Drink coffee - do stupid things faster with more energy! Never be latte again!
The sign - complete with a cartoon of a maniacally grinning man - was displayed outside the interestingly named "Daily Grind" cafe where a queue of assorted individuals snaked out the double glass doors and onto the street. People checked their watches, yawned, shook their heads and complained grudgingly. There was even an interesting specimen at the queue's rear, talking loudly on his cellphone about how he was going to close a million-dollar deal. Behind that self-assured corporate drone, Gabriel Morris, M.D. wished there was some way to exorcize the man's pompous, grating voice from his head. After a series of routine angioplasties, a combination of exhaustion and disruption of mood meant there was only one possible remedy.
More coffee.
Rolling up the sleeves of his crisply-ironed shirt, Gabriel - who was referred to at the hospital as Gabe by his esteemed colleagues and Dr. Morris by residents and oppressed interns - expelled a muted groan of annoyance as Mr. Wall Street's frenzied chattering heightened in pitch. At least the queue's moving, he thought in an attempt to dissuade himself from kindly telling the man to shut his trap - albeit not in such friendly terms. Having finally made it inside the cafe, he found it clustered with the usual crowd - college students, working professionals, and even the odd family or two bearing backpacks and baseball caps. The cacophonous mixture of voices only served to magnify his pounding, caffeine-withdrawal headache. It provided an odd kind of amusement for him to know he resided in the "city that never sleeps". A true child of NYC if there ever was one. Clutched in his palm, his cellphone buzzed, the popup indicating he'd received a message from "V".
New shipment soon.
A brief, serious frown crossed Gabriel's face, but was quickly dispelled as the overeager businessman finally ordered his extra-something-soy-something latte with chocolate sauce. Returning the cell to his pocket, Gabe stepped up just in time to flash the pretty barista a disarming grin, cranking the charm to full throttle. "Triple Americano." The woman looked surprised at the fact that he didn't rattle off something that sounded like a grocery list, and asked for his name with marker poised and ready. "Gabriel," he answered, feeling a yawn get lodged somewhere in his throat. No milk, no sugar, bitter as hell. Just how he liked it. The barista placed the cup aside and rolled off the price with a winsome smile. Hell-o. He probably would've had a decent chance at getting her number, but at the instant his hand touched his right pocket, he reached a terrible realization. His wallet wasn't there. His shiny, brand-name leather wallet.
Well, shit.
"Sir?" The barista was still smiling, though said smile was growing increasingly forced. He could practically feel the hostility of those waiting behind him, their eyes burning smoking holes into his back. Someone cleared their throat - loudly. It looked more and more likely that he'd just have to walk away, a pathetic bid in preserving the shredded remnants of his dignity. He could hear it already - guy in the thousand-dollar suit can't even pay for his cup of morning coffee. Thoroughly embarrassed, he ran a hand through his head of dark hair, hazel gaze returning to the confused woman drumming her fingers against the countertop. Her mounting impatience was far too obvious now. Feet were tapping rapidly on polished linoleum, voices muttering lowly.
"Uh, we might have a tiny little problem here. I seem to have left my wallet at my workplace." He tried to look apologetic, but inside he was cursing himself out for leaving work in an exhausted haze. He'd barely been able to make the short drive home before collapsing on his bed and blacking out. Several meager hours later, he'd been roused by the triumphant screech of his alarm, all too ready to fling him into another day of guts and glory. "Look - maybe we can work something out. You give me my coffee, I'll come by later and pay what's owed. If it helps any, I work just across the street." He gestured to make his point.
The barista's meticulously plucked eyebrows shot straight up. "Nice try."
Gabe sighed. It was going to be a long day.
The sign - complete with a cartoon of a maniacally grinning man - was displayed outside the interestingly named "Daily Grind" cafe where a queue of assorted individuals snaked out the double glass doors and onto the street. People checked their watches, yawned, shook their heads and complained grudgingly. There was even an interesting specimen at the queue's rear, talking loudly on his cellphone about how he was going to close a million-dollar deal. Behind that self-assured corporate drone, Gabriel Morris, M.D. wished there was some way to exorcize the man's pompous, grating voice from his head. After a series of routine angioplasties, a combination of exhaustion and disruption of mood meant there was only one possible remedy.
More coffee.
Rolling up the sleeves of his crisply-ironed shirt, Gabriel - who was referred to at the hospital as Gabe by his esteemed colleagues and Dr. Morris by residents and oppressed interns - expelled a muted groan of annoyance as Mr. Wall Street's frenzied chattering heightened in pitch. At least the queue's moving, he thought in an attempt to dissuade himself from kindly telling the man to shut his trap - albeit not in such friendly terms. Having finally made it inside the cafe, he found it clustered with the usual crowd - college students, working professionals, and even the odd family or two bearing backpacks and baseball caps. The cacophonous mixture of voices only served to magnify his pounding, caffeine-withdrawal headache. It provided an odd kind of amusement for him to know he resided in the "city that never sleeps". A true child of NYC if there ever was one. Clutched in his palm, his cellphone buzzed, the popup indicating he'd received a message from "V".
New shipment soon.
A brief, serious frown crossed Gabriel's face, but was quickly dispelled as the overeager businessman finally ordered his extra-something-soy-something latte with chocolate sauce. Returning the cell to his pocket, Gabe stepped up just in time to flash the pretty barista a disarming grin, cranking the charm to full throttle. "Triple Americano." The woman looked surprised at the fact that he didn't rattle off something that sounded like a grocery list, and asked for his name with marker poised and ready. "Gabriel," he answered, feeling a yawn get lodged somewhere in his throat. No milk, no sugar, bitter as hell. Just how he liked it. The barista placed the cup aside and rolled off the price with a winsome smile. Hell-o. He probably would've had a decent chance at getting her number, but at the instant his hand touched his right pocket, he reached a terrible realization. His wallet wasn't there. His shiny, brand-name leather wallet.
Well, shit.
"Sir?" The barista was still smiling, though said smile was growing increasingly forced. He could practically feel the hostility of those waiting behind him, their eyes burning smoking holes into his back. Someone cleared their throat - loudly. It looked more and more likely that he'd just have to walk away, a pathetic bid in preserving the shredded remnants of his dignity. He could hear it already - guy in the thousand-dollar suit can't even pay for his cup of morning coffee. Thoroughly embarrassed, he ran a hand through his head of dark hair, hazel gaze returning to the confused woman drumming her fingers against the countertop. Her mounting impatience was far too obvious now. Feet were tapping rapidly on polished linoleum, voices muttering lowly.
"Uh, we might have a tiny little problem here. I seem to have left my wallet at my workplace." He tried to look apologetic, but inside he was cursing himself out for leaving work in an exhausted haze. He'd barely been able to make the short drive home before collapsing on his bed and blacking out. Several meager hours later, he'd been roused by the triumphant screech of his alarm, all too ready to fling him into another day of guts and glory. "Look - maybe we can work something out. You give me my coffee, I'll come by later and pay what's owed. If it helps any, I work just across the street." He gestured to make his point.
The barista's meticulously plucked eyebrows shot straight up. "Nice try."
Gabe sighed. It was going to be a long day.