Vol 2: Cold Air

11:50AM — Every Saturday I make my way to the center of town to clock in ten minutes early for my shift. I squeeze through a narrow pass of boxes and cups stacked to the ceiling, past a guy in a baseball cap scribbling on receipt paper. I punch the soft grey buttons of the clock and kiss the plastic casing for the ten beautiful minutes I overlap with Dan. I am sixteen years old and excruciatingly in love with my boss Dan— who makes it abundantly clear that this coffee shop is like the last place he wants to be on a Saturday.

Someone has taped a paper snowman on the door.

Dan (32 yrs old) wears a Toronto Blue Jays hat but is from Newton and won't tell me about it when I ask. He responds flatly to all questions (personal and otherwise); sometimes he is even annoyed. I ask questions like Dad buys Powerball tickets: Often. This will change everything. Behind the bar I spar him over the best Queen song and why it’s Radio Gaga.

I try to remember every moment knowing the best part of my day is about to be over.

I’m not a kid. I’m like you, can’t you see?

12:00PM — The clock betrays me. Dan leaps over bar with crumpled apron in hand; he says bye to not-me-in-particular and reverses out of the driveway with a hairy forearm arm around the headrest, door still swinging behind him. I’m gutted.

And then I drop someone’s change all over the counter.

Hours left on the clock.

1:00PM —It’s a good job, even though I am currently getting yelled at by a man who in another world would be my soccer/softball/hockey coach but today is a customer with kids too busy bolstering college apps for a job like this.

I made your drink wrong? I’m sure I did. 
I’m sixteen years old and I don’t drink coffee you self-righteous fuck. 
Yes I can refund you, I just have to find my manager....
.... and fuck you.

I remake the drink and Brendan (27) calls the guy a prick and Barb (48) tells Brendan to cut it out. I like my coworkers and that they are adults with weekend plans. I like being out of the house (total shitshow) and also, I need the money— a sentence I don’t bother explaining to my peers. Dan watches me parallel park that first check into my wallet; he gives it a good beat before saying “You know you can fold those, right?” in a voice that almost sounds neutral.

The drink is better the second time.

I wonder, not too long, about Dan’s weekend and if he will come to the staff holiday party (unlikely). I have two albums and one movie to ask him about incase he does. We’re doing Secret Santa.

2:00PM — My dad wears a fleece and deeply worn khakis. I get him a drip filled to the top. He stands evenly on two feet and is unfazed by long periods of silence. Quiet, immovable, measured. I’m not sure if anyone can even see him. It’s starting to dawn on me that things will never change.

When I think too long about it, I get quiet and Kels (32) asks me if I’m okay and to also please get out of the way because I am standing in the middle of everything.

Which I am.

You think I'm a kid?! I don't even keep the money from this goddamn job.
LOOK AT ME.
I will have weekend plans too if this prison you call childhood ever ends.
No I don't have my license, I'm working on it.

3:00PM — I’m not actually mad about the money thing. But childhood really is endless, isn’t it? This shift is endless. Eight guys in spandex and bike helmets just ordered a “round of cortados”.

4:00PM — Dan is the reason I got the job. I pace outside the shop for two hours and one panic attack to muster up “are you hiring?”. His arms press him away from the counter and his eyes sparkle under the brim pulled low over his face as he says “No.” and then he says “… nice shirt.” His favorite band.

It takes me about five seconds to realize I would do anything for him. I really am sixteen. Why am I holding my breath when he walks by? Jesus.

I was actually pacing in front of not a wall but a floor-to-ceiling window that faces the register.

The vortex — The rest of the shift melts mercifully down the drain.

7:00PM — A boombox plays Christmas music, I stay warm by the espresso machine. I’ve never seen everyone sitting. Dan is there, no ballcap. He actually looks happy.

God, he’s handsome.

Brendan appears with a bottle and pours shots for everyone, he gets a big laugh as he skips over me. Kels, in a Santa hat, gives me a big hug. It occurs to me that my coworkers quite like me. I’m smiling like crazy.

On my turn, I tear into a neatly wrapped square and fall silent. My favorite band stares at me from a CD I have never seen. No words come out.

Dan, from the far end of the bar, says it’s kind of a rare find and then he shrugs. Barb hits him softly and says “Dan.” and wipes her eyes.

It is more Christmas than Christmas.

You know me.

Work is a little easier after that.

SUNDAY — Dan and I are closing together, so I work extra hard.

I attack the bathroom with a mop.

See, it’s already looking better.

Sweat stains the inside of my shirt.

I would almost call this clean.

I scrub harder, splashing cleaning solution on my sneakers.

“What are you doing?”

Dan is standing in the doorway.

“….Mopping?”

Dan grabs the mop and slides it across the floor in one broad S shape. It takes seconds.

“You don’t get a prize for doing a good job. Do you know what the prize is for being fast? Going home.”

He sticks me with the mop. Sweat lines my face.

But I won’t be home again until next Saturday at 11:50AM.

When he isn’t looking, I finish mopping.

We huddle by the indigo punch clock and Dan sets the alarm. We wait, still, until the beeps count us down. Ten seconds. We slide across the wet floor in the dark, holding crossbody bags and sweatshirts in our arms. Five seconds. My cheeks are still hot, we hustle out the door. Three, Two. The beeping steadies. A buzzer beater, I fall out into the world and it hits me like a wall:

Cold air.

We stand there for a moment, me and Dan, watching cars reverse into the street.

Max Higgins is a standup comedian in New York City from Burlington, Vermont Instagram