Life After Coffee (2 page)

Halfway through it all, I turn again and I leave.

I start up the engine, silencing the sound of Violet’s meltdown. Without looking back I drive off down the street, her screams still reverberating at full volume around the inside of my head. And I know it’s the only thing I’ll hear all the way to Africa.

As soon as I turn left at the end of the block and I know they can’t see me, I start to cry. Heavy, body-shaking tears. This is also part of the routine. It’s also strangely therapeutic: I’ve never handed my passport over at departures without having froggy eyes that look like a pair of golf balls.

Suddenly my whole body goes light with panic. Billy. I didn’t say good-bye to Billy! I can’t go back and do it for the third time. Peter will kill me. Plus I’ve left it so late already that I would miss my plane for certain. Oh God. I am a terrible mother. As the traffic lights turn red, I pull to a stop and just let it go. Hard-core sobbing. Double bubbles in my nostrils. The works. I’m trying to force myself to take some breaths in when I feel the driver in the car next to me watching. How bloody rude. My car is my own private biosphere. You may be able to see in through my windows, but that doesn’t mean that you’re allowed to look. I’ve stopped myself from staring plenty of times when some guy’s been cleaning out his nostrils with the end of his pinky or singing like he forgot that he did actually leave the shower this morning. I glance over. He catches my eye and mimes a “roll down the window” sign. Really? No one’s actually had roll-down car windows since 1992. Snot trails now at upper-lip level, I lower my window. What does this man think he can say to me that’s possibly going to make my life any better between now and when the lights turn green?

“I’m trying to find the 210?”

“Huh?”

“The 210 Freeway?”

“Oh.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Um . . . Sure. Straight on past Glen Avenue, then make a right at Fair Oaks. No . . . I’m sorry, I mean Sunset. The signs will tell you to go straight on at Washington but don’t do that. They’ve closed it halfway down for roadwork, and you’ll only have to turn around and come back up again.”

“Okay,” he says. The lights turn green and he’s off. He didn’t even offer me a tissue. And come to think of it, I’m not sure I have a clean one. Or even one at all. Sleeve wipe it is. Oh, like you’ve never done it before. Someone behind me gives a hearty honk. I slowly raise the window and start off again, taking enough time to make my point that I consider the honk, under general circumstances, to be very rude indeed.

My life is officially ridiculous.

By the time I’m about halfway to LAX I’ve managed to calm myself enough that I’m no longer a hazard on the road. It seems to be helpful to distract myself with all the dire logistical consequences of me actually not making my plane today, and so I focus on that.

My phone starts ringing. I glance over. It’s my boss, Dexter. There’s probably some last-minute change to my travel itinerary. Why can’t he text like a normal person? I nearly drive off the road trying to hook up my hands-free device. Eventually all wires and pods are inserted where they should be.

“Dexter, what’s up?”

“Amy. Thank God. Listen up. I need you to come in, now.”

“Come in? I’m barely going to make my flight as it is!”

“I know. Just . . . I need you to head back.”

“What’s going on, Dexter? If I miss this flight, it’s going to throw the whole trip into chaos.”

“You’re not going to be flying out today.”

“Why?”

“I’m not talking to you about this when you’re driving. Just come the fuck in.
Please
.”

“Fine.” I hang up. It must be serious if Dexter’s using the P-word. He and I are as rude as possible to each other at all times. It’s our thing. I cannot think of one possible plausible reason why I’m being called back to home base right now. This trip was the big hope for saving Mateo’s Coffee from a severe financial pummeling.

Right now, scattered around the planet, there are acres upon acres of coffee bean crops devastated by rust. Not the kind of rust you find on a secondhand pickup, the kind of rust that’s been the fungal blight of the Arabica coffee bean since the very start of the coffee trade. This latest strain is everywhere. We’re in the middle of a rust epidemic of unprecedented size.

The world’s coffee traders are panic buying what little Arabica there is left, sending prices through the roof. The big guys—whose customers don’t have a particularly discerning palate, or really any kind of palate—have resorted to mixing large percentages of Robusta beans into their products. The cheaper, shitty, bitter stuff. They’re riding the fine line between cutting it with just enough Robusta that they can still keep a jar of Nescafé at only a moderately increased price and not so much that it becomes undrinkable. At Mateo’s we don’t have that option. We’re about quality. In fact, that’s all we’re about. We make coffee for the people who’ve had the fortune/misfortune to stumble across the good stuff. After you’ve had real black, there’s no going back. However, that doesn’t mean our customers will be willing to pay twelve dollars for a cup of coffee as opposed to the rather cheeky eight they already pay.

I was headed to Ethiopia today because Getu, one of our farmers there, said he’d discovered a varietal of bean that was so far immune to the epidemic. And not only that, he sent us a few beans to try for ourselves and they tasted like heaven above.

This bean was going to be our way of evading the whole “death to the gourmet coffee world” situation. Without this bean you don’t need an MBA to figure out that our business model is more or less screwed. We’ll never get through this. Most small roasters won’t. I’ve been on the trail of various rust-resistant beans since the beginning of my career: looking for a bean that could be mass-produced but wouldn’t need to be continually doused with fungicide, which ruins the soil and also is very hard on the human body. Whoever gets this bean gets the coffee scoop of the century. It’s the fucking holy grail of coffee beans.

So why in sweet Jesus is Dexter calling me back to the office?

CHAPTER 2

“You mean I’m fired?”

“Laid off, technically speaking,” says Dexter. Call it vanity, but I feel like he should be looking a lot more upset than he currently does. “But yes, they both amount to the same thing: you don’t work for Mateo’s anymore.”

“What about this company Fuckers?”

“Ruckers.”

“Don’t they need a buyer?”

“They already have their own, Amy. Armies of them all over the world.”

“Don’t they need another one?”

“I’ve no idea, why don’t you check their website?” Dexter and I have always treated each other with playful disrespect, but this tone is new. This is the tone of a man who knows he really should give a shit but is finding it somewhat of a struggle to do so. Emotionally uninvested, I think you could call it.

“So how much?”

“How much what?”

“How much cash did you get for this ungodly transaction?”

“The correct term is
buyout
.” I pause and watch him wrestle with his answer. “Two point four.”

“Million?”

“Well, yes. Not billion.”

“You could have got more.”

“No, I couldn’t have. The company can’t sustain itself long-term the way things are run right now. The profit margin just isn’t there.”

“But what about Getu’s Yayu?” I ask. It was the solution to this very problem.

“Why take the risk if I don’t have to? The interest from Ruckers is here
now
. The Mateo’s name still means good quality
now
. Third-wave coffee has to make way for fourth wave, which is probably going to taste like shit. But in the coming years, as good coffee becomes a fading memory, the name Mateo’s will still keep people buying. It’s just simple marketing.”

“You’re literally selling out.”

“I prefer to think of it as buying in.”

“Smart people know when they’re making a mistake, Dexter.”

“Accepting two point four million for a business that’s almost bankrupt is not a mistake,” he says.
Fair point.
“I’ve made this business into a phenomenon—our customers have always had the most excellent of everything. But we can’t do that any longer. The money just doesn’t work that way now. If I don’t do this today, the whole setup is going to fail.”

“Don’t you care about the coffee anymore?” I ask.

It’s this change that’s the hardest of all to understand. The coffee used to be Dexter’s primary obsession, the fundamental focus of his life. He’d wax lyrical to anyone who would listen (and there were plenty lined up) about coffee as an art form, about the intense, vibrant beauty of the moment it could create. How it could be the antidote to all the sadness in your life, perhaps all the misery on the planet. For if everyone in the world started their day with the right type of coffee, perhaps we could make it work. Perhaps we, all the tribes of the human species, could finally all just get along, bonded through our mutual love of a perfect moment.

He’d generally go on in this vein until someone stopped him. It was normally me.

“I do care. I just care about my family more.” That’s a shift. “Don’t you want to start putting your family first, Amy? I thought you’d be stoked to spend some extra time with your kids.”

“Well, forgive me if my lack of a million-dollar payout is putting somewhat of a damper on my outward jubilation.” Which is clearly a segue for Dexter to start talking about my severance package. I’ve put as much sweat equity into Mateo’s as he has over the last fourteen years. And much more literal equatorial sweat for sure. He’s looking at me with that same irritating nonchalance, and he doesn’t seem to be taking advantage of the segue opportunity. I’ll have to do it for him.

“What about my severance pay?”

He’s caught off guard. He has the decency to tint a little pink.

“Well, Ruckers didn’t really extend that payout to—”

“I’m not talking about Fuckers; I’m talking about you and your plus-size bank account already racking up the interest on two point four million as we speak.”

“The money hasn’t come through yet. When it does I’ll . . . um, have my accountant . . .”

“Don’t lie.” I expect a wide-eyed denial. It’s not forthcoming.

“Amy, under California law I’m not technically obliged to—”

“Fourteen years of me putting my personal life on hold, of missing my kids’ first everything—traveling to the places you were too scared to go to. I’ve crapped out tapeworms taller than you and I’ve got a foot fungus I picked up in Nicaragua that I’m never going to shake.
Never.
My foot guy says his lab can’t even identify it. An entirely new species of fungus is going to live between my toes from now until I die, and you’re telling me that you’re not
technically obliged
?”

“Well, I’m not.” And there it is. Two point four million dollars about to wire itself into his account and he isn’t “technically obliged” to give a shit about me any longer. And he knows it. And now I know it.

“All this time I thought we were working toward something together here, but I’m just another commodity to you, aren’t I? There’s no difference to you between me and a bag of underpriced Kunga. You just take what you need and use it all up till it’s gone. I’m a human being, Dexter. I’ve got kids too. How can you live with yourself, you complete cheapskate?”

“Amy, I’m sorry.” To his credit he does seem slightly more sorry now.

“I’ll take your apology in the form of a check.” Silence. “Nothing? Okay, good-bye then, Dexter. Enjoy your gains from exploiting me and all the dozens of poverty-ridden farmers you’ve completely let down, you colonial dickhole. Actual children are going to go hungry because of what you’ve decided to do today.”

“Amy!” Below the belt. He deserves it.

“Enjoy your millions.”

I kick his stupid plant on my way out. I always hated that rubber plant—just like Dexter, pretending to be something more than it is in its pretentious organic rattan weave pot.

Screw every part of this.

I’ve got a birthday party to get to.

CHAPTER 3

Driving away from downtown, the cloud of silent calm that seems to have sat on top of my brain for the last ten minutes is starting to disperse too quickly. I try to claw it back, but it’s no good. I’m beginning to panic. What. The. Fuck. Are. We. Going. To. Do?

Obviously I’m going to have to get another buying job as soon as possible. But with Arabica prices still on the rise, I’m sure Mateo’s is not the only roaster being bought out right now. Most will just go under. There’s going to be a glut of buyers on the market and even fewer jobs than normal to go around. Certainly nothing else in LA. There are only about fifteen small roasters in operation on both coasts. Outside of that I’d be buying for the big chains, and I’ve heard enough about how they operate to know I wouldn’t fit in there. The first time I saw warehouses full of old-ass beans being gassed with fungicides, rats running in and out as they please, I’d be out.

Damn it. First things first. Okay, so obviously it’s a complete disaster that the only income in our household is no longer going to be coming
in
. But . . . there
is
an upside to being unexpectedly thrown into the pit of unemployment today: I’m going to make it to Billy’s birthday party! Better than that, I’m going to see my kids again. And
even
better than that, there is no dark-black moment of departure on the horizon. This is a first. This changes everything. I’ve never had this in my life before. As I zoom back down the freeway, I swoop through the emotional arc from complete fear to extreme joy. And then all the way back again. I manage to distract myself by thinking about practicalities. The party is an hour and a half in. Will it mess Billy up for life if I turn up at this point? Will he forever presume that in the future when I say I can’t make something, I’ll actually show up right at the end? It
really will
mess him up for life if I turn up halfway through his party with a “Hey—Mommy got fired. Happy fucking birthday, kiddo!” Not good. Obviously I don’t want to miss it. But everyone’s going to want to know why on earth I’m not on a plane.

I’ll just have to wing it. Tell the kids I missed my flight. How wrong can it go? They’ll be over the moon to see me. It’ll be like the best birthday surprise ever.

I’m here. I park in the driveway outside the garage. I’m a little surprised that my spot’s still open and that Peter didn’t direct a Prius party parent into it. Maybe he just knew. I let myself in the back gate. Everyone’s assembled on and around the side deck. Must be almost cake time. I slip in at the back of the crowd. I’ll make myself known after Billy’s blown out the candles.

The mom I’m standing next to makes smiley eye contact. She’s all stylish black wrap, snub nose, smooth swept-up hair, and sparkly blue eyes. I instantly know her as one of those women who can chat with people. Anyone—doesn’t matter who it is, she’ll be able to bypass all the “getting to know you” formalities and slip straight into decadent “we’ve been friends for years” mode. I really admire that trait in people as I’m so,
so
lacking in it. I’m painfully awkward for at least the first six months of knowing someone. Maybe this woman will be so friendly, it’ll completely disguise my social failings and we can do things like have coffee dates where we bond over the banal-yet-wacky adventures we have with our children! Maybe this woman can be my first mommy friend.

I don’t have mommy friends. Okay, I don’t have
any
friends. No “snort your wine back up through your nostrils ’cause you’re screaming with laughter” friends, anyway. I’ve been doing this circling-the-globe thing since Mom put her foot down, made Dad get a job with an insurance firm in London, and moved the family from Indianapolis to suburban England. I was eleven years old. Quite the culture shock for a midwestern tween, I can tell you. Female friendships have been one of the many casualties. I always thought the friendships would bloom once I had kids and got settled in one town, but so far that’s not been the case. Partly because when the other women are standing at the school gates bitching about Common Core math, I’m likely to be inching along some perilously narrow mountain pass, high on quinine and fighting off the latest round of dengue fever. Yeah, my gig’s not all
Dora the Explorer
meets
Romancing the Stone
, by the way. Life at the equator is
brutal
.

“Which one is yours?” asks Snub Nose, still smiling. I gesture toward Violet, who’s running past in the middle of a pack of girls. The woman doesn’t pause long enough for me to politely return the question, which is probably for the best as I’m sure I’d forget to ask it. “Did you see that cake?” She laughs. I give a half nod. Yes, I saw it. I made it. “It’s hilarious! I’m sure the father cobbled it together himself, so sweet that he’s trying.”

“Right.” What can I say? I insisted on making Billy’s cake this year. I think I was hoping that the act of baking a birthday cake would inch me closer toward bona fide. Three rectangular blocks of Lego. Easy. But it turns out that trying to transform three rectangles of sponge into replica Lego is not that easy at all and it just ended up a mess. Like some Ninjago battle had been fought amongst ancient Lego ruins. What Ms. Judge The Cake doesn’t know, of course, is that if I’d just let Peter make it, it would have been perfect.

“Of course, the mother’s off again on another business trip, if you can believe it. Right on the morning of her kid’s birthday party! How could she? Have you actually ever met her?” Again, no pause here for me to insert that I
am
her. And in case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t especially plan to be flying out of the country and missing my son’s fifth-birthday party today. It just worked out that way. Like large sections of my life, it was beyond my control. “Maybe she’s not real. Maybe the dad’s actually on his own, and she’s just someone he’s made up to keep those Cheerful Cheetah class single mommies at bay. There’s at least two in there quite clearly after him.”

“Oh, surely not!” I say. I’m shocked and instantly worried. I had no idea Peter was being hit on by a flock of women at preschool.

“Well, who can blame them? He
is
gorgeous. Can you imagine jumping in the sack with that every night? Yum! If my husband looked like that, I wouldn’t be packing my bags and heading off to Indonesia every chance I got.”

Okay, this has gone far enough.

“I’m sure she doesn’t really want to leave her family behind.”

“Nah. I know the sort. People live their lives exactly how they want to live them. Anyone who says anything different is just making excuses.”

Up on the deck I can see Peter has finally got Billy to stand still in front of the cake and has lit all the candles. There’s a pretty, youngish woman standing very close to Peter holding the cake knife and plates. She looks very . . . inserted. Just as soon as everyone’s finished singing, she grabs Billy and kisses him on the top of his head. I have not come home a minute too soon. I muscle forward and manage to get a picture of Billy blowing out the candles. He sees me.

“Oh, hi, Mom,” he says, as unfazed as if I just came back from the bathroom.

“Um, hi.”

Not exactly the ecstatic reunion I was hoping for. The other parents around the birthday ring are looking at me in shocked silence. I get the feeling my party absence has been a firm topic of conversation and now everyone is confused. And worried that I’ve overheard them.

“Oh, you’re Billy’s mother,” says Pretty-and-Young.
Yes, I am, lady, so get your hands off.
“We thought you couldn’t make it today.”

“Yet here I am.” That came out a sneak more hostile than I meant it to. I catch Snub Nose’s eye and half mouth, “Sorry,” though really, if you feel like applying logic to the situation, she’s the one who should be apologizing to me. Peter comes back out the door holding a stack of napkins.

“Babe!” he says, running across the deck and pulling me into a hug.
That’s
more like it! “What happened, did you miss your flight?”

“Something like that,” I say. I instantly see worry in his eyes. He knows. “Let’s get this done first,” I whisper.

From behind me comes a high screeching sound like someone just stepped on a puppy, and before I can turn around Violet has shimmied up my body and attached herself to my back, making small whimpering noises. I try to loosen her little hands from around my throat and she digs in even harder. She’s crying now. “Mommy, Mommy. You’re not dead! I knew you weren’t dead!”
Dead?

In front of our still-assembled audience Peter has to pull Violet off my back and reattach her to my front so I’m not strangled by her choke hold. She nestles in just like she did when she was a baby. I’ve got to admit, it’s a little delicious. Within the sea of faces, I see
one
that I recognize.

“Amber! How are you?” Heavily pregnant for starters. Last time I saw her she was nursing a newborn. I suddenly realize that I haven’t seen Amber in quite a while.

“Oh, hi, Amy. Yeah, we’re good.” I open my mouth to ask her how old the newborn is now and when the next one is due, but she gets there first. “We’ve actually got to head out now, but it was so good to see you.” Something flat in her eyes tells me she actually doesn’t think it was that great to see me. I manage to shove a party bag her way before she escapes, and like some kind of suburban Pavlovian bell has been sounded, once the first guest gets going, they all follow after. I run out of party bags two kids from the end and dole out two wooden spoons instead. Their moms give me the stink eye. I know what’s going on in their heads: Really, I drop forty bucks at that crafty toy store in Old Town and you serve me a battered Lego cake and then give my kid a wooden spoon? Unacceptable.

Within ten minutes the house is cleared. Good riddance. This is why I don’t do social. Billy descends upon his gifts. So many, opened in such a blur. I’m barely paying attention and I’ve no idea which is from whom. Looks like we’ll be skipping the thank-you cards this year. But have we ever done them any year? Don’t know, because with a creeping fear I’m starting to realize that I don’t know much about how this day-to-day parenting thing works. At all.