I walked briskly into the cafe, a good book in hand, and ordered a double shot of espresso. I took a deep breath, but that heaviness in my lungs persisted. You know the feeling. Its like there's a lead weight on your abdomen, making your breaths shallow and terse. Like when you get mad. Only I wasn't mad. I was frustrated, and afraid. Work had been pretty stressful, to say the least. I had gone in at five fifteen and it was only now seven thirty. Business was slow, and the servers in White Zin were the first to go home, regardless of the fact that we had come in a little over two hours ago.

I was on a two-table rotation, it being my second day on the floor after training, and they only got sat once each. I had a meager seven dollars and forty-four cents to show for it. I had screwed up. Big time. My manager had ended up having to comp table 144's appetizer, which I had forgotten to ring in, and also the chicken alfredo pizza, which I had rung in as chicken alfredo pasta. "Noobie," more than one of my coworkers called me, overhearing me explain how I had messed up the ticket to Mary, our scary, no-nonsense manager.

To make matters worse, when I brought the mother her soup, I had brought the wrong kind, and in the excitement over begging the kitchen to get me the appetizer ASAP, I had forgotten to return with the correct soup. I had to stand behind myself and push to get up the hutzpah to face them again with the check. I fully expected to be stiffed, and I was not disappointed. Had it not been for my second table, I would have earned nothing but my base pay of two fifteen an hour.

So needless to say, I was a bit shaken up walking in. But when I started to act brisk and dismissive with the barista, I knew I had to get a grip. It's one thing to have a hard day, but it's an entirely different circus animal to make some other poor soul pay for your misfortunes. I forget who it was that first described this phenomenon, which he famously dubbed the "Waterfall Effect," where one person passes undeserved impatience, rudeness, or even abuse onto the next lowest monkey on the ladder. It is famous in family trees: grandparents dump junk on parents who dump it on the kids. It is the source of generational curses, and of social cannibalism. It stems from the idea that if I'm suffering, I want company, which is really not very funny at all if you really think about how outlandishly selfish that is. My guest had probably come in frazzled herself, from conflict at the house or at work. And while she was only dumping it on me, I still had the choice before me of whether or not to let that continue. My choice was to not.

He was new to Starbucks, but not to coffee, that much I could tell from his skillful manner behind the bar. A moustache hung like a windowsill beneath dark eyes, and light sideburns like drapes framed his chocolate face. He was Asian maybe, or Mexican. I wasn't sure. Pleasantries turned to conversation, and as it would turn out, the famous six degrees of separation happened to make this more than just a chance encounter.

"You're not from Tyler, are you?" I asked, making conversation. He smiled.
"Originally, but I went to college in Austin. I worked at Cafe Mozart there." He pulled a shot of espresso from the machine. "My name's Tito by the way."

"Good to meet you. I'm Ben. Yeah, I didn't think you were from here. Your flat accent gives you away, I'm afraid." By now he had finished, and I eagerly downed a stiff ounce, trying to forget the look on Mary's face. Man it was strong, but good. Just what I needed.
"Well, I grew up in Tyler. I just came back for my masters in ITT design at TJC." He said it with a sigh.

"But you miss Austin," I asked intuitively, more a statement than a question.

"Yeah." He got a stary-eyed, faraway look on his face. "Man, parties every night, getting home at like five in the morning, drunk as hell." I chuckled. I knew the type all too well. Still, he seemed different from the drunk, failing college students I knew from work. I couldn't place him, though, and it bugged me.

"Yeah, Tyler's a little small," I confessed. "That's cool about you wanting to open your own coffeeshop, though. I used to work at Caffe Taza and the Brookshire's coffeeshop."

"Oh yeah?" His eyes lit up. Clearly coffee was his passion. "Taza's a little too..." He hesitated. "...too stiff for me, I guess." I nodded knowingly. "How long'd you work there?"

"Three months, back in December."

"Really."

"Got out as fast as I could. Too sterile for me. No personality. I felt like just by walking in I was contaminating the place." He laughed.

"Exactly. A lot of loddy-doh people."

"Yep, bunch o' rich snobs. Hated it."

"I walked in one time, and because I'm Mexican, I guess, this lady came up to me like I was the busser. Was all rude to me." I could sense him relaxing a bit, testing the waters to see if I was safe. It was early evening, and he had no customers. He brushed a spotless rag over the marbletop beside the espresso machine religiously, wiping away imaginary dust.

"At the coffeeshop in Austin that I used to work at," he went on, "I was taking orders one time, and this older man came up to me and asked, 'So I guess we're letting your kind work up front, huh?' "

"Oh my. I would have probably hit the guy."

"I was like, uhh, yes?"

"I've got a lot of Mexican friends, and I can't stand people like that. My mom works with a Mexican guy over at Asian Bistro in Bullard."

"In Bullard?"

"Well, there's one in Whitehouse, too."

"That sounds familiar. What's his name?"

"Mario Guirrero?" I said slowly, pronouncing the name as best I could with my white tongue. The rolled R was a challenge.

"Is there another owner?"

"Alejandro, his brother. Do you know him?" He frowned. "Maybe you're thinking of Martin. And Sonya. Sonya is Mario's sister."

"Yeah, Martin, I know him."

"You have to know Martin if you party a lot. He parties like a rock star." We exchanged knowing looks. Martin was notorious for coming to a party already drunker than a skunk.

By now the novel in my hand had begun to get jealous for some attention. A customer walked up looking to order, so I set the shot glass down on the counter and took a step towards one of the tables in the cafe.

"Well good luck with that coffeeshop of yours. Let me know how it goes."

"I take it you come in here often?"

"Yeah, I work over at Olive Garden, and I come in on my lunch breaks and after work sometimes."

"Cool. So I'll see you around, then."

"I guess you will. Take it easy."

"You too."

Before leaving the cafe, I ended up buying the book. It was a novel by Paulo Coelho, one of my favorite authors. The first fifteen pages had hooked me, and though I was already invested in five other books, I really wanted this one. I walked out a little slower than I had coming in, a little less hurry and haste in my step. Refreshed, as always, by the beginning of a new book that promises new ideas, new discoveries of the mind, but also by the chance encounter with the interesting barista named Tito and by his infectious charisma and enthusiasm for coffee--and for life.

All of a sudden it didn't matter that I'd only made seven forty-four at work or that I had made a royal mess of things. That I had been called noobie behind my back, and to my face for that matter. That I had lost the restaurant money. That Mary had given me the You Are In Big Trouble, Young Man look as she swiped her manager card to comp the lady's appetizer and pizza. Somehow I was able to let all of that go, knowing that tomorrow was yet another day, full of opportunities, and that I would get the knack of it sooner or later. I guess I have Tito to thank for that, well, and the extra bold shot of espresso, perhaps.