Page 3 of Cabins Cows Critics
THE BEST LAID PLANS
Iscrubmyhandsover my face, my reflection in the window of the small cafe below my apartment mirroring back to me just how much the way I feel is projected in my appearance. My hair sticks out at all angles, and I try to push it back into some sort of style, but there are more than a few strands that refuse to stay down.
“Hayden, one black coffee and one triple shot pumpkin spice latte with an extra pump and cinnamon sugar topping,” the barista calls, and my face goes immediately warm as I rush to grab my order before she calls it again. Like seriously, a name isn’t enough anymore?
“Thanks,” I say with a curt nod.
“Have a merry Christmas, Harvey,” she replies, and I shouldn’t be surprised she’s forgotten my name already. In the three years I’ve lived in this building and coming here, she hasn’t caught on yet.
It’s a busy cafe, I get that, but I miss the way it used to be when people took the time to actually learn who you were because you were more than a customer to them, you were a person, you mattered. Or at least it felt that way. Unless I’m just remembering a time that never existed, at least for me. A time only shown in old television shows and movies. Yeah. It’s probably that.
Either way, though, I can’t remember the last time I actually felt that. Like I was actually seen. I guess my job kind of expects me to blend in. The second a business knows you’re a critic reviewing them, the true customer experience flies right out the window. I’m not reviewing this place, but if I were, it would be five stars for the coffee and location, and a three for service. She’s polite, sure, but doesn’t often make eye contact, and that’s probably why she hasn’t bothered to remember my name in three years.
“Sorry I’m late,” Wendy, my downstairs neighbor and best friend, says, grabbing her black coffee and holding it close to her chest. “Ahh, is there anything more perfect?”
“Every other kind of coffee besides that tar you drink.” I laugh, sipping my sweet deliciousness.
“Bitch, please, you might as well be sucking it through a sugar straw with the way you order coffee.”
“You can get those, you know,” I say, and she rolls her eyes and links her arm in mine.
“Come on, I want to hear about your date last week.”
“Nothing to tell, the guy had serious serial killer vibes, so I left.”
“You think everyone is a secret serial killer.”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do. You even thought sweet Terry from down the hall was a mass murderer when he moved in.”
“He had three boxes of heavy-duty garbage bags delivered to his door the day after he got here,” I say, passing her my coffee to pull my thick coat around myself, before pushing through the heavy glass door. We step into the bitter winter chill, and the noise of New York floods my ears. Horns, sirens, a bike bell, and people talking all meld into a familiar haze.
Our apartment building has its own entrance, only a few steps to the right of the cafe below, and we take the internal stairs, that creak like they’ll give out any second with each step we take, up to the fourth floor, not wanting to risk it in the old cage elevator that’s even less trustworthy. Scary thing stalls at least once a week.
“He crochets blankets,” Wendy wheezes beside me as we make it about halfway there.
“What?”
“Terry, he crochets blankets and uses the garbage bags to wrap them up and protect them for shipping. He sells them online,” she says, gripping the rail and trying to help pull her along.
“Sure, he does. Are you okay? You’d better hold on tight, cause if you let go, you’ll probably roll your ass back down the three flights and have to start over.”
“Fucking…ass…hole. I’m just…not good…at cardio,” she replies, and I jog the rest of the way up and then wait for her leaning on my doorframe. She’s red-faced and shoves by me through my apartment door.
“Show-off,” she says as she passes.
“Maybe you can come to the gym with me when I get back. Make it a New Year’s resolution type thing.”
“Is that your best friend way of saying I’m fat?” she asks, and I laugh.
“Fuck no, if anything, you could afford to put on a few pounds. You’ve got like no ass, Wen.”
“I have an ass, it’s just small,” she says, twisting her head over her shoulder to try to look at her butt. At least she’s starting to breathe better now.
“Seriously, though, when was the last time you exercised?”
“I walked up four flights of stairs just now.” Her gaze moves to the empty suitcase on the floor and the seven tiny stacks of neatly piled, folded clothes on my couch. “You’re not even packed?”
