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This can’t be happening. Not today.
She bats her ninety-nine-cent, extra-thick fake eyelashes at me, waiting. It’s the most ridiculous costume I’ve ever seen, and I’ve played the budget-challenged local theater circuit for two seasons. She’s fed me the first two lines from the script. My scene. The next line is mine.
It’s her—not her team. Not some hidden camera. This is the moment that will decide my future.
My short inhale is all the preparation I allow myself. I ignore the pounding in my chest and point to the chalkboard menu written on the wall to my left. In the script, it calls for the menu to be above my head behind me. “Cappuccinos come in vente, out all night, and thanks for contributing to my boss’ boat fund.”
Xenia tips her chin down, her index finger lowering her sunglasses just enough for me to catch a glimpse of her world-famous eyes. The corners of her mouth tick up for a fraction of a second. An appreciative glance for me hitting the line.
“To that, I’d say ‘Ahoy, mate! Fill up the thingamajig and charge me whatever. I’ve got places to be and people to scare.’” She waves a hand at the thermos collection on the shelf next to the counter and takes a purposeful stride. She hits her mark, like the pro she is, and I remind myself to do the same.
The red and silver thermoses are stacked on a triangle display just like they’re in every Coffee Loft store around the country. Just like they’ll be on the movie set, only three feet higher. Everything on the screen is larger than life.
“Okay but do know I’m breaking corporate rule 34.843C, sections A and D,” I recite the line like an auditor and step around the counter. My gaze floats across the room out of habit, just as it’s done a thousand times this week. It finds Zara staring at me, her gaze locked on the interesting figure wearing a full-length beige raincoat in a city that averages a half inch of rain a year.
“This is the largest we have.” I pull down a thermos and act as if I’m reading the label on the bottom. “The only other time we filled it with a cappuccino was for Linda. She needed it to stay up all night to finish a ten-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of the Sistine Chapel. She ended up seeing double and thought she was Michelangelo by the end of it. To this day, she still finds stray pieces in the cushions of her couch and gets heart palpitations whenever she drives past Saint Benedict’s Temple.”
Out the corner of my eye, I spot Zara spin around in her seat, her shoulders scrounged an expression that screams,What the hell are you saying, Devon?
“Good, I like it big, and I like things to last.” She lifts her index fingers in each hand and makes an inappropriate gesture. Snickers fill the café. We officially have an audience. Zara slips off the stool and paces toward the counter. All eyes are on Xenia.
And me.
I reach for the thermos in the bottom row and time my response. “Super-size it is. So, I guess the rumors are true, you really do like it…” I tug the thermos, and the entire pyramid of cups cascade from the shelf, crashing to the floor. This move puts me in the danger zone.
Both Xenia and I step around the mess as if dozens of thermoses crashing around our feet is normal. We’re professionals. I’ve practiced portions of this maneuver all week. Hopping around broken dishes, skipping around dropped babybottles. I’m part acrobat, part magician, part everything but my true self.
The Coffee Loft customers aren’t actors working on a scene. They react like normal people. Many of them rush toward the disaster in front of them, retrieving rolling cups.
I tiptoe to the false security of the counter and catch the streak of orange racing toward the pile on the floor. Zara. The autumn-themed sweater that had captivated me all morning rushes to help. Concern and empathy written across her beautiful face. She wants to clean up the mess I created, and I can’t stop to let her know it’s unnecessary.
I step in front of the espresso machine and press buttons, ignoring the clamor around us. A mist of steam shoots up in front of my face, which I lean into. I feel the heat, but my face is never in danger. I’ve practiced this move a few times this week and know the perfect distance to make it appear that I’ve scalded my face without doing any damage. “My eyes!”
My hands grab my face, and I initiate a controlled spin. I flail, knocking over paper cups, napkins, and cutlery. On the set, all these items will be breakaway glassware and dishes. Fingers pressed to my eyebrows, I concentrate on the floor. Years of training coming together. Footwork, juggling, comic timing, acting. It all melds together into a complete performance that pushes me to my limit. I’m a tightrope acrobat expertly stepping around café items like they’re landmines. A controlled spin places my hands on the reserve coffeepot on the top of the machine. In the movie, it will be filled with hot liquid but at this time of the day, it’s cold and empty.
Slapstick may be an underappreciated form of comedy, but it’s one of the oldest and hardest. It takes hours of dedication, coordination, and practice to make oneself appear out of control without injuring oneself or someone else.
My hand reaches for the pot for balance, and I immediately jerk it away, reacting as if the pot has burned my fingers. I rush toward the employee sink and prepare to dunk my head. It’s the money shot that will be followed by Xenia shouting to everyone in the café, “Who else wants a cappuccino?” I stumble toward the sink and freeze when I hear her.
“Devon!” Zara’s scream sends a chill through me. She’s rushing toward me in full sprint. My hands shoot out to halt her, but all they do is smack against the uncovered cup of coffee on the counter. I watch helplessly as the coffee flies in a Nike swoop pattern right toward Xenia.
Zara’s hands hit the other side of the counter, her face filled with panic. “Are you okay?”
I don’t have time to answer because we both turn at the sound of a woman’s scream.
“No, no, no!” I shout, already knowing what I’ll find.
Xenia stands a foot in front of me, arms lowered to her sides, a coffee stain the shape of Africa plastered on her yellow dress. She runs in place, a shocked expression on her face, both of us amazed that not a drop of the coffee landed on her raincoat. Her ill-fitting wig slides to the side of her head. Her sunglasses fall to join the mess on the floor.
Zara’s eyes widen in recognition, and my heart nearly explodes in my chest. “You’re… you’re Xenia.”
I’m so screwed.
Xenia is legendary for staying in character, the end credits with outtakes one of the most anticipated moments of her movie’s release. Despite scenes going awry, she demands the same of her co-stars.
Zara’s eyes shift from her to me, attempting to reconcile what’s happening in front of her. But I don’t direct my words to her. I direct them to Xenia, hoping she sees how committed I am to the part.
I point at the mess on her dress. “Order up.”
