Prologue: Time to Make the Donuts
"Do NOT plug in brewer until step #5." - Bunn BTX-B Use and Care Manual
Devishi Chaudhuri yawned as she slid the key to the cafe into the industrial lock, glancing at her reflection in the plate glass window. At five in the morning, the streets of Norfolk were relatively empty, the mist from the near-by Lafayette River hanging heavy in the early chill. She stepped inside, keying in the code for the alarm and taking care to lock the door behind her. There was nothing worse than people stumbling in thirty minutes before opening, then taking offense when she couldn't sell to them before counting in the register. After clocking in, she started sliding the appropriate hoppers into the grinder, filling brew baskets for the air-pots: house blend, single origin, dark roast, decaf. The flavor of the month was brewed on another, smaller coffee-maker, to ensure its taste and scent didn't taint the main machine. While the first pots were brewing, she slid her phone out of her pocket, opening her music app and switching on her AC/DC playlist; sometimes she needed the boost in the morning, and with no-one else in the cafe yet, she didn't have to edit her preferences for anyone.
Devi knew she certainly could use the push today. She hadn't slept well the night before. A dream about a man in a black coat clung to her mind. Nothing overtly sinister had happened – the coated man had just had a seemingly cordial conversation with a teen-aged girl in a hoodie outside a boarded-up shop. Yet something about the tone of the talk had been unsettling, disconcerting. To top it off, the older man's eyes had been completely obscured by red during the dream. The girl he was talking to didn't seem too perturbed by this, but had simply answered the questions put to her and handed the man a slip of paper. The dream had been abruptly cut short by Devi's alarm clock, but stuck in her head for some reason.
Heading back to the safe, she pulled out the closing slip from the previous day, along with the drawer keys. Sliding the next set of air-pots under the brewer, she opened the main drawer and began to count out the separate denominations of cash and change, comparing it to the yesterday's closing tallies. Few of her fellow baristas were fans of math early in the morning, but she found the rows of even numbers strangely calming – they had only one right answer. She heard the back door open, and although she knew it was almost certainly another employee coming in, her hand still brushed the pocket knife in her apron. A large man in overalls, beaming all over his broad, honest face came around the corner – Chuck from the roastery downstairs. Chuck was an old-fashioned Southern gentleman, a salt-of-the-earth type who was ready to be friends with anyone he met. He had been a cop "in a previous life," but had left the force after becoming disgusted with the political intrigue. He now hauled bags of coffee on and off delivery trucks, stocking the roastery with the green beans and bringing ready roasted product to various retailers in the neighborhood.
"How you doin' this mornin', sweetie?" he grinned at her, helping himself to the fresh air-pot. Devi smiled to herself as she wrote down the total from the drawer; Chuck rarely referred to anyone by their given name.
"Getting by, Chuck. How you doing?" she replied, falling easily into his mode of speaking. The older man started to tell her about the latest deliveries, mentioning an incoming shipment had included a new single origin bean that smelled promising. Devi promised to come down later that day to take a whiff.
Her 5:30 came in, a lean young man with curly blond hair. Everett had worked for this cafe in one capacity or another almost since its inception, largely off the books at the start due to his being underage. Devi often forgot that he was only 19, same as her, as he seemed mature beyond his years. Devi appreciated how knowledgeable he was about the industry, his dedication to his work, and the fact that he would get hacked off at customers for the same reasons she did. During many hard shifts, he had saved her sanity by joining her in the kitchen for a good rant on the trials of service industries. He greeted her with a quick "Morning!"before heading right to his beloved espresso machines and beginning to rinse the portafilters, check the flow of the steamwands, and adjust the grind.
At ten 'til, he turned to her, "I'll get the lights and start flipping chairs, if you want to finish up here." By now, Devi had finished counting the second drawer, set out sanitizer buckets, and turned on the bagel toaster.
"Sure, I just need to get the ice bin," she replied, turning off the music on her phone while putting on a headset for the drive-through. Wheeling the bin to the front door, she opened the valve to drain the melt-water. Glancing up the sidewalk, she noticed the mount for the flagpole on the outer wall – the owner always insisting on bringing the flag inside at closing, carefully rolled around its pole. Might as well put it up, while I'm at the door, Devi thought. Leaving the door propped open on the ice bin, she walked to the wall-mount, unrolling the flag and standing on her tip-toes to slide the pole into place. She wasn't worried when the van pulled into the parking spot behind her; lots of the regulars showed up right at opening, waiting in their cars for the doors to be unlocked. Nor was she concerned when a couple of businessmen stepped out, as the cafe had its share of professionals. And when Everett came outside to see what was keeping her, all he found was the drive-through headset on the sidewalk and no sign of his friend.