Gift # 18 TO:daisybelle FROM:fansee TITLE: Chez Coffee GIFT REQUEST: Fluff, hurt/comfort, angst 3rd Person POV, I like seeing B/J through other eyes. NOTE: ~3,800 words...whatever was I thinking? No animals were harmed in the writing of this fic.
As the owner of an independent coffee shop, I’m up at the ass-crack of dawn five days a week. I’m at Chez Coffee around 5:30 a.m. to make sure we’re ready to open at 6:30, and I’m there for the morning rush that starts a little before 7:00 a.m. If you own an independent coffee shop, the hours between 6:30 and 9:30 make your day. Or not.
I have a good crew, generally reliable, but even the most reliable of them get sick, break up with significant others, or drink too much the night before, all of which can interfere with their timely arrival for work. I’m there to iron out any bumps in the morning routine.
Along with reliable crew, I have reliable customers, through my front door at the same time every morning and mostly ordering the same coffee with or without the same pastry or bagel. I encourage my staff to get to know our regulars: learn their names, know what they usually order, get them in and out efficiently, not put a hitch in their day first thing in the morning. So, for instance, if my barista sees, say, Justin in line, she knows he’s a skinny latte who sometimes also wants a plain cake doughnut too.
You also get to know who’s an early bird and is ready to take on the world before he gives us his order. Then there are the zombie-customers, guys and girls for whom every morning is a painful experience. Mostly, however customers are middle-of-the-roadsters: functional but not yet at full speed. Again, Justin is a good example of an average customer. So why do I keep using him as an example? Because he’s fucking gorgeous, that’s why. And a nice, ordinary guy with it, which isn’t the usual case.
Usually he comes in and his interaction with the barista - Ashley, for instance - will go something like this: Ashley: Hey, Justin. Justin: Hi. I’ll just have my regular latte this morning. Ashley: No doughnut? Justin: Not today, thanks. Ashley: You have a good day. Justin: You, too, Ashley. And he gives her a smile. He has a great smile.
Very, very ordinary conversation, right? So it’s Black Friday, and Justin comes in at his regular time which is unusual to begin with on a day when I know the School of Visual Arts is closed. The other unusual thing is that he looks like his best friend just died. I mean, he is obviously way down in the dumps.
Knowing that the Friday after Thanksgiving is going to be a light day, I haven’t staffed up so I’m working the register. I say, “The usual?” and he says, “Yeah,” with no smile.
There’s nobody in line behind him, so I say, “Something wrong? You aren’t your usual self.”
Justin starts to say, “No. Nothing’s wrong,” and then the expression on my face tells him I’m not believing him. He says, “Yeah, it’s my fucking boyfriend or partner or whatever the hell he is. He said he’d be here for Thanksgiving, but then at the last minute he couldn’t make it.”
“Something came up?”
“I guess so. I mean, he said there was a crisis at work and he had to go into the office yesterday, but….”
“Working on Thanksgiving Day? That’s one inconsiderate employer.”
Justin sighed. “He’s the employer. He owns the ad agency.”
Well, that put a different slant on the situation. As a business owner, you do what you gotta do. A water pipe burst in one of the apartments over my shop one Christmas Eve, and I spent Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day getting the place cleaned up so I could open on the 26th. That was popular at home, believe me.
Another customer was in line now, so I jerked my head to one side, Jason stepped up to the register, and Justin and I moved to one side. “That’s tough,” I said. “But what about the rest of the weekend? Does he have to work tomorrow? Sunday?”
Justin winced. “It’s hard enough to get him to fly in from Pittsburgh. Now that Brian’s already bailed on me, I don’t see him making the effort.” He sounded defeated. Maybe the boyfriend-partner-whatever was trying to dump this good-looking kid. Didn’t seem likely, but stranger things have happened.
I said, “How about you fly out to Pittsburgh instead? Would that work?”
“Yeah, it might. It has before. This time I really wanted Brian to come here, meet my friends, and see what I’m working on….” His voice trailed off in discouragement.
I looked at Justin. This kid had been blessed by the gods with good looks, artistic talent (or he wouldn’t be ready to start his last semester at SVA), a pleasant personality, and a smile that could light up the whole Lower East Side, and he’s chasing after some jerk in Pittsburgh who apparently doesn’t appreciate him.
“Listen,” I said, “I was wrong. Don’t go running to Pittsburgh. Go out with those friends, have a good time, enjoy yourself. Let the weekend be Brian’s loss and your gain.”
“I know. That’s what my friends are always telling me.” He tried to smile.
“Listen to them.”
“I’ll try. I just can’t make another fucking flying trip home because I’ve been stood up.”
I patted his arm encouragingly. “You can do it.”
He saluted, grabbed his latte and headed out in the direction of the subway.
After that, I kept an eye out for him. We didn’t become buddies or anything, but if I asked him how his weekend went and he said, “Okay. Bunch of us went out after work Saturday night for a couple of drinks,” I knew that meant, ‘No Brian, but I didn’t go home and mope.’
Justin had to work the weekend before Christmas and Christmas Eve…he works parties for a caterer, usually as a bartender, occasionally as a waiter…but he stopped by on his way to work to tell me he was going home for the holiday. “I’ve got an early morning flight to Pittsburgh Christmas morning, and I won’t be back until the 31st. I’m working New Year’s Eve.”
“Tips should be good.”
“Yeah. I’m working the bar again.”
It was none of my business, but I had to ask. “Seeing Brian?”
“Yeah…and the rest of my friends.” He hesitated. “Not sure whether or not l’ll go to his club this time. I haven’t been going recently…Brian hurts me too fucking much.”
Whoa! “Brian gets rough with you?”
Justin gave me a low wattage smile. “Nah. It’s just that he has a private office, and almost surely I’ll see him go in with a guy…well, I know what they’re doing with the door closed. I’ve been the guy.”
Oh. “Well, listen, have a great Christmas, enjoy the break, and I’ll see you next year.”
This time his grin was genuine, we bro-hugged, and he was out the door with a wave.
I next saw Justin on January 2nd, about 10:00 a.m. He said that after working the New Year’s Eve party until 3:00 a.m., his boss had asked him to work a brunch on New Year’s Day. That involved being at the site by 10:00 to set up, then working until almost 4:00 p.m. “As a guy who likes to sleep in, I wanted to say No. As a starving artist, I had to say Yes,” he said. “Not many parties in January, but after working both New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, I’ll be okay.”
“How was Pittsburgh?”
“Pittsburgh was fine. My mom was happy to have both me and my sister under her roof for a week, I ate too much, got some nice presents, saw most of my friends: I had a nice time.”
“Did you see Brian?” I had to ask.
“Yeah….sort of.” The expression on his face changed. “I wanted to sit down with him and just talk. No sex,” he said, almost as though he was talking to himself, “so maybe the diner or even Woody’s. But that damn Brian kept putting me off. One fucking excuse after another. Finally, on Saturday night, the 29th….” He looked at me to make sure I understood the significance of the date.
I nodded. “The night before you had to leave.”
“Right. So, friends of ours, Michael and Ben, had everybody over that night, and Brian was there. I was sure he would be; he and Michael have been friends since high school. Brian was looking so fucking good, too, but I couldn’t seem to get him alone to talk. Then Brian and Mike had to go out in the backyard and share a joint mid-way through the evening. Their fucking stupid tradition. That took care of any sensible conversation.”
I winced inwardly at the bruised look on Justin’s face. “That must have hurt,” I said.
“Yeah. The only other chance I might have had to get Brian alone was Friday night. A couple of my friends from PIFA were going to Babylon, but I blew them off.”
“Babylon?”
“Brian’s club. Remember, I told you he owns a club.”
No, I didn’t realize he owned the damn club. “Oh, right,” I said. “And didn’t you also say that Brian sometimes….” I let my voice trail off. I’m comfortable with guys and their romances, and the sight of guys kissing no longer has me staring, but you know, I don’t usually talk about their sex lives with other guys, straight or gay.
Justin finished my sentence. “He lets me see that he fucks whoever he wants whether I’m around or not. That’s exactly why I didn’t go.”
He sounded a little choked up. I hoped he wouldn’t cry. No way I was going to hug him, or tell him how sorry I was and maybe precipitate a flood.
“Hey, you’re in a big city now, full of guys who’d show you a lot more appreciation than Brian does. How about I keep an eye peeled for you?”
“I know you’re right, Sal, and thank you. You’ve always there for me.”
“I am,” I said and changed the topic. We talked for another couple of minutes about the weather and other neutral topics, so that by the time he left I was pretty sure he wouldn’t cry on the train.
I’m not the kind of person people tell their problems to…not usually real sympathetic…but somehow Justin got to me. He wasn’t complaining - he probably wouldn’t have mentioned Brian if I hadn’t asked - he tried to keep a stiff upper lip, and this asshole in Pittsburgh was treating him like shit. That bothered me, a lot.
I figured I didn’t have to meet this Brian-jerk to know him. Probably several years older than Justin since he had his own ad agency, so...a poor, little rich boy. Smart, went to one of the Ivys (probably a legacy like George W. Bush), got his start through connections he made at Harvard or Yale, then Daddy set him up with his own shop. Then I find out he owns a gay club? That seals the deal! Definitely bought with Daddy’s money. What a prick! The more I figured out about Brian the Jerk, the less I liked him, the more I wanted Justin to get over him and move on.
If I could just get him to NYC, preferably all the way to Chez Coffee, I felt pretty confident that I could send Brian packing for good. If everything went as planned, I would show him up to Justin in such a bad light that Justin would do the breaking up and move on with his life. However, if I wanted to make something happen…and oh, did I want to!...some serious thought and planning was needed.
First of all, I had to find someone to date Justin. I’d already said I would, so presenting candidates to Justin wouldn’t arouse his suspicions. My neighborhood isn’t known for being particularly gay, but scattered in among us straights were a number of gay families, and some of them were regular customers. I’d ask around.
Once I had someone lined up for Justin, then I had to somehow inform Brian that his boy had a serious suitor, and I had to do it in a way that made Brian jealous. Well, jealous or alarmed. Alarmed would be easier. A letter, I thought. I’ll come up with a doozy of a letter that will have Brian-the-Jerk here on the next plane.
Of course, I couldn’t address my letter to Brian-the-Jerk, Pittsburgh, PA, although if I addressed it to Brian, Babylon Nightclub, Pittsburgh, PA, he might get it. The internet is a wonderful thing, however. I looked up Babylon, got the address, and saw that it was ‘owned and managed by Kinnetik, Inc.’; I clicked on a link, and there I was at Kinnetik, Brian Kinney, President and General Partner.
Kinney, huh? That fleshed out my picture of Justin’s boyfriend-partner-whatever: curly, carroty hair, pale skin with lots of freckles, not much taller than Justin and a little stocky, and blessed the gift of gab. I know all about the Irish and their gift of gab: wasn’t my Mary Claire herself born in County Wexford, and doesn’t she have a way with words that can seduce you or drive you to drink, either one.
It took me more than two weeks of prospecting before I found someone to introduce to Justin. Marcus Ritter was the long-time BFF of one of my customers, Bobby Hill. Bobby and his partner were just waiting for New York state to legalize same sex marriage; in the meantime, they were already planning on starting a family. Bobby’s friend, Marcus, was also getting tired of the club scene and thinking of settling down. I asked Bobby to come in for his coffee a half hour early on a weekday morning, and when I pointed Justin out to him…all fair skin and blond hair and blue eyes…Bobby was sure Marcus would be happy to be introduced.
I gave Marcus and Justin each other’s phone numbers, and Bobby told me they met for brunch the following Sunday. Now I could tell Brian in all honesty that Justin was dating someone else - I didn’t have say how often - but in fact Justin continued to see Marcus once or twice a week. (If Justin didn’t tell me about their dates, Bobby did.) So I sat down at my computer and composed a letter.
It started out with the blah-blah-blah about how I knew Justin and how I tracked Brian down, then I said, “I know this is none of my business, but I’m concerned about the guy Justin is dating, and I don’t know anyone else I can contact. I don’t have any hard evidence that the guy is into the rough stuff, but the morning after a date, Justin comes into Chez Coffee looking bruised and pale. I’ve talked to him and asked what was going on, but he denies that there’s anything funny happening. Maybe I’m just being an alarmist, but if you could see him and get the real story, I’d appreciate it.”
I typed it up, addressed an envelope, and put it in the mail. I’d included the Chez Coffee address, my e-mail address, and my cell number in the heading, so Brian would know where to find me and get the scoop on Justin. I worked up a several different scenarios for our meeting, the one where I'd tell Brian the name of the boyfriend who abused Justin: Brian A. Kinney. If Brian was any kind of a mench, that would be enough to get him to end a toxic relationship. If he wasn't, I'd use his refusal to open Justin's eyes.
I mailed the letter on a Monday morning, after Justin and Marcus’ fourth date, by my count, and figured Brian would get it Tuesday if everything went well, probably on Wednesday, and for sure by Thursday. No e-mail, no phone call on Tuesday. Not unexpected although I jumped every time my cell went off. Tuesday evening, after dinner, I told Mary Claire I had to go downstairs and help the evening shift out, something I rarely do, but…nothing. Same routine on Wednesday; same lack of response.
We have a surprisingly strong after-dinner trade. Many of the apartments in the neighborhood are postage-stamp sized, so the kids get together with their friends here for coffee and a snack rather than at home. Consequently, I stay open later than most coffee shops: 9:30 p.m., as long as we still have customers.
On Wednesday, at 8:30 the place was looking fairly typical: a group of five gathered around a too small table, a couple with their heads together at another table, a woman by herself, intent on her laptop, and three young people in line. Then the door jingled and a man let himself in. I looked up quickly and then stared. He was tall and lean, wearing tight jeans and a leather jacket. He had a shock of chestnut hair and brown eyes set in a sculptured face. I’m not into guys, but I know gorgeous when I see it, no matter which sex.
The door shut behind him, and he looked around as if he were meeting someone. I looked around, too, trying to match him up with one of the customers and decided it must be the woman at the laptop. Not only was she the only one alone, but her age looked right: she was probably in her late twenties, early thirties. Instead his gaze settled on me. He walked toward the register and said, “Salvatore di Battapaglia?” He almost pronounced the last name right, too.
I had a sinking feeling. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“I’m Brian Kinney,” he said.
“Pleased to meet you. Shall we take a seat at that table?” I pointed with my head.
He nodded agreement. I said, “Can I get you something first? On the house?”
“No. I’m okay.”
Too fucking bad. I really needed something to do while I revised my idea of Brian Kinney. This was no red-headed rich kid. This was a man who looked like he’d earned everything he owned, by himself, through his own efforts. He also looked like he might be tough to bullshit.
I followed him to the table, thinking furiously. I might still end up confronting him with his treatment of Justin, but...having met him...I thought I'd better get his side of the story. I said, “I’m glad you came. I’m concerned about Justin.” Well, that was true enough.
“I know. Thanks for your letter. I went straight from the airport to Justin’s apartment, but he wasn’t there. Neither of the neighbors I talked to knew where he was, so I came here. Thought you’d know.”
I didn’t. I shook my head. “Sorry.”
“What the fuck’s going on with Justin and this guy?”
“I’m not sure, but something is bothering Justin. Might be this guy, might not but when I see him after a date, Justin always acts so….” I let my voice trail off. “Not like himself, I guess.”
“Usually I’d be happy to hear that he’s dating, seeing someone, definitely sowing some wild oats, but not if he’s being abused. I thought he was doing well here. I know he’s finishing up at school, working, has his own place. He seemed to be making a life for himself here. I just want him to stay the fuck out of Pittsburgh. I don’t want him to bury his talent in the backwoods of Pennsylvania.”
This was so far from any dialogue I had run through mentally that I was having a hard time processing it. “Really?” I said.
“Yeah. I’ve done everything I can to keep him here, to cut the ties that bind, but the last time I saw him, at Christmas, he looked like he wanted to rerun a conversation we’ve probably had a dozen times. I had a hell of a time avoiding him for almost a week.”
“What conversation?”
Brian looked at me as though he’d forgotten who he was talking to. “The one about not tying himself down to a guy like me, almost ten years older than he is, that a clean break hurts less than a long-drawn out one. Rip the bandage off in one quick yank instead of peeling it off bit by bit.”
I’ve heard people say their head was spinning, and it never made sense to me. I finally understood the sensation.
“So just what do you suspect is going on with this guy Justin is seeing…what’s his name?”
I was searching for an answer when the door jingled again. Unthinkingly, I turned to look and there was Justin, followed by a guy I presumed was Marcus. He was a little taller than Justin, probably a little older, and a lot less pretty.
Brian stood up, Justin saw him, and he flung himself across the room and into Brian’s arms. Brian’s arms snapped around him, hard, and he bent to kiss Justin. I looked away, feeling like an intruder, and saw the expression on Marcus’ face. He looked shell-shocked. When he finally came back to life, he turned around, opened the door, and left. There could be no doubt that any relationship he had with Justin was over. Collateral damage.
I also got up and went back behind the counter. It was after 9:00; time to get ready to close.
Fifteen minutes later, Brian and Justin left, too. Justin gave me a wave and said, “See ya.” Brian didn't say anything; I don’t think I existed for Brian.
I waved back at Justin and said, “Later.”
‘Later’ turned out to be Friday morning. Justin didn’t show up at all on Thursday; my guess is that he and Brian spent the day in bed. On Friday he was in line at 7:30 a.m., his usual time. He got his latte (no doughnut), then pulled me aside.
“Thank you so much for what you did. Brian told me all about the letter.”
I shook my head. “I probably shouldn’t have.”
“Yeah, poor Marcus. He’s really a nice guy, too.”
“We won’t introduce him to Brian, okay?”
Justin got serious. “I thought Brian was breaking up with me because he didn’t care for me anymore, didn’t love me, didn’t want to be with me.”
“I saw his face when you came through that door,” I said. “Don’t worry about him not loving you. That’s not the problem.”
“I know that now. He’s such an asshole.”
I smiled. “How long is he staying?”
“He left for La Guardia about 5:00 a.m. this morning, but he said he’d overnight a round trip ticket to Pittsburgh to me. We have a lot to talk about.”
“I’m sure.”
“Thanks again. And, by the way, he’s not ten years older than me…it’s more like thirteen.”
“Oh. And you’re welcome. Say Hi to the asshole when you get to Pittsburgh.”