It was early afternoon and I’d been at work for hours. I sat in an overstuffed lounge chair at one of my favorite coffee shops (check out my series on Searching for the Perfect Coffee Shop), banging away on my keyboard, sipping my usual large skim latte. I had been up late the previous night finishing a project and, bad luck for me, the caffeine hadn’t kicked in. I looked up from the bright screen and stretched.
The place was half occupied. The long-haired and bearded barista, unjustifiably proud of his “Keep Austin Weird” tee shirt, busied himself with beans and milk. Fifties jazz played at a low volume. I decided to lean back and rest my eyes. Just for a minute…
I had barely closed them when someone shook my arm. I looked up to find the barista glowering down at me. At least, I thought it was him. He must have gone out for a haircut and shave while I dozed. He had also changed his clothes, no longer wearing a tee shirt, now clad from head to toe in a sharp, black uniform, the color of a cup of full-bodied Sumatran roast. A stiff, black cap crowned his head.
“Who are you? What do you want?” I asked.
Most strangely, his Austin accent had morphed into a strong German one: “I am ‘ze Ges-presso, ‘und you have sat here ‘ze last four hours with only ‘vun café latte to show for it. You ‘vill have to pay for ‘zis.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “This is a coffee shop. I’m allowed to sit here and mooch off your Internet service all day for the price of a cup of coffee.” Doubt crept into my voice. “And maybe a blueberry muffin.”
“Nein!” I could tell he meant business. “Times have changed, dummkopf. And ‘zo has our daily special. It’s now a Peppermint Mocha Frappucino.”
“Sounds tempting, but I think I’ll pass.”
“How about ‘ze Cinnamon Dolce? It’s spicy sweet with whipped cream. Very good, actually.”
“No, thanks. I-“
“Silence!” He cut me off. “’Ve have ‘vays of making you drink.”
He went behind the bar. What did he have planned? I was on pins and needles. After some fiddling and grinding, he shoved a double espresso in front of me. “Drink,” he said.
“I don’t-“
“Enough! ‘Ze Ges-presso ‘vill not tolerate disobedience.”
I downed the espresso in one gulp. I could feel the caffeine racing through my veins. My heart fluttered.
“’Und another.” He walked back towards the bar.
“No, wait. Stop.”
He turned and scowled. “Ze Ges-presso does not ‘vait!”
“Not the Robusta again, please. I can’t take it.” I trembled.
“Ze’ Ges-presso vill’ choose ‘ze bean!”
“Okay, okay. But how about a Brazilian this time?”
If stares were spears, I’d have been skewered. He sighed. “Viennese Roast?”
“Perfect.” I didn’t want it, but I could tell I had no choice. After all, this was the Ges-presso.
A second double espresso appeared on the table in front of me.
“Drink!” he said. I hesitated. “Drink!”
I reached for the cup. I lifted it to my lips. I tilted it back, but I was so nervous it ran down the side of my mouth. The Ges-press raised his riding crop above his head. I cringed…
I woke up, slobber running down my cheek. I wiped my mouth. A young woman at the next table had turned around and arched an eyebrow at me. I must have cried out. Excuse me, Miss Quarter-sized Lobe Expander, do I appear odd to you? Fortunately, the rest of the shop seemed indifferent. The sloppy barista was back, whipping up a Caramel Macchiato for a customer.
Should I purchase more? What do you think? Is there any way to resist ‘ze Ges-presso?
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