Alexa 01: Call Me Maybe

Call me Zack. It's not my name, you're not my friend, this never happened.

Okay, foreplay over, here's the thing. I do not know how to explain this. Maybe, if you pay attention till the end, you will. I'm not holding my breath. Not this time, anyway.

So, it starts in an irrelevant city on the West Coast. I was a barista, working for a chain coffee shop, wondering why folks hadn't caught on to the fact that Seattle's greatest export is rainwater, not coffee. Many people have asked about how great a barista's life is. From my personal experience, there's a brief moment of elation when you get paid, and the rest of it is pretty much process.

If you've ever worked in a consumer oriented business, you'll know it's like working at Seaworld. Sooner or later you start fantasizing about fucking a dolphin. Or a plant. Or the espresso machine. Pro tip: the last one is a really bad idea.

Anyway, reason we're having this conversation is because apparently you're my involuntary therapist and you are willing to help me get over a thing that, frankly, a) I don't think I can, and b) I'm not sure I want to and c) you're not qualified to judge.

Start at the beginning. Well, as covered previously, I'm a barista. I make coffee, for anyone. Yes, a coffee slut. Actually, technically, seeing as how I get paid for providing a service, I'm a coffee whore. Now that I have your attention, I'd like to describe a particular coffee experience that started this whole thing.

This is how it works. You receive a request for coffee, electronically (thankfully. The front of house staff are not people you want to converse with routinely). You make the coffee. You write the name of the victim on the cup, and then you call it out when the frothy confection is up for collection.

If your eyes wander during this process, sometimes you get intrigued.

So that happened. She was shorter than me, well built, showing more leather than usual for the time of day and place of business. Strong upper body and cornrow hair, matching an unusual eye color, somewhere between green and brown. As a professional, I'd assess her skin tone as cafe au lait. Otherwise, nothing much, but okay for a Wednesday.

We're confessing things, right? Well, on slow days, dull days, infrequently, or just because, I have a thing I do. I write on folk's cups. So this time when preparing the double shot regular flat white for Alexa, I wrote a little more than her name. I wrote my name. And my number. And the words "Call me..."

And nothing happened. I called her name, left the coffee on the plinth, turned to resolve a complex espresso issue (no real drama, but you learn early to give your full attention to the equipment in the barista game). When I had idle opportunity, Alexa had decamped with her coffee.

And nothing. Everyone moved on with their lives, my shift came to an end, and I headed out to the library to work on a paper that's so overdue it's probably going to save the world. Well, no. Not even a little. I can't remember what it's about, and I'm the author.

I'm useless at suspense. In my experience, life is one damned thing after another, and today was no exception. So, just to demystify the process, after a lot of time passed, my stomach pointed out that nachos are technically not lunch, and it had been a while since then anyway.

I gathered my things, took a look at my phone and realized it really was a long time since lunch, 6.45 and change, and I'd never taken the fucking thing off silent mode (Hey, library professional here).

There was a missed call from an unknown number. And a message. I slumped back into my seat and my stomach did the other thing it does, rolling and tensing and generally making me feel like a teenager.

Buying time, I checked the message first. An address in a quiet part of town, and a time: 7:45. I'm mildly suspicious by nature and OCD by volition, so I googled the address. Not so much a quiet part of town. More light industrial, warehouses, a Toyota service centre, and, at the exact address given, an "adult club" specializing in shibari. Which at the time I thought was a cuisine, or something.

OCD by V can also be described as procrastination. But occasionally I can get out of my own way. So instead of vanishing into the pool of google, I played the message. A rich, confident voice, also sounding somewhat amused, hit me between the ears.

Mack. I got your message. On my coffee cup. Heh. This is Alexa, in case you wrote your number on everyone's cup today. I do like a forward boy. Let's chat. I'm performing at a club tonight, I'll text you the address. See you there.

Holy shit.