Page 4 of Common Grounds

I shrug. “Your seven dollars is a tiny bandage on a very large bullet hole, friend.” I glance down at his hands. “Besides, we don’t have enough cash in the register to break a hundred, anyway.”

I pass the still-full pastry case as I come around the counter. Mike’s scowl deepens as he puts his money back in his wallet, but I catch him throwing a twenty in the tip jar when he thinks I’m not looking.

I slump into one of the smaller tables near the huge windows that line the front of the shop. This view is one of my favorites, the Baker’s Grove skyline visible just above the shops that line the other side of the street. The buildings are shiny and tall, but several older shops like mine are still interspersed at regular intervals. Passersby come and go on the sidewalk outside the window, and the hustle and bustle is palpable. I really wish some of that energy would make its way inside here.

I’d miss this view if the shop goes under.

I love this place. When my grandfather came to America from Croatia after World War II, he found a community of Croatian immigrants, realized they needed a coffee shop, and opened it. Croatian coffee culture is a major thing according to his stories, and that didn’t change when they immigrated to America. People from the community would come and sit for hours, sipping espresso and chatting. Going out for coffee was an event, and the shop did well for a long time.

Eventually, with the rise of flavored lattes and plastic to-go cups, my grandfather decided to step back—though never did so completely—and my dad stepped up. He made changes to the menu which brought in some new clientele. But when my grandfather and father passed away within a few years of each other, the shop became mine.

At first, it was fine, but ever since the big box coffee shop opened down the street, business has trickled out. A few customers that were my grandfather’s age remained, and they’d still come in and sip their espresso for hours. But new high-rises had started popping up in my childhood, and our bread-and-butter had been the people who worked in them. Much to the chagrin of my grandfather’s friends, these newcomers would stop in for their giant, to-go coffees, but they bought enough that we continued to turn a profit. Once that store opened down the street, though, we couldn’t compete with their speed. Or their prices.

For a while, our loyal regulars made sure to throw in an extra muffin or two to help, and we made do. But they’re aging and have started to venture out less. Some, like my mom, have moved to milder climates than northern Indiana, and some have sadly passed away. We greet fewer and fewer customers each day now, and not only are we making less money, we’re also losing it on the expired food and coffee we have to donate at the end of each week.

I sigh deeply as I tear my gaze from the window to look at Mike.

“I take it you’re having a great day.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm. He sits across from me with an annoying smirk on his face. His back is straight and his forearms are pressed against the table. He’s always so proper, wearing freshly starched, button-down shirts and perfectly pressed slacks every single workday. There’s never a smudge or a pit stain in sight, even in this sweltering summer heat. He almost looks out of place against the earthy tones in this cozy shop.

I know without looking that my green shirt is rumpled and there has been a coffee blot on my tan chinos since ten o’clock this morning.

“Yeah, awesome. We’ve had a line out the door since morning rush. This is the first time I’ve been able to sit down all day.”

James brings Mike’s drink over to the table and sets it down next to him. “That’s not true, Boss. Mike is only our third customer today.”

I don’t bother expending the energy it would take to glare at him. Mike snorts, then sips his latte and coughs.

“Not oat milk?” I ask.

“Probably soy,” Mike answers.

“Dammit. I’m sorry, Mike. I can make it again? I swear I’ll get it right this time.” James pleads.

Mike pushes the cup an inch or two toward the center of the table and leans back in his seat. He folds his arms and smiles, his movements smooth and languid like they always are. “It’s no problem. I love soy milk.”

James slumps a little and lets out a quiet breath as he shuffles back behind the counter.

I cock an eyebrow at Mike. “You hate soy milk.”

“I also don’t need a latte at five-thirty in the evening. We both know I’m not coming in here every night for a caffeine fix.”

I shoot him a bland look, then glance out the window to the sidewalk. It’s a hot day. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the sun is golden where it hits the sidewalk between the taller buildings. A beam of light illuminates the pink flowers and bright green leaves in the planter outside the window, and I wonder briefly if I remembered to water them this morning.

“I’m not closing the shop.” My voice is barely audible over the acoustic coffeehouse playlist coming from the speakers.

“That’s the spirit,” Mike says sardonically.

I turn my attention back to him. “I’m serious. I’m not doing it. Something has to work out. This place is too important to fail.”

“You’re not a bank, dude. There isn’t some bailout coming, and you can’t keep sinking money into this place,” he insists.

“I know, I’m not an idiot. I just think…” I trail off and look out the window again. People are starting to walk past in earnest, probably on their way home to families or out to meet friends for dinner and drinks.

Baker’s Grove is about an hour and half outside of Indianapolis. It’s the perfect cross between suburb and city, with some new buildings mixed with older shops in the heart of the downtown area. The juxtaposition of the old and new is what made my grandfather decide it was the perfect place to open this shop, naming it Baker’s Blend Coffee Shop as a nod to the town that had given so much to him.

It’s a nice place to live and work—there’s a decidedly urban feel I still struggle to explain to people who aren’t from here. The best way I’ve ever heard it described is the biggest small town, which encompasses both the chatter and warm familiarity of the downtown area and the sharper steel of the more modern buildings surrounding it. Small enough that you don’t have to drive for forty-five minutes to get to the other side of the town, but big enough to enjoy some anonymity if you want it.

I, however, have been enjoying too much anonymity as of late. I haven’t had a social life to speak of in a long time. The stress of the shop has been almost too much to bear. If I’m not here, I’m in my tiny studio apartment across town, lying awake most nights thinking of ways to save this place.

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