Lake-Effect Coffee, Chapter 2
The trio searches for a van and faces a rival.
In case you missed it, here is the previous chapter:
Six weeks after firing off a text message to Matthew about opening a coffee shop, our idea is slowly coming to life. The shop has morphed into a van and Robin created a Slack for the three of us. I’m grateful I don’t have to stand by a window to send a text anymore, but my body hasn’t quite learned the difference between the sound of a work Slack and a coffee van Slack. Sometimes my freeze response is triggered by a link to a flat white recipe.
“GUYS.”
“O”
“M”
“G”
Four successive messages chime in my ear and I briefly forget about the fluorescents and how my employer controls my health insurance and future prosperity.
Robin’s next message is a link to a community post on Nextdoor, which I click open.
“Aluminum-sided van with soul.” Robin is right, have we hit the jackpot?! My heart is racing now, in a good way this time.
The description continues: “My husband and I enjoyed this van for years and I want to see it end up with someone special. $15k OBO. Financing available.”
Another Slack chime from Robin: “I already reached out. She lives 20 minutes outside of town and says we are welcome to come by this evening before dark.”
“I get off work at 4:23, where should we meet?” It’s common knowledge at my office 4:23 rounds up to half past and is when the real exodus for the elevators begins.
Matthew chimes in next: “My productivity for today is nonexistent. We’ll swing by your place a few minutes before 5.”
With a few hours of late-spring evening light left, Matthew pulls the three of us onto the gravel drive. At the end of the lane is a one-story brick house with three satellite dishes atop a chimney. My eyes are tracing the covered front porch when I see an aluminum tail protruding from behind the house. Matthew brings the vehicle to a stop and we make our way across the stone-paved walk to the front door.
I stoop to peer into the dimly-lit window to the right of the door when I find myself leaping a few inches in surprise. A woman with thick grey hair pulled half-up and wearing a loose-fitting fishing vest bounds out the front screen door. “Come in, come in! I’m Violet! Did you have any trouble finding the place? You must be Robin!”
Robin extends a hand to greet Violet, while Matthew and I each give a half wave.
Matthew leads with the empathic script we had discussed in the car. “We were so sorry to hear about your husband. Was his passing sudden?”
“Passing?! He’s not dead! He just left when I decided to sell the van.”
I glance at Robin and Matthew. I miss details like this all the time, but it’s not often that all three of us misread a situation to this extent.
Robin forms a sentence first. “Your post…we thought you were selling the van because your husband passed away. Did you use it with him for many years?”
“That’s so funny! He loved the van for sure. We drove it around the whole state and put two cots in the back. The serving window was great for ventilation, I’ll show you, c’mon out here.” With our shoes still on, Violet ushers us through the house and out the back door. “I told him I wanted to spend less time on the road and was going to list the van on Nextdoor. He didn’t know Nextdoor worked for folk like us who don’t have anyone next door. It turned ugly. ‘It’s not yours to sell’ blah blah blah. But I rummaged up the title and reminded him how he got stuck behind that passing freight train the day we were s’posed to meet at the county clerk. ‘Act of god.’ my ass, he knew it was grain season! In the end, there was one name on the title and it wasn’t his. Forty-eight hours later his bags were packed. The van and I both deserved better.”
“Two cots!” Matthew seems exonerated with this explanation, having been pontificating on potential sleeping arrangements a few minutes before.
“Was it the train on U.S. 12?” I place the story on my mental map before showing concern for the speaker.
“Are you okay?” Robin says the right thing.
“Me? Never better! Walking two miles to the grocery just reminds me of my independence. It’s uphill both ways, ya know, especially this time of year. And I never realized how much time and energy I spent managing his moods. I can feel my own ideas slowly creeping back in…and they don’t involve this van. Whatch’all need a van for anyway? Are you one of those sisterwives things? No judgement—I get Dish out here, ya know.”
Robin’s gaze lingers on Violet, her lips parting slightly as if to speak, but she stops herself. Something in Violet’s words seems to settle heavily within her—a flicker of recognition I miss entirely while mentally tripping over myself to answer. “We’re opening a coffee van! Each of us hates our office job and this seems like a way to bring some positive energy into the world.”
Violet stops and turns around. “A coffee van. I’ll be. And you three were the first ones to reach out. What a blessing. I didn’t put this in the post but I couldn’t sell to someone who was going to cook meat inside my baby.”
“Oh, are you vegetarian?” Matthew continues our conversation.
“Me? Vegetarian? Absolutely not! I hate it when beef grease splashes on the walls. She deserves better. Look at these walls!”
Violet has unlocked the side panel and let it flap down, where it bounces a few times before settling perpendicular to the splotchy tufts of green grass below. Matthew follows her through the van’s rear door and I catch a glimpse of his quirky grin and bushy top through the side panel. Put a cup of hot coffee in his hand and I can envision him serving up our future.
Robin joins Matthew inside and says to herself, “Spotless. It’s perfect.”
“Do you have any other offers or visits planned?” Matthew moves the plot forward.
Violet scoffs, “I didn’t even check! You three have soul. That said, I’ll want to do a full credit check and we’ll need a notary.” She takes a packet from the drawer and flops it onto the counter as if this is her office on wheels. “I already printed up the terms and I’m not wiggling because you won’t find better deets than these. $1k down, 2% APR, $300 a month, and I’ll hand you the title when the balance hits zero. Just don’t get in trouble with the law.”
Robin, Matthew, and I exchange a glance, none of us able to contain our eagerness. We brought a certified blank check with us, despite potential the financial ruin this could bring if misplaced. Over the previous weeks, we had been pooling our extra savings in Robin’s account, which now contained $1001. “Where do we sign?”
Thus, we leased the van six weeks into our dream. Why? Because we had no idea what we were doing. For the next 17 months, it sat in my driveway—a $300-a-month vision board. One night, I dreamed I found someone waiting outside the van to pick up their DoorDash order, and I had to shoo them away.
***
The second morning of operating our van, we parked near the campus and discovered students are either poor or asleep or both. The third morning we sold a few cups at a farmer’s market before learning our space was double-booked and we needed to leave. The fourth morning we decided to retreat to Work Park, the site of our maiden voyage.
The co-leads of the design commission when Work Park was established in the 60s could not agree on an aesthetic which would bring prestige to their mid-sized central-business district. The resulting park was a mashup of Paris’ Arc de Triomphe, Savannah’s central squares, and urban renewal’s destruction of everything. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, traffic around Work Park switched from counterclockwise to clockwise—a system devised after Finkman’s Auto complained to the Chamber of Commerce about their profits being eaten by worn-out steering columns. Apparently, the white-collar commuters couldn’t handle circumnavigating four sharp corners twice a day.
“It’ll be perfect for repeat customers. By the time they park they will have passed us three or four times.” Matthew’s understanding of customer psychology was second to none (among the three of us) and he gave no thought to the gridlock’s toll on the district’s quality of life.
“Speaking of three or four times, you just passed our spot again.” Robin points out the passenger-side window as we begin another lap. With my head down and buttcheeks clenched to avoid falling out of the jumpseat, I tally up our first week’s sales.
“I could really use some coffee. I don’t know how entrepreneurs do it.” Robin and I do not respond to Matthew’s latest claim. When his genuine thoughts end and his standup begins is not always clear.
After four more right turns, our spot approaches on the right. Like the starship Enterprise, we are in the center of the universe and Work Park rotates around us. Matthew readies his hands at 10 and 2, and spins the wheel hard over starboard—eyes closed, I would later learn. When the espresso dust settles, I am on my back and my smartphone displaying our 10 sales from the week is stuck to my face. The analog clock overlooking Work Park, salvaged from the St. Louis World’s Fair teardown, chimes 7 o’clock. Our workday begins.
The first hour is our strongest yet as an operating company—we sell one drip coffee and two lattes. Robin’s chalkboard has a playful pun (“Highly Es-Steamed Drinks!”) and I am on my phone fleshing out the details of our first loyalty program (“Buy 100 Coffees and We’ll Look You in the Eye (Because You are Ugly)”). Matthew flips three coins into the air to make change like a multitasking referee and makes the fourth appear behind a customer’s ear. I had expected us to reach our potential in this venture, but maybe not quite so rapidly or quickly or without delay.
A woman in a blue blazer approaches the van, holding a reusable thermos. She glances at the chalkboard menu and then up at us with a warm smile.
“Good morning! I’d love a drip coffee, black,” she says, handing her thermos to Robin, who looks relieved.
“Coming right up! Thanks for the cup too.” Robin says as she pumps the pressurized coffee pot, though I catch a glance in my direction. I may have said we didn’t need to restock until the weekend, leaving us with 5 paper cups at the start of the day’s shift. “Is Work Park your usual morning spot?”
The woman nods. “I work just around the corner at the radio station. This park is great though—just don’t get hit on your way in.”
“Amen!” Matthew leans on his elbows, bringing him nearly eye-level with the woman. “But you work at WXYZ? That’s awesome! What do you do there?”
“I produce the news for our afternoon-drive,” she says. “We’re actually coming back here in a few hours, one of the local businessmen is holding a press conference.”
I perk up. “A press conference? What about?”
The woman shrugs and receives her thermos back from Robin. “No one knows. But you know how it is—when the big names want a megaphone, you know some change is on the way.”
“Well, I hope they don’t change too fast,” Robin says with a polite smile. “We just got here.”
The woman chuckles. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. Everyone’s talking about your little van—I’ll be back soon.”
The woman walks off down the path, her jacket a pop of color between the leafless trees. I crank the van three times and flip the AM dial to WXYZ, “30 Megawatts of Main Street.”
Something in the air shifts. I catch a glint of sun in my eye, Robin stands up and sniffs, and Matthew’s jaw drops onto the serving panel. The wealthiest person we have ever seen is approaching our van via the curving network paths across Work Park. Seven twists, three blinding flashes from his watch, and twelve whiffs of leather loafers later, he’s here. We stand in a line in front of our serving panel. I uncross my arms when I remember we sell coffee.
“Es-Steamed Drinks. Uh…okay. I’ll take it all. What do we say…$5mil?”
I gulp loudly and the owl perched atop our van flutters away. The other two have yet to speak.
“As the owner slash operator of the two Dunkin’ Donuts franchises in town, I can tell you that my coffee will not sell if I have any competition, so I need you gone. How ‘bout we double it…$10mil?”
I recognize this as one of the hypothetical situations I was envisioning all those times I wrote down my personal values in the Notes app on my phone. But my freeze response has other ideas. My shoulders lock, my hands stay rooted in my pockets, and my mind races with visions of smiles, autonomy, and coffee. All I can do is watch while Robin steps forward and shows how effortlessly she handles the situation.
“We’re just getting to know our customers,” she says, her voice calm but firm. “How do you expect us to build a community if we don't continue to serve them?”
The man sneers. “Customers aren’t people. They’re numbers.”
Robin recognizes I’m on my soapbox and her husband is catatonic around celebrities. “Can we get you anything? Coffee?”
“You think I drink that wet dirt? You have until the end of the month. $15mil, take it or leave it.”
The man pulls a business card from the inside pocket of his charcoal suit and hands it to Matthew, who receives it amid a full-body cold shiver. As the scion walks back to the far corner of Work Park, Robin and I lean in to read the card over Matthew’s tense shoulders.
“Finkman!”
“Finkman!”
“Finkman!” I repeat, as if the name itself explains everything. The man who rerouted traffic now wants to blockage our dreams.
Matthew is the first to speak. “We have to take it, right? Imagine what we can do with $15 million! We could get a second aluminum-sided van!”
Robin is practical. “A second van? Who would staff it? And I’m pretty sure when he said he wants us gone, he wouldn’t be okay with two coffee vans.”
I am in shock. “I’d rather return to my 9-5 than be bought by that cold-blooded financier. Did you hear what he called our customers?”
The vote remains one for, two against. Matthew senses his position and, after a slow inhale, begins to filibuster.
“We would have the funds to buy that microphone we’ve been talking about. A mental health podcast would be the perfect complement to our es-steamed beverages. Imagine the stories we could share and the lives we could touch. And what says “carrying our own bootstraps” more than being acquired in our first week of operation? Coffee contains three molecules, but its nitrogen, hydrogen, oxygen, and carbon, create a potent amalgam which fuels the entire working class. And we’ll start with…hold on a second…are your phones working? I wanted to read the phone book but it isn’t loading.”
I have been tuned out since his line about bootstraps. We dreamed for more than 18 months about the autonomy and sense of community we could create with Lake-Effect Coffee and Matthew wants to throw it away because someone will buy him one of the microphones used by NPR.
I realize the only way to hold onto what we’ve built is to keep moving. Finkman’s numbers aren’t our people. Our people are here and I have 2 cups left to serve them. I step deeper into Work Park, committed to building something real.
“Good morning, ma’am! We’re brewing fresh coffee with a smile if you’re interested!”
If you enjoyed this piece, hitting the heart or leaving a comment will not only help others discover my writing but also quiet my inner critic—for at least 60 seconds.
Elsewhere
In addition to my writing here, I also mentor software engineers in a supportive and sometimes silly environment.
Improving memory efficiency in a working interpreter - From Scratch Code