The Billionaire Switch

Anne - Brown Sugar Cinnamon

Apparently having stupid degrees you can do nothing with runs in the family. That's what Mom told me. I suppose she's right, given that we both got English Literature degrees. We don't even have teaching credentials. A few years back, Mom had a job working at the local community college, but she was fired due to a new hire doing a better job than her. 

I had high hopes when I got mine. Mom told me not to do it, but English had always been my passion, and I loved it more than anything in the world. I had eaten stories for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The smell of pages seemed to eternally waft in my room, and I had memories of maxing out the number of books you could borrow at the library. (The number was 75, by the way. I had done it twice and wrote it down on our family calandar both times, highlighting it and making the ink smear. After the years had completed, I had been sure to save the pages to create into bookmarks.)

I also suppose failure had literally been in my name as well. Named after the forgotten Brontë sister, Anne, somehow it never surprised me when I failed time and time again in my attempts to create something people would remember me by. Instead, I worked eight-hour shifts at a local coffeeshop. It was a good job, and I enjoyed it enough. But it wasn't my passion, and it made little money. That was why I still lived with my parents, and I insisted on not buying my own car. I could walk just fine to my job, thank you very much. 

The jabbing soreness on my blistering feet begged to differ. Finally reaching the cafe, I opened the door easily, bell jingling. It should have been locked, since I was scheduled to open alone. 

When I looked across the counter, I stilled, not recognizing the person at the register. Their hair was cropped short, and some bangs hung over their eyes in a stylistically messy way. I squinted, then went to the back room, putting on my apron and joining them. 

"Hi, I'm Anne!"

"I know," they said shortly. 

I hesitated. "When did you get hired?"

"My first day's today," they said, still terse. 

I laughed nervously. "Oh, I didn't realize I would be training a new hire today."

"You don't need to train me. I've worked as a barista before. I'm not stupid."

I tried to meet their eyes, but they had already turned away. "I didn't say that. It's just the policy we usually go through to make sure everyone is on the same page. That's all." My stomach churned. As much as I wanted them to agree and not hate me, I also had this vague feeling that I was catering to them. It was one thing to do that with customers, but another to have to put on that front with your coworkers too. 

The door hit the bell above it, chiming again. I didn't need to look at my watch to know it was 6:04 AM. Oscar was always our first customer of the morning, never differing in schedule. 

I looked towards the register, seeing the new hire already there. My heart lurched, and I wanted to stop them. We could not risk Oscar giving us any sort of bad review, and I would hate for a new hire to mess us up. But going over there felt too petty. It wouldn't make a difference to Oscar who took his order. I supposed he was "above" that. 

My face shifted into a sneer. I wished that he would never step foot into this building again. My job had been a safe space before I took on the morning shift and found out that our local billionaire, who had been responsible for my dad being laid off, went there to get his morning coffee. I had to look Oscar Asher in the eyes and take his order and act happy when he tipped me a dollar a day. Usually a consistent tip from a customer daily is fantastic, but he's a billionaire! If you were a billionaire, would you only tip a dollar? That's like the equivalent of me tipping a penny at Olive Garden!

"I'll have your iced brown sugar cinnamon coffee, please," he said. 

I rolled my eyes when he said please, always reading off the same script everyday. Who even orders an iced brown sugar cinnamon coffee in November? When it's about to snow? (Me, actually. That was my go-to order. I had created the coffee and insisted we put it on the menu, which quickly became a customer favorite.)

"What size?"

"Large."

"Large," I mimicked under my breath, too quiet to hear. I hated the sound of his voice. I hated the power he held. He could buy out entire countries, if he so pleased. I had looked it up. Why should some random guy who just got lucky enough to have that sort of money, have the power to change lives like that? Why didn't he use it for good? 

When my dad had been fired, he had been told he hadn't worked hard enough. At his age, he should have been steadily climbing up the ladder. Instead he weathered a few pitiful promotions throughout his decades of work, then was fired. If he hadn't been working hard enough, then why had the company kept him around for almost twenty years? And if a billionaire owned the company, couldn't they afford to keep employees around?

Besides, I knew my dad worked hard. He did odd jobs on the side to help me pay for my college and made an effort to take classes for certifications that might lead to new opportunities to help retire him and Mom early. 

I heard the noise of the coffee being made behind me as a wiped down the already clean counters, refusing to look up. If I did, I didn't know what sort of face I would make at Oscar. 

When the new hire finished, I glanced back at the cup full of leftover coffee, knowing they would likely pour it down the sink in a second. I couldn't afford my own cup of coffee here, but I sometimes would purposely make extra of a drink so I could have it. Was that selfish or illegal or something? Maybe.

I didn't really give a shit, though. It wasted less, and it still remained totally sanitary. I poured the remainder of the drink into my empty tumbler, taking a sip. Behind me, I heard the sounds of Oscar saying thank you and giving his cheapskate tip. 

The new hire had added far too much cinnamon. I blinked slightly and set my hand down on the counter, seeing stars out of the corner of my eyes. I blinked again, and it was gone. That had been common in my childhood when I over-exerted myself. I knew I hadn't drank enough water today and yesterday, and the miles walked had probably left me dehydrated, so I continued to drink the coffee as I began to clean the coffee station. 

"What did you do with the rest of it?" the new hire asked uneasily. 

I went rigid. They didn't deserve to know my little hack for free drinks. I pointed in the sink. "I rinsed it out for you."

Their face paled, but they nodded slowly, then pushed past me as they walked out, dropping their apron on a chair as they walked out of the shop. 

I had waited a few minutes for them to come back, then I decided to check the schedule to see if I could find when their shift ended. Maybe they had opened extra early and were off now?

But only my name was written down.