By Mr. Archibald was the ugliest dog I had ever seen. The sort of ugly that compels people who meet him for the first time to exclaim, “that’s a face only a mother could love”. These same people then secretly breathe a sigh of relief that they’re not that mother.
Yet, I loved the little blighter. What Mr. Archibald lacked in charm, behaviour, manners, hygiene and common sense, he more than made up for in personality and thievery.
His personality got us more than a few freebies from the smitten, and his thievery got us everything else from the careless.
Yet, I have no idea what combination of breeds went into his Frankenstein’s monster grab-bag of DNA. A bit of this and a bit of that seemed to be the consensus when passers-by tried to figure it out. This was good, though, as everyone described him differently once the police were called.
However, we were in a bit of a slump. We needed a new challenge. Not super-villain level, but something practical and commercial-scale. An item that would take pride of place at home, but didn’t belong there.
“Woof-woof!”
Mr Archibald saw something that instantly grabbed his doggy attention. He quickly stood on hindquarters and pressed his forelegs against the glass window of a coffee shop. His excited slobber left a growing smear on the glass. Glad I wasn’t cleaning that up.
And that’s when the moonlight hit the world’s most beautiful coffee machine like a big ol’ pizza pie. Well, sparkling sunlight on a bright spring morning, but you get the reference.
“Woof.”
That’s love alright.
“Let’s head in and take a closer look.”
I held the door open for my doggie partner-in-crime, who trotted in like he owned the place.
Inside was your typical coffee crowd: self-important office-types, smelly beach bums, and power-walking, gym-junkie parents after dropping off little Boadicea and Lawrence at school. Arts degree students (obvious) sipped on their ridiculous coffees and tapped away on their iSmacks and eKnobs.
The air of superiority hung from them like rancid clothes drying in the sun.
They didn’t know it, but all these people were a couple redundancies away from working here.
Shock-horror: there was actual staff here, too. Pimply, nervous adolescents ill-prepared for the high-stakes world of retail coffee delivery. One, cleaning up after the human filth, sorry, customers, who can’t manage to drop an empty coffee cup into a hole the size of a…well…garbage bin. Another heading for the toilets, covered head to foot in PPE like they were about to dump toxic waste into the nearest river at 3am.
And baristas! Ugh! da Vinci wannabees of the coffee machine; Michelangelos who believe their overpriced coffee artwork will someday land them in an art gallery or on the cover of Bean and Beard Monthy.
And there she was: a coffee machine that could be considered a work of art. A La Marzocco KB90; independent boilers for steam and espresso, temperature optimisation, digital display and a computer system that could take three astronauts to the moon and back.
That coffee machine and all its bodacious bits would be mine.
“Woof!”
“Ours. Ours! Sorry, little dude.”
We now needed to test its coffee-making quality, to see if the action lived up to the advertising.
Mr. Archibald and I sidled up to the counter (it must have been a quiet decade as there wasn’t a queue). Behind the counter was a slightly older and marginally less-pimply version of the worker clones running around the shop. His name was…look at name badge…Horatio. Really?
Horatio was a manager, apparently. Everyone was a manager these days. I’m sure if we turned his name badge over, he would also be Director of Croissants.
Before I could order, Mr. No-One-Born-After-Napolean-Can-Possibly-Be-Named-Horatio interrupted me…or should that be pre-terrupted?
“You can’t bring your dog into the store, sir.”
“Look, Horatio, if that’s your real name, Mr. Archibald here is my registered assistance animal.”
“He isn’t wearing a leash that states he is an assistance animal.”
Ooh, we have a lawyer here.
“You’re very observant, Horatio. Truth is, I left it at home. You see, Mr Archibald helps me because I am quite forgetful. Painfully so. You see these pants I’m wearing? Mr. Archbald reminded me to put them on. The fact that my companion does not have his identification leash proves that I have a poor memory and, therefore, he needs to be here. I also get freaked out when people ask me lots of questions…Horatio…”
“Oh…um…okay. So, what can I get you? Can I ask you that?”
“That’s two questions in a row, Horatio, I’m starting to panic.”
I raised both hands and shook them a bit. Horatio seemed to start panicking himself. I might need to loan him Mr Archibald once I get my coffee.
“Look, you sell coffee, and whatever those things are you have in the glass display there…”
“Yogurt Parfait…”
“Bless you. I just want you to free your inner 16th century Egyptian and make me a bold, indulgent coffee that will transport me to the Nile on a moonlit evening. Also, what sort of after-hours security do you have here?”
I could actually see gears turning inside Horatio’s mind. Did an eye just twitch?
“What name shall I record for the order, sir?”
“Brian. Thanks…Horatio.”
My gaze returned to the voluptuous La Marzocco. Curves in all the right places, steamy and sultry…
“I wish someone looked at me the way you look at the coffee machine,” said Horatio.
I was jolted from…whatever was just happening. How was I looking at the coffee machine? “What?”
“What?”
Riiight, I think I will go stand over there.
*
Horatio called my name and placed a non-descript, disposable coffee cup on the counter. I wasn’t getting Egyptian vibes, but you can’t judge a book by its cover. As an aside, you really should. An effective book cover design, tantalising blurb and a recommendation from a well-known author, provides a strong first impression and helps readers determine if the genre and tone connect with their interests.
Dammit! Horatio spelled my name wrong. Brian is a perfectly acceptable name, spelled in a perfectly acceptable manner. It doesn’t need to be pumpkin-spiced up to Bryan. It doesn’t need a Christmas version, a Halloween version or a Diwali version. B-R-I-A-N is how it is and how it should always be.
Looks like we’re hitting this place next. I must remember to leave a baby-name dictionary behind when we’re finished.
Tried the coffee: it was awesome…
*
Nighttime. It was dark. All you can rely on in this world is Earth’s rotation and butt-ugly doggos.
The Earth did its rotation thing and even managed some clouds to cover the recalcitrant moon. Mr Archibald did his thing and broke into the store via a high window. He quickly unlatched a side door and let me in.
Mr Archibald and I strolled into the coffee shop like we owned the place. Well, we were about to ‘own’ the best piece of it.
I placed on a counter-top a ratty copy of the only Dictionary of Baby Names I could find. Inside, I had scrawled out Bryan in red pen and highlighted Brian in blue. I’m sure that will get the message across.
And there she was, sitting on the counter like a Queen surveying her pimply subjects.
I reached out and started to place a gentle hand on the beautiful device…
“Hold it right there you two.”
I knew that voice. I turned and faced the perfectly coiffured impossible.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Horatio was wearing teddy bear pyjamas, a Transformers dressing gown, fluffy blue Elsa slippers and was carrying an Iron Man mug containing something hot, possibly chocolate.
“Wait…you sleep here?”
“Yes, on a company-provided foldable cot. I am Evening Security Director every third Thursday and two Tuesdays a month. Your dog still isn’t wearing his assistance animal lead.”
Horatio flamboyantly flipped over the lapel of his dressing gown. The hidden name badge confirmed his other role in this slave-driven company. Yep, Evening Security Director.
He also needed to pick a theme. Too much mangled pop-culture gives me a headache.
“Look, you seem a little weedy, and I mean the actual vegetation that everyone wants to poison and rip out of the ground. I will rip you out and dump you in the green recycling bin if you make me. That coffee machine is coming home with us. I even have a little red wagon to put it in. Mr Archibald will pull it for us.”
“Please, Bryan… that machine got us through lockdown. It’s practically family. Let the team keep the one thing that listens to us and provides all our hopes and dreams.”
“I know you somehow just said my name incorrectly. Might I suggest spending time with actual family instead?”
“Okay. Honesty this time.” Horatio took a deep breath. “If you move it, it will self-destruct. We would rather die in a hail of fire and metal than lose this machine.”
“Really, Horatio, is that the best you can do? Ever heard of insurance? Someone borrows it permanently, you just fill in a few forms and you get a brand new one.”
“Okay. Full disclosure. All cards on the table. This coffee shop is all we have. That machine, no, our friend, keeps this place alive. Don’t you feel it? The hope, the love, the energy? It is the centre of all we have and all we hope to be in the future. There is no replacing that. No insurance refund can bring back the uniqueness of what sits before us. It’s a one-of-a-kind.”
“Um…I really wanted it in my kitchen at home because it looked nice…but I think what you said is better.” My shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Thank you. If you want to be near it so badly, why not work here with us?” Horatio spread his arms wide in an effort to encompass the magnificent entirety of the coffee shop…and failed. “This is your chance to make an important difference in the community. Lead by example; gift us your experience. Earn a little cash as well…strong emphasis on little.”
Brian looked from the La Marzocco to Mr Archibold, to the shimmering night evening, to Horatio, grimaced a little, and then back to the La Marzocco.
“Can I hug the machine each morning before open?”
“Yes, we all do. You’ll have to go after Carlotta, though, she hates people cutting in line.”
*
“Thank you, sir, please enjoy your half-strength, thermal-spring-warmed, lite-soy, three-quarter teaspoon sugar, caramel-kissed macchiato with a dusted chocolate portrait of Robert De Niro from Heat on top…when he was wearing sunglasses in the firefight at the end.”
The customer barely glanced at my masterpiece before grunting…something and leaving.
Don’t pity me.
I gently caressed the silvery magnificence of the La Marzocco KB90 coffee machine and knew that I had made the right choice. Going straight with a real job, even getting in touch with my inner barista, was all worth it. Being next to this piece of coffee-making art gave me tinkly tingles in all the right places.
“Brian, could you please go outside and give the front window a good clean?”
“Sure, Horatio, no problems.” What a swell guy.
I adjusted my nametag (I was now a proud Coffee Order Manager (trainee)), grabbed some cleaning wipes and headed outside.
Out front, I found Mr. Archibald happily centre of attention. We had given him a comfortable cushion, dispensers for snacks and water and a little stage where he could show off his amazing array of tricks.
A small crowd watched the show: a mix of seated customers and enthralled passers-by. We knew from recent experience that some of those pedestrians would enter the store to buy a coffee, along with some overpriced and over-labelled baked goods. Some of the seated customers would also order more coffee and more unnecessary sandwiches.
I kept one eye on the performance while giving the glass a good old-fashioned clean with toxic chemicals and wipes that would survive the heat-death of the universe. Still, nothing is more important than looking out at a world you are happily locked away from while serving legal stimulants and sugar-loaded snacks.
I gave Mr. Archibald a rough pat and headed inside, back to my post behind the counter.
Outside, Mr. Archibald placed his forepaws on the glass and slobbered all over it. I waved; he slobbered some more.
I contentedly ran my finger over the coffee machine’s steam dial. Tinkly tingles.
