There's Blood In My Coffee
This is the story of how I accidentally became involved in the disappearance of a Tim Hortons employee.
Please read with care.
The media has romanticized the idea of becoming a regular at your local coffee shop; of walking into a place where you’re so loved that the workers delight in having your usual order ready and waiting for you behind the counter.
Where they smile and cheer when you finally walk in and — overcome with excitement — ignore the other customers so they can bring you your special drink and kiss you gently on the forehead before carrying you to your seat.
But what the media doesn’t talk about is how inherent in this dynamic (and other social bonds) is an unspoken agreement that you will remain the same.
You’ll come in at the same time.
You’ll ask for the same drink.
You’ll smile when the barista remembers your order.
You’ll sit in the same spot.
And you’ll be back again tomorrow.
Of course, we’re free to change at any time. But as we change we risk destabilizing or rupturing our relationships with those who rely on our sameness and predictability to understand their place in our lives.
For a second, try to forget the missing person and consider this — giving yourself permission to be different is often made more difficult by the knowledge that your difference may cause even mild discomfort for yourself or others.
You internet people can try to fool me all you want about the joy of being bold and taking risks or sharing hard truths but I don’t care what you have to say because ultimately I’m the one who has to face the agony of optimistically setting a boundary that ends up irrevocably damaging a relationship, or the regret of taking a social risk that causes someone to feel awkward around me and second guess their desire to engage with me in the future, or the disease of watching someone’s face contort with disappointment after I tell them “no” and they realize I won’t be following the script they’ve written for me in their head.
And unfortunately, uneasy energy localizes in the body and manifests as actual physical pain or disease. So even in small doses, these energies can feel almost unbearable in the moment.
Like wow, I just said “no” and feel like I’m about to die???? I dared to be myself and was punished with social exclusion??? Thanks for encouraging me to “live my truth” or whatever, but for personal reasons I’ve decided I’m probably not going to do that again anytime soon.
And so when I become a regular at my local Tim Hortons and one of the baristas begins priding herself in always remembering my order, I simply do not have the heart to tell her that together we’re living a lie.
Over time, what I initially experienced as an endearing gesture, slowly morphs into a pathetic ritual of self-abandonment.
On the mornings when I’m in the mood for my usual and she looks up at me eagerly with a big smile and bright eyes and says, “medium dark roast double double?” it feels nice to be remembered.
Sometimes the way she says it almost feels less like she’s reciting my order and more like she’s calling my name. And eventually I accept that when I step into Tim Hortons, I am no longer Felicia — I am Medium Dark Roast Double Double. And I have the receipts to prove it.
So on mornings when I find myself craving something different, it feels evil to even consider voicing my true desires by introducing myself as someone new.
I find myself feeling beholden to this new identity and convinced that surely, the inconvenience is a small price to pay to add a little joy to an otherwise mundane interaction.
This goes on for weeks until one day as I’m walking home sipping my dark roast — wishing I’d just ordered the Iced Capp I actually wanted — it sets in how pathetic this little dance between us has become. “Surely,” I think to myself, “I’m overthinking and this lady will not give a shit if I change my coffee order.”
So the next morning I decide to drop the charade and switch things up.
It does not go well :))))
You see, all relationships involve the process of meeting, learning about the other, knowing them, letting them shock you, realizing you don’t know, then unknowing and learning them again.
I think, in fact, maybe the only relationships that survive are those where we feel the freedom to shake off our assumptions as we grow into new people and uncover new desires — and order different coffees.
Yet there’s a persistent thread of social conditioning that convinces us our desires are better left unspoken. On a grand scale, sometimes our ability to blend in and silently follow The Established Order allows greater degrees of personal safety. But that same silence creates the conditions that allow unbalanced social structures to continue functioning unquestioned. That’s why having the courage to be candid and truthful in our speech, even under pressure, is integral to the proper functioning of society.
Foucault called this, parrhesia; the willingness to take the risk of voicing the truth even under the threat of personal consequence.
On a smaller (more personal) scale, I think our silence functions in exactly the same way. You notice something you don’t like but can’t bring yourself to speak up about it, so the behaviour continues unquestioned until you can push yourself to take the risk and uncover your true feelings.
Much, much, much easier said than done.
Which is why it’s so unfortunate that when I make it to the front of the line I’m forced to actually follow through with my conviction as the sweet unsuspecting barista looks up at me with the same big smile and bright eyes and says, “medium dark roast double double?”
I try to keep my voice light and casual as I recite the line I practiced the whole way there, “Actually today I think I’ll have an Iced Capp.”
Chaos ensues.
Sadly, she has already punched in my usual order and her eyes fill with panic as she adjusts to the change and awkwardly fumbles with the register.
I try to convince myself it’s not a big deal but can’t ignore that her smile has disappeared and her entire face is contorted with disease for the rest of our interaction.
When she hands me my drink, I try to smile at her but am unsuccessful because she’s refusing to make eye contact. And so I leave feeling like the worst person who has ever lived and spend my walk home praying for forgiveness.
The next day, she tries again to persist in our ritual. Except when she guesses my order she seems on edge and says something random that I’ve never even ordered before, “a regular with 1 milk?”
I pause.
For a moment I consider saying yes for the sake of convenience but instead I give myself permission to order what I really want — an iced coffee.
Her face falls and immediately, the guilt begins gnawing at my insides.
I feel like I’m being cruel. I feel like any second now the police are going to descend upon this Tim Hortons and shoot me in the back for what I’ve done. I feel like as my body lays on the cold tiles and blood spills out of my wounds everyone will cheer and throw confetti as they celebrate the death of the monster I’ve become. I feel like as I choke on my own blood and wheeze my last breaths, the last thing I’ll see is an employee setting up a “wet floor sign” so no one slips on my blood and I’ll die wondering how and why everyone had confetti.
But none of that happens.
Instead, I pay for my drink and try to smile. But once again my smile is rejected because the barista awkwardly refuses to make eye contact. And I walk home feeling like there’s blood in my coffee.
You may think me dramatic for my retelling of this story but I promise you it really was that bad. So in the weeks that follow I do what anyone in my position would do — I avoid the Tim Hortons at all costs.
Now (as I’m writing this) it’s been months since I’ve seen her. And not because I haven’t gone back — but because she disappeared.
One day as I’m sitting at home drinking my homemade coffee — wishing I could delight in a sweet treat from Tim Hortons — it sets in how pathetic my avoidance has become. “Surely,” I think to myself, “I’m overthinking and this lady does not give a shit that I changed my coffee order.”
So the next morning I decide to face my fears and go back to Tim Hortons.
But the barista has disappeared.
At first, I think it’s a coincidence; that maybe she’s on vacation or has switched her shift or maybe she’s working the drive thru for a change of scenery. But as I continue to go back and the days bleed into weeks and the weeks bleed into months, I am forced to face the only logical conclusion — she’s gone. And with that I’m forced to wonder if our interaction had anything to do with it.
I don’t mean to give myself an inflated sense of self-importance but I am human and I’ve found that humans tend to do that. I’ve found that humans also tend to hate uncertainty and our brains demand stories as organizing principles through which we can understand our lives.
And in the absence of a coherent story to ease my anxieties, here’s what I’ve decided:
By exercising parrhesia and breaking the unspoken agreement of all coffee shop regulars that I would: come in at the same time, order the same drink, smile when the barista remembered my order and be back again tomorrow — I fundamentally ruptured the relationship between us.
The pressure created by this rupture was such that she decided she would be unwilling to engage with me in the future. And when her petition to have me either permanently banned from the store or publicly executed by firing squad was denied, she made haste in establishing alternate plans.
One morning, instead of going to work, she dyed her hair, skipped town and started a new life as a sheep farmer in a remote part of Wales. There she lives plotting her revenge against me and one day when I least expect it I’ll be swarmed and eaten alive by carnivorous sheep and as blood spills out of my wounds everyone will cheer and throw confetti as they celebrate the death of the monster I’ve become. And as I choke on my own blood and wheeze my last breaths, the last thing I’ll see is her smiling over me as she sets up a “wet floor sign” so no one slips on my blood. And I’ll die wondering why she was carrying a wet floor sign in her pocket and how the hell she trained these carnivorous sheep to throw confetti.
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