticipated. I lost my smell and taste that lasted for some time after I caught the virus so that even when I returned to the café, I couldn’t smell the day’s hard work worth of coffee aroma on my person, or my clothes. I couldn’t smell the danishes and sandwiches being heated up in the oven.
I hardly ever saw my gentleman caller anymore, his schedule’s regularity in flux as much as mine was. It’s the last day of December and for the entirety of this month, I cannot for the life of me remember why or how I had been experiencing any FOMO – fear of missing out- by not working at the café. I became accustomed to not going in, to not seeing the young man for all of two minutes and with nothing going beyond a passing greeting.
I now minded going into the café. I grew agitated when I didn’t see the gentleman caller during my shift. I hadn’t created a drink in over a month and was unenthused but also anxious to be assigned bar, making the drinks. I did not want to work customer support either, which included cleaning, taking out trash, and being at the beck and call of my colleagues. I also did not want to work the drive-thru because it meant repeating myself every few seconds, handling money, and also making people wait, anxiously trying to reduce the traffic that would build up should I move too slowly. The break from working reminded me of my past – of my Ivy League education, of having anorexia nervosa and all that that meant, including but not limited to not having a menstrual cycle in nine years and going into treatment weighing about 60 pounds. I was reminded of why this job is not what I was meant to do.
Less work at the café meant less income, but more angst to find a writing job and forge a career even if that meant by way of an internship and not a position. I felt my age and snapped out of my reverie, one in which I was no longer in my 30s, surrounded by a bunch of college-going and recently graduated baristas as it were, and one in which I would finally formally be approached by someone of the opposite sex.
I was dressing up everyday, purchasing more, larger fitting clothes to fit this new bigger body of mine that feels as if it were growing by the day. I was once excited to go to work. After entrusting my mother with the knowledge that I looked forward to seeing a certain someone at work, she responded that perhaps my path to this job as a barista was not for naught. Just maybe the hard times were meant to be. Something better could be lurking around the corner. Maybe he was meant for me. Since coming into the café again, however, her suggestion comes off as the desperation of a parent wanting her adult child to settle down in time for her to witness it.
Whenever “my prince” does come in, I inwardly advise myself to settle down. My breath no longer quickens and I steadily meet his gaze, or so I think I have because his sunglasses making it impossible to know for sure, and I either offer an audible greeting or lift my hand in a half-wave. The moment happens and passes, but it admittedly makes my entire day. Still, I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want my day to be made by the off chance that I caught a glimpse of someone who I may or may not see. I wanted my day to be made knowing that I had a purpose, a steady income, and a career, not just a job. I no only want all of these things, but I need them. It has become readily apparent to my therapist who specializes in eating disorders – a luxury – and I, that I need these things in order for me to pursue any type of recovery.