The Communist Coffee Company
Josh Farthing was feeling oppressed. When he had first applied for a summer placement at Buchanan Romney & Sturman, their website had promised that he would, if successful, gain invaluable experience of life at a dynamic law firm. Josh had envisioned this life as one of fast moving cases, notorious clients, one night stands and recreational drug use. Instead, he had spent his first two weeks photocopying and filing the details of faulty goods prosecutions from 1976. The only break in the tedium came twice a day, when he was expected to fetch the coffee for the rest of the office.
If nothing else, Josh had become an expert on the coffee run. At 10:15 precisely, he stopped work on the case of a digital watch that only kept good time if its wearer's hair was permed, and started taking orders. He knew that the Monday morning coffee run would be the simplest of the week. Everyone was too tired and grumpy to put any creativity into their choices. The only notable order was a quintuple espresso, but even that was a good three espressos short of the office record.
Josh's path through the open-plan room ended at a substantially more shut room at the far side. It belonged to Nick Romney, the co-founder of BR&S and the only one of the original three still alive. Josh had only seen him once, on the stairs, since he had started work. Romney was certainly not to be disturbed for a mere coffee order, which was passed on by his secretary instead. Not that this was ever necessary: he always ordered a simple black coffee.
Until today.
'He wants what?' said Josh.
'That's what he said,' said the secretary. 'A raspberry soy frappé with double fudge syrup and a crumble layer.'
'What's brought this on?' said Josh.
'He's got a new celebrity client,' said the secretary. 'He says he wants to take up pilates as well.'
'I don't think the Reale does raspberry soy frappés,' said Josh.
This was the voice of two full weeks of experience talking. Josh knew the menu of the local Caffè Reale backwards, and could even pronounce some of the foreign words correctly.
'Then try that new place on the Sullivan Road,' said the secretary. 'I'm sure they'll welcome the business.'
'I doubt they'll be willing to go into the raspberry fields just for me,' said Josh. 'Or the soy fields. Or the frappé fields.'
'Don't forget the syrup and crumble,' said the secretary with an air of finality.
Josh was resenting his situation even more than usual as he went the extra mile to Sullivan Road. To think he was doing these worthless chores when he could have spent the whole summer in bed with a hangover. And they weren't even paying him! To top it all, it started to rain.
Josh made a bet with himself that the new coffee place would be at the end of the road, just to prove that the world was a cruel and unfeeling place for interns. So sure was he of winning the bet that he failed to notice that the shop was actually at the beginning. Having to walk twice the whole length of the road only confirmed his feelings of persecution.
The new shop was a drab looking place. Its front was almost unchanged from its former life as a charity shop, with the exception of an obviously hand painted sign that read 'A COMMUNIST COFFEE COMPANY PREMISES'. Josh lambasted the signwriter for making such a stupidly inconspicuous sign. Then he lambasted the company for inflicting yet another stupidly themed franchise on the high street. Finally, he lambasted himself for ever having applied for his stupid job in the stupid first place, and went inside.
He was expecting hammers and sickles, giant murals of Lenin, maybe an old ICBM, but instead he found himself in what looked like a village hall tearoom. A few tatty white benches filled most of the space, and a nasty plastic counter in front of a large steel urn took up the rest. The frappé situation remained unclear, as there was no menu on the wall. There were no other customers in the shop, and no members of staff present either.
'Hello?' said Josh uncertainly.
There was no reply. The only sound he could hear was an annoying buzz from the urn.
Josh went back to the front door and swung it backwards and forwards to ring the bell again. Still no one responded.
Josh was in no mood to put up with poor customer service. He went behind the counter and knocked on the staff door, and when still nobody reacted, opened it.
Behind the door stood the most beautiful woman that Josh had ever seen. Or at the very least, significantly more beautiful than any woman who worked in the Caffè Reale. In an instant his life as a temporary summer placement office worker flashed before him, and he suddenly appreciated how fate had conspired to bring the two together, how life was good and right and kindly, how the universe was one indivisible whole whose countless natural wonders led a dance of such exquisite harmony that it seemed like too much for any human soul to bear.
'What the hell are you doing in here?' said the woman, stubbing out a cigarette on the work surface in front of her.
'Oh, er, sorry,' said Josh. 'There was no-one out the front, you see, so I thought maybe I had to call for attention somehow.'
'Get out and wait your turn, that's how you do it,' said the woman. 'And shut the door behind you!'
Had he been the old, cynical Josh, he would undoubtedly have stormed out, pointedly leaving the staff door open but perhaps aggressively shutting the front door to generate a discordant bell tingle that represented the strongest act of vengeance available to him within the law. But the new, infatuated Josh meekly took a seat and waited.
Some time later (he had no idea how long), the waitress came out and stood behind the counter. Josh looked up, unwilling to offend her further with incorrect ordering actions.
'Well?' she said.
Josh stood up. The glowering expression on the waitress's face did not change. He took this is a positive sign and moved hesitantly towards the counter. Again, there was no discernible reaction.
'Do you, by any chance, offer raspberry soy frappés?' he said.
'Raspberry soy frappés?' said the waitress incredulously.
'That's right, with fudge syrup if possible ... I mean double fudge syrup, and it would be great if maybe I could get a crumble layer in there somewhere as well. If it's not too much trouble, I mean.'
The waitress stared at Josh. Josh blinked first.
'We do coffee,' she said at last. 'How many?'
'Ah,' said Josh. Again he considered leaving, but then he thought back to his co-workers in their warm, dry office. What had they ever done for him? When he brought them their speciality coffees, morning and afternoon, did they ever say thank you? Well, all right, they did say thank you, but they probably didn't mean it. They could have 'coffee' and like it.
'Seven, please,' he said.
'Read this while you wait,' said the waitress, handing him a leaflet entitled 'THE TYRANNY OF CHOICE'. It was a 10,000 word treatise that Josh was unable to read without his glasses, but he didn't dare look up from it while the coffee was being prepared.
He left with two flasks of coffee and seven paper cups. He kicked himself for not having had the courage to ask the waitress's name, especially after a surreptitious inspection of her upper torso had revealed that she was carrying no nametag. Then it occurred to him that her name would be on the receipt. He searched his pockets for the crumpled-up piece of paper while cradling the flasks in his other arm. A vicious little dog spotted his vulnerability and made a lunge for him, causing one of the flasks to fly into the air. It landed on top of the dog's head, then rolled without further incident along the ground, still intact. Josh took this as a sign that the universe was still on his side, and examined the receipt. It read 'YOU HAVE BEEN SERVED TODAY BY: THE PROLETARIAT'.
Josh got back to the office without further mishap. He poured out the coffee into the paper cups and handed them out, giving the last two to the secretary.
'So what was the new place like?' she asked.
'Refreshing,' said Josh.
The secretary took a look at the coffees in front of her.
'Which one's mine?' she asked.
'They're both the same,' said Josh.
'Both the same?' said the secretary. 'But I wanted a latte, not a raspberry soy frappé!'
'They're both just coffee,' said Josh.
'Oh, this won't do at all,' said the secretary. She took a sip of the coffee and almost spat it out again. 'This is what they call coffee? It tastes like sawdust.'
'It's all they had,' said Josh.
'Well, in that case I'm sorry I told you about them,' said the secretary. 'Now why don't you take these back, get a refund, and go and get some real coffee.'
This is exactly what Josh had hoped he would hear. He walked all the way back to the Sullivan Road, this time with an umbrella ready (naturally, it did not rain). Inside, the waitress was standing in a pool of coffee in front of the urn with a spanner and a furrowed brow.
'Excuse me,' said Josh.
'Not now!' said the waitress. 'Can't you see I'm busy?'
'Maybe I can help?' said Josh.
The waitress looked him over and with a sneer replied, 'You could help by leaving.'
'I'm really sorry, but I need to get a refund on these two coffees,' said Josh, putting the flask on the counter.
'Then you'll need to see the manager,' said the waitress. 'SUGARCAKES!'
There was a crash from behind the staff door. A heavily-built man emerged, sporting a beard and a beret.
'Yes, darling?' he said. For Josh, the world collapsed into a maelstrom of silent anti-beard and beret rage.
'This customer would like a refund,' said the waitress contemptuously.
The manager looked at Josh and smiled. 'I'm afraid we don't do refunds,' he said.
'But it tastes of sawdust!' said Josh.
'Don't you like sawdust?' said the manager.
'It doesn't matter what I like, it's for my colleagues!' said Josh. 'I don't even drink coffee.'
'So your colleagues force you to bring them coffee?' said the manager. He looked genuinely astonished.
'Well, not exactly force, but yes...'
'And you just sit there and take it?'
'No, I mean I get up and get them, it's actually quite a nice break...'
'How do you expect to ever change your circumstances if you let yourself be a slave to their demands?' said the manager. He snatched the receipt from Josh and turned it over, pen ready. 'Now just this once, you tell me the name of your company and I'll have a word with them. But next time, you've got to stand up for your rights as a worker. OK?'
'Er ... OK,' said Josh, by now completely bewildered.
On the way back to the office, he bought a latte from the Caffè Reale and a carton of raspberries from the market. At his desk he poured out one of the cold coffees again, plopped a couple raspberries on the top, and threw in a half-eaten Twix for completeness. He handed over the two coffees to Romney's secretary without comment. With his dreams of the coffee shop waitress shattered he was beyond caring about the reaction, but was nevertheless pleasantly surprised to find that he had not been sacked by the end of the day.
The following morning, he stationed himself at the photocopier as usual and started on the files for October 1976. A new month gave him a feeling of accomplishment and the strength to carry on. And anyway, there were only three more days to go. Maybe if he made one big final push he'd reach 1977 before he left.
At 10:15, Josh was just about to start on the coffee run when Nick Romney came out of his office and walked nervously up to him at the photocopier.
'Are you Josh Farthing?' he said.
Josh was so taken aback that he had to think about the answer. 'Yes,' he said eventually.
'Would you like a coffee?' said Romney.
Josh gaped at him. 'What do you mean?' he said.
'It's my turn to get the coffee,' said Romney. 'Would you like one?'
Josh was so shocked that he forgot even to agree politely.
'I'm more of a tea drinker, to be honest,' he said.
Romney looked at him sideways for a second, then smiled.
'Well, I'll see what we can do,' he said. 'If they're capable of making that wonderful raspberry soy frappé, I'm sure they can make a cup of tea. Back soon, everybody!'
And he left, leaving Josh to contemplate the incredible transformation that had occurred. Had the coffee shop manager really had a word with Romney? Was he going to live in a more fair and just office for the remainder of the week? Would he never get to see 1977? He smiled as he pressed the green button on the case of a man who had been bankrupted after reading a pocket calculator upside down. Then he shoved the rest of the cases to one side and placed 'THE TYRANNY OF CHOICE' onto the photocopier plate.
A while later, Romney came back and handed him a paper cup. It smelled of sawdust.
'I'm terribly sorry, Josh, but they don't seem to do tea,' he said. 'The staff were quite insistent on the matter. Oh, and I was given this note to give to you-'
Josh thanked him and took the note. His heart leapt. Maybe the waitress had grown tired of a life of beards and berets! He opened up the note, and read:
Dear Comrade,
Tea is an instrument of imperial oppression. Please accept this coffee instead with our compliments.
PS: You will not be warned again.