Jasper was every bit an “average Joe”. He loved his small-town roots, his perfectly worn in steal-toe boots, and his permanently coffee stained 42 ouncer plastic mug representing the one and only gas station before the junction. He had watched with mild fascination as the old community office just across the street had been transformed into a den of over-priced coffee, never feeling the pull of the iconic green and white cup sporting his name in someone else’s handwriting, but today was different. Today, Jasper was more than curious. Today, Jasper was in need.
The Gas’N’Go had failed him. Faulty wiring in the hot plate, where the decaf usually sat, had shorted the whole thing leaving nothing behind but an OUT OF SERVICE sign and a whiff of overheated metal coils. So now Jasper stood just within the doors of what he affectionately referred to as the Coffee Cult when making fun of his “on-trend” friends. It was a lot to take in. His first thought was that commercialization was alive and well. Quickly followed by a rapid fire 20 questions game with his sensory response to the environment. What is that sound? Was it a bag pipe? What is that smell? Carmel? Vanilla? It was like stumbling into a new age rock concert held on a scented candle. Even his eyes had to adjust to the low jewel toned mood lighting.
Two minutes later and Jasper was at the “I’ll be damned” stage. He had read the handwritten menu three times and could not find the word coffee anywhere. He was sure one of the items must be a simple coffee, but since fancy to him had meant a flavored creamer, things like Amerciano held no coffee-based meaning to him. By the time he made it to the woman at the register he had formulated a plan.
“Mornin’ I’ll have the least expensive coffee you serve.”
It had made sense to him a small black coffee was enough to get him to work and while it wouldn’t last all day, like the 42 ounces would have, it was better than nothing. Also, a plain coffee should be the least expensive thing on the menu and ordering this way would require no fancy jargon.
“That’s the best order I have heard all day!” The lady with an ear full of metal exclaimed flashing a smile that was pure manic glee. “You are in for a fun ride love,” she said her mouth drawing thin, “Name?”
“Uh, Jasper.” He was sure he had made a misstep, black coffee wouldn’t have gotten that response, but it seemed he was too far in for a graceful retreat.
“Tall PSL for,” direct eye contact then a wink, “for Uh Jasper”.
He walked to the PICK UP sign and scanned the hand drawn posters trying to decipher what he had ordered. He didn’t have to look very hard the center board was dominated by the words Special: Pumpkin Spice Latte. “What the…”
“Uhjazpeer!”
He almost missed his own name. “Hey, I just wanted coffee,” he offered to the man with an orange side swept Mohawk.
“That is coffee.” Came the response as the man hurried off to the next item on his list.
“Damn it.”
Jasper grabbed his “coffee” and headed over to the fixin’s counter. He tried the drink, eyes squinted, to assess how best to handle the PSL. An intense combination of kitchen spices lingered with a nice warmth in the back of his throat triggering an immediate need for another taste. Lid forgotten he walked over the nearest booth and sat. Savoring the aroma and smooth frothiness he alternated between gulps and sips till he hit foam. It was gone. Jasper sat still for a moment. Shocked. Confused. Unsatisfied.
He stood quickly, not sure if he would run for the door or the counter, then it hit him. His eyes went dim and a roar of electric sound tore at his sanity. His scalp and face recoiled from the sensation of a million fire ants angrily making their way from one side to the other. His chest felt tight and his extremities squeezed. Stumbling forward Jasper made it to the bathroom before he collapsed.
Blinking his eyes, he first noticed that the music in the bathroom was much nicer than what they had been playing in the shop. The tightness had disappeared, so he chanced walking to the sink. In the mirror he could barely recognize himself. His clothes looked at least two sizes too small, the burning sensation on the right side of his scalp had left him with an exaggerated asymmetrical part, and his face which still itched and stung had sprouted a full beard. The door opened pulling a tendril of cinnamon scented air towards Jasper. His spine stiffened, all concerns forgotten except for the insatiable need for his next pumpkin spice latte.
The woman behind the counter was still smiling the manic grin. “What’ll it be?”
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