Lake-Effect Coffee, Chapter 5
Rising action.
What do they expect me to—
A horn blares, Doppler-ing by as I twist the wheel hard-over starboard. The van’s steering system is looser than my mental state, but the van and I gently glide back into our lane. My heart thuds.
We’re told to “Follow our dreams.” We’re told to “Think globally, act locally.” We’re told to “Support small businesses [but only once a year, ideally two days after Thanksgiving].”
But the second you actually try, the system slams the door in your face.
A whining from the starboard side brings me back, the rumble strips telling me I have over-corrected while attempting to stay in my lane. The faster I can get out of town the better, even if I am fish-tailing the entire way.
News, weather, traffic, and sports, on the ones, twos, threes, fours, fives, sixes, sevens, eights, nines, tens, elevens, twelves, thirteens, fourteens, and fifteens. You’re listening to WXYZ.
If you are heading out U.S. 12 this afternoon, I hope you are wearing a scout uniform—or chaperoning someone who is. Big reminder to everyone listening: the National Boy Scout Jamboree is just getting started and thousands of tweens are expected to descend on the area. You know how they are arriving? By car. I hope you’re not one of them.
National Boy Scout Jamboree. Huh. I bet I can sell at least one cup of coffee to an exhausted parent. And hook the next generation in the process? Talk about a no-brainer.
With a U-ey in the middle of the road, I reroute the van towards U.S. 12.
News, weather, traffic, and sports, on the ones, twos, threes, fours, fives, sixes, sevens, eights, nines, tens, elevens, twelves, thirteens, fourteens, and fifteens. You’re listening to WXYZ.
A very happy Friday morning to all of you listening, the time is 8:15. It’s a beautiful day in the quad-state area. The Boy Scouts will be arriving later, but for now the roads are—
I slam the gear into Park and cut power to the van, silencing the radio.
With a pep in my step, I lightly shut the van door and step onto the sidewalk. Three other cars sit in the diagonal parking spaces, an iconic feature of the urban part of a town that is desirable, but not overly so. By serving coffee on wheels, we are furthering the local vibe of “We love our town! As long as there is ample free parking.”
Matthew drops frequent hints about how once we make it big (or accept Finkman’s offer), we should get our own space like Roaster Bros. With their exposed brick and tall ceilings, they give me hope that small business and authentic connections are still possible in this town.
Then again, I didn’t even know coffee had to be roasted. I’d never seen Robin so disappointed when she walked up behind me browsing “space heaters” on Amazon.com. “They make me feel toasty, so maybe they’ll do the same for the beans?” I pleaded to no avail. “We’re not doing a Netflix special!” Undeterred by my naivety, she arranged a meet with the Roaster Bros. for later that day. Another reminder of why I’m not doing this venture alone: I can wax poetic about being a part of the community all day on my keyboard, but R & M give me the social validation to actually go out into the world and have it respond to me.
Conventional wisdom told me partnering with another coffee company in our same town was bad business, but I’m beginning to wonder if conventional wisdom is a narcissistic parent: always on your mind, but only looking out for themselves. With the Roaster Bros., I quickly learned my worry was unfounded. Bro One pulled me into a bear hug before I’d even introduced myself. In addition to being clinically diagnosed as extroverts—by the three of us in the car afterwards—Bro One and Bro Two loved our idea. They even offered to match the price from Costco. And the number of customers who have lit up when they see their logo on our menu tells me Robin was right again.
The bell above the door jingles as I step into their idyllic space. Bro Two is working the counter and acknowledges me with a head bob. “My bro has your supply!” Making my way to the back, I smile at an elderly couple seated next to the wood-burning fireplace. I once served them two drip coffees in Work Park and, if my memory serves, I believe I made a joke that it was called Retirement Park. Was that inappropriate?
“Here’s your beans, my man!” Bro One greets me with a fist bump. “I just scooped them from the roaster myself.”
I give the sack a once-over to show I know what I’m doing. “Looks like what Robin ordered!”
As I get into a squat position to lift the 35-pound bag, Bro One sends the invoice to our business account with the sound effect of a canister being sucked into a bank vault. “I’ll see you in Net 30!”
Suddenly, the welcoming vibe is sucked out of the space and the bell above the door jingles in a minor chord. I slowly rotate myself towards the door, crab-walking in my squat position.
Finkman.
We lock eyes as he approaches, the scent of his leather loafers overwhelming the space which once roasted coffee.
“Well well well well well well well, if it isn’t Mr Coffee Van.”
I’m not positive he knows my name, which infuriates me because clearly I am the narrator.
Before I can respond, he’s already scribbling, finishing with a showy dot of the i on Finkman. He tears the check from the book with the meticulousness of someone who once tore a paper as a child and decided Never Again.
“I’m glad you came to your senses,” he says, his arm extended to offer me the check.
Was there a meeting with Matthew I didn’t know about? Or is he that sure of himself? Both seem possible, but I choose to trust Matthew.
“Hello Mr Finkman sir.” As biting as my inner dialogue can be, I still get nervous around celebrities. “Want to see how coffee is roasted?”
“I don’t have time for your space heater demo. Meet me at my office Monday morning at 8am. Bring those two friends of yours.”
With the confidence of someone who roasts coffee rather than just procures roasted coffee, I slowly rise from my squat and make my way behind the counter. I wave Bro Two off and flip the switch on the roaster. As it whirs to life, I open the panel and place Finkman’s paper bribe on the roasting plane. It turns to ash and, when I turn to face Finkman, his pallor is also ashen.
“You wouldn’t. You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”
Neither of us move for several minutes.
“Anywho! I’m headed to my tee time with the city manager. I’ll give him the go-ahead with the gas station on your precious spot in Work Park.”
“Putting green. Green light.” I say under my breath. Finkman doesn’t respond. Did I even speak?
“He found you and your friends annoying, you know. Plus…he’s a tea drinker.”
The last jab garners a cold stare from Bro One and Bro Two, which Finkman doesn’t notice as he spins on a heel. Two full rotations later, he makes his way outside. The coffee aroma returns and I can hear the wood crackling in the fireplace again.
I flip the switch to cut power from the coffee roaster and pick up a small dustpan to clean up the ashes. While standing up to Finkman, I vandalized our only coffee partners.
“Yo Mr Narrator! That was badass!” Bro One or Two says.
“This bag is on us! I don’t want to live in a town without your van. Treat that invoice as Net Infinity!” the other one says. As our venture’s de facto accountant, I believe he is saying the coffee is on the house, but now I’m explaining an idiom with another idiom. I’ll debrief with the gang later.
I’m not sure what came over me. Hardly eloquent, but for once, I got out of my own way. Before opening the van, I would’ve apologized. I would’ve handed the check back, hoping he still liked me. No longer. Hopefully I didn’t lose our favorite rock garden location in the process.
My ringtone brings me back and I swerve to recenter the van in my lane. I see Matthew’s name on my phone display and brace myself.
Do I tell him what I did? Or about our new target audience waiting at the end of U.S. 12?
I swipe the dash-mounted screen and attempt to be casual. “Hey dude! Want to meet me at the Jamboree?”
Matthew doesn’t respond immediately and then says, “I can’t tell if that’s a joke or not. What are you up to?”
“I’m pulling in now!” I say with my voice raised to show I’m in the middle of another activity.
“Okay…we were going to ask if you wanted to get lunch.”
“At the Jamboree? I’m not sure what’s here but sure!”
“You’re at the Jamboree.”
“Yes. Get out here!”
“Buddy. Everything okay?”
“Never better! Get here soon! I’ll start on the drip but I think we could sell every chaperone here a double. Oh! They are using this field as a parking lot. That’s so funny! Bye! You’re on your way? Talk soon!”
Robin shifts anxiously in the passenger seat. Of course they would get stuck behind the train on U.S. 12. At least it wasn’t grain season again. Last time it cost Violet her marriage.
Matthew breaks the silence, “You know how he can get about things, but I dunno, today he sounded almost manic.”
Robin nods and all she can say is, “I hope he’s okay.” After the buyout she told herself she wouldn’t manage someone else’s emotions again. Yet here she was. She needed this project as much as her husband and as much as the boy he met on the yellow school bus. Behind her no nonsense exterior, she had felt her creative spark peer out from behind the curtains since they served their first customer.
The last time she felt this was the morning she was shuffled into an all-glass conference room to hear the news the board was selling to an “outside investor” who would be “making some changes.” The care they took to avoid saying private equity was comical in retrospect. You could hear a drop of perspiration from the chilled Sanpellegrino Robin had walked into the room blissfully toting. Her morning brainstorming session with her colleague slash friend Allison was the reason they both tolerated this work environment. They were autonomous, they were effective. Sure, she had to send a status email on Fridays, but the rest of the week she and Allison were free to create a world where a good night’s sleep was the ultimate goal. People seemed pleased with the content marketing they were running for Standard Coil, and the company bed she and Matthew kept in their king-sized apartment was a decent perk.
The meeting was a blur. The only time she heard her name was before the sentence about “absolutely zero of your 3 million followers have converted to a purchase this quarter.”
Allison resigned a week later to take a role with a competitor who specialized in waterbeds, the first domino in her enjoyable work environment to fall. While cuts in the rest of the workforce dented morale, the real damage was done in a 2-hour weekly meeting. Monday at 8:30 AM, a dude from their new ownership group detailed their new marketing strategy which was now her job to execute. He was a pawn to her and she to him, a perfect match.
The days of her crafting a narrative around good sleep and running an ecosystem of essays, interviews, and inspirational content were over. She was instructed to deactivate TikTok and Instagram. She wasn’t even selling beds anymore. The owners concluded their direct-to-consumer model made for good marketing but bad business, a backhanded compliment to her work, and were pivoting to in-person sleep centers.
“Come test-drive a fluffy Queen mattress at one of our locally-owned and operated Standard Coil Sleep Centers. 0% APR available.”
Copy paste.
She hung on for the paycheck for six months, but she would have preferred severance. The silver lining was the silver-sided van sitting in their friend’s driveway. She was afraid to admit to herself and to the two boys who she drove around with slowly stocking their new venture that she was as committed to their brainchild as they were.
Her coffee van account didn’t have 3 million followers but it didn’t matter. She was crafting a story again and people were responding. There was a certain joy she felt finishing the chalkboard or handing a customer their latte that she hadn’t felt since the day her professional autonomy was ripped away—without so much as an apology. As Matthew pulled off U.S. 12 into the Jamboree, she worried it was once again slipping away.
Thinking aloud, Matthew wonders, “Does he have location enabled on his phone? I’m not sure how to find him.”
“You mean how to find that van where a line is forming next to the Porta Potties?” Robin says the words with disbelief, her head on a swivel as she observes their business from afar. She loves the aroma of their brewed beans, but they had never parked next to an active latrine before. As Matthew pulls in behind the van, their cofounder looks up from a customer interaction and waves eagerly to his two friends.
It’s about time, I think to myself, projecting my manic state onto my business partners. Did they think I was gonna serve all these sleepy dads by myself?
“Hey buddy, what’s wrong?” Matthew steps into the van.
“What’s wrong is I’m barely keeping up with these orders. Here—,” I hand him two paper cups. “Skim lattes for these two gents.”
Even the dads are wearing the trademark tan uniforms, green shorts, and neck kerchiefs. If this coffee thing doesn’t work out, maybe we can take a swing at selling green shorts outside next year’s Jamboree. Adopt the pick axes at the Gold Rush mentality. Fully absorbed in my backup business plan, I’m taken aback to see our next customer wearing a white uniform and black slacks.
“Welcome to Lake-Effect Coffee! What can I get started for you?”
“I’m here on behalf of the Finkman Department of Health in response to a business waste violation,” the inspector holds up a burlap sack adorned with the Roaster Bros logo. “Would you happen to know who placed this in the public waste bins?”
“Yes! That was me! So what are we thinking? A coffee, cappuccino, perhaps a pastry?”
Robin interjects with a level of composure I’ve never once held myself. “Hi, I’m Robin with Lake-Effect Coffee. What seems to be the issue?” A true professional, she even pronounces the dash in “Lake-Effect.”
“Robin, it’s totally fine. This man found our trash and now he’s getting coffee. Another man’s treasure indeed.”
I still don’t get what the big deal is. She doesn’t respond. Just walks around to the side of the van and steps up to face Matthew and me. “You remember the only condition Violet set in our lease? ‘Just don’t get in trouble with the law.’ If we get this citation, we may lose the van.”
Oh. The van. Have I been a fool?
Matthew continues the thread, his voice lower than normal. “And then we’d be forced to accept Finkman’s offer.”
“Matthew, honey, I know you want to open a second location and have exposed brick like the Roaster Bros, but this van is ours.”
“We could finally afford the cups with paper handles. And we wouldn’t have to use Porta Potties anymore.”
He’s not wrong. But I suspect, in my growing clarity, he’s not really talking about cups or toilets. We’ve all had to shed an external marker of success to get to this point. I don’t wear collared shirts to work anymore, and it seems like Matthew really wants a business address.
“I love you boys but I am not going to sell someone else’s story again. Standard Coil Sleep Centers, my ass. That bed they gave us isn’t even comfortable! And the Coil Change every 10k hours of sleep is absurd. We’re selling connection here, Matthew. Don’t you think that matters?”
With a calm I haven’t felt since before my encounter with Finkman this morning, I realize I may have scuppered the backup plan my colleagues were now debating. “Speaking of Finkman…”
They both pause to look at me, four eyes of anticipation.
“His offer may have gone up in smoke, if you know what I mean.”
They stare at me unblinking, unsure of what I mean.
“When I was picking up the burlap boys which I later ‘threw in the trash’…,” I can’t help myself from mocking the inspector, who is still within earshot. “…Finkman showed up and handed me a check.”
“What!”
“Show it to us!”
“I may have burned it in the coffee roaster.”
No one says anything. The silence is broken by a slamming Porta Potty door.
“But the Bros loved it! These beans were on the house!”
Robin has heard enough. “Sir? Hi. I’ll take the citation. Sorry for the hassle. May we pay online or do we have to appear in court?”
Paper in hand, her personal investment in our grand experiment in mobile caffeine shines through. She picks up our tray and shoves it sternly against my sternum.
“Go hand these out. Each customer in line gets a free pastry. We’re going to see Violet.”