Saturday's Storyteller: A Real Latte For A Real Woman

A Real Latte For A Real Woman
by Belinda Roddie

Today, unlike most rainy days, was warm. The ribbons of soft, sweet water descended and left small, modest puddles on the asphalt, like the pavement was sweating profusely under the early autumn air. The day was muggy, damp, and, strangely enough, rather pleasant. And if one enjoyed the occasional petrichor, it was even more special. 

Entering the cramped coffee shop, Maxine shook out her lime green umbrella and placed it into the tall, black bucket that had been propped up against the entrance. There were three other people in line in front of her, waiting to order their libation of the day, clearing their throats and focused on their phones. The smoky and bitter aroma of coffee beans accosted Maxine’s nostrils, and she relished in it, breathing in and sighing. The feathery clumps of her brown, shoulder length hair had begun to dry from the rain and humidity, and she shook her head to let the locks separate. Her yellow cardigan had escaped most of the outside moisture, as had her skinny black jeans and Converses to match. 

She had just finished a short shift at the local bookstore, Emily’s, and was eager to get that coveted pumpkin spice latte. It was September, after all, so it was time to bask in that beautiful basic bitch aura. Maxine could already taste the cinnamon, the sugar, the perfect hint of espresso. It was enough to make her smile automatically.

Now, the real question of the afternoon: Should her latte be hot or iced? It was raining, after all, and therefore, a hot drink made sense. But it was also still remarkably warm despite that rain - maybe a nice chilled autumn beverage would be the relaxant Maxine needed. She contemplated this further as one customer ahead of her finished their order, and then the other. After a while, she pulled her compact mirror out of her brown pleather purse, snapped it open, and checked her lipstick and mascara.

There was only one customer in front of Maxine now, and as she drew closer to the counter, she breathed in deeply and fought off a shadow of social anxiety. She admitted it: Sometimes, she had to mentally rehearse how she’d order a coffee before she even went into the café, and she was still very self-conscious about her voice. It wasn’t incredibly deep - even before starting HRT in middle school, she had always sounded higher-pitched and lilting, like a Disney princess (which she was perfectly okay with). But it did break at times, and those little cracks in the octave did instigate some questions from time to time. Not today, she decided. Today, she would sound as pristine and lovely as a royal lady. 

She strutted up to the counter with a smile plastered on her face. The barista was someone she hadn’t seen before, in all the times she had frequented this little, unassuming coffee shop. He was young, probably a college student working a part-time job to cover part of his tuition. Odd patches of scuff grew around his chin and ears, giving him what looked like a pair of woefully incomplete mutton chops. An enormous whitehead glistened under his left nostril. 

Maxine cleared her throat. Here goes nothing, she thought. “Yes, hi. I would like a medium pumpkin spiced latte, hot…” Yes, she had decided on hot. It tasted better that way. Undiluted. 

The barista looked up at the sound of her voice, his head jerking as if he had suffered whiplash. In the next moment, Maxine could have sworn that his eyes flashed. He stared at her, very quiet, very still, his nose whistling as he exhaled. She wondered if he had heard her. 

“Um...yes, a medium pumpkin spiced latte. And one of your lemon scones?” 

“Sure,” replied the barista, his voice low now and startlingly malicious. “Nice wig, by the way.” 

Maxine’s blood went suddenly cold. Even though the heat penetrated the air conditioning in the coffee shop, she felt like she was stuck in Siberia now. She spoke quickly, abashedly. “Oh. It’s...not a wig. It’s my real hair. I’m glad you like it.”

“Yeah. Your real hair. Uh-huh.” The barista had finally snagged a coffee cup and was looking for a sharpie. “Medium pumpkin spice latte and lemon scone. Anything else, sir?” 

She had to have misheard him. Clearly, the noise in the space was getting to her. It was fairly loud, though everything felt amplified by this point: The humming of the coffee grinders, the hiss of the espresso machine, the beeping of the ovens as they belched out toasted bagels and warmed up croissants and grilled overpriced paninis. This barista couldn’t have possibly been bold enough to call Maxine Hart sir. No employee at this café had ever intentionally misgendered her, and they never would! Would they? 

Obviously, she had to shake it off; there was a line forming behind her, after all. The clusters of commuters all wanted their fix before heading into rush hour traffic over the nearest bridge. She cleared her throat again, as if compensating, and spoke. 

“No, nothing else. Thank you.” 

The barista snorted. His cheeks looked redder than normal. He had found a marker and was staring at Maxine. “Okay. Your name?” 

“Oh! Maxine.” She said this proudly. She loved her name. After all, she was inspired by the greats. Maxine Peake was one of her favorite actors. The author Maxine Kumin had taught her poetry at New England College, where she went for her MFA. And who could forget the legendary Congresswoman, Maxine Waters? 

However, the barista wasn’t writing the name. He was staring at her. No...glaring. Like a predator waiting for its prey to falter. 

“How about I just write Max?” he asked, more accusatory than inquisitive. 

Maxine stiffened: what was this guy’s problem? “Well, my friends call me Maxie for short,” she replied, “but I would like Maxine on the cup, please.” 

“Nah.” He grinned abruptly - the predator showing fangs. “I’ll just put down Max.” 

Now she was getting angry. She folded her arms across her chest, pushing up her bust a bit as if to emphasize her identity. “I want you to write Maxine on the cup, please,” she insisted, trying to put power in her voice, like a snake releasing its venom. 

The barista laughed. It was an ugly laugh, one that did not contribute well to his already clumsy looks. “Dude, I don’t know who you’re trying to fool,” he sneered, “but I know a tranny when I see one.” 

The noise had not subsided. No one stopped what they were doing, nor did they seem alarmed by the barista’s incendiary comment, if they had heard it. Maxine felt the blood drain from her face - she must have looked like a pallid ghost at this point. In response to her stunned silence, the barista seemed to take great enjoyment in scribbling the name Max in a sloppy, careless penmanship. He then plopped the cup to the side with relish and beamed at Maxine like a cat proud of bringing in a dead bird. 

“Seven eighty-seven, please,” he stated.

Maxine bit the inside of her right cheek. Hard.

“Your manager,” she intoned. 

The barista didn’t even flinch. He blinked slowly, then scratched at his stubbly chin. “Sorry?” 

“I want to talk to your manager. Now.”

It was as if she was threatening a grizzly bear with a handful of car keys. The barista laughed again, shook his head, and shrugged. 

“Fine. But he’s only going to agree with me.” 

He. Oh, great. Maxine was hoping that someone would speak up. Anyone. The people standing in line behind her, the two men still waiting for their drinks at the end of the coffee bar, the old woman reading a magazine at the corner table where the rain ran in rivers down the window. Why was everyone seemingly cool with this? Their silence spoke more than any words could. 

The barista had disappeared into the back and returned rather quickly with a large, impatient-looking man in a white dress shirt and necktie. The tie had already been loosened below the unbuttoned collar, and the manager had rolled up the sleeves, showing hairy arms glistening with sweat. He glowered at Maxine like he was a school principal disciplining the class clown. 

“Whaddaya want?’ he growled, raising his eyebrows. 

Maxine couldn’t help shuddering. This was not going to get any better, it seemed. But she would at least try to state her case. 

“Your employee is refusing to write down my real name on my coffee cup,” she declared, arms still folded, though she could feel her legs shaking. 

The manager sighed loudly. “Okay. And?” 

“He also called me a very nasty slur,” Maxine added. “The t word.”

“Huh?”

“Please don’t make me say it,” she nearly pleaded. 

“The guy’s a fucking tranny!” snapped the barista. “He can’t fool anyone with that costume!”

There it was again. The word stung Maxine as a wasp would, the pain throbbing in her chest. That word had been hurled at her throughout all four years of high school, even after she had been crowned Homecoming Queen. Fellow classmates had written it on her locker in pink lipstick, hissed it at her as she was forced to change in a separate room for P.E., outright shouted it even as she walked through the quad. Boys didn’t want to date her because, in their minds, that meant they were gay. Girls wouldn’t date her because she “wasn’t a real woman.” She had fought for years to withstand the stigma, the hate, the panic and fear she felt traveling through a neighborhood that she didn’t feel entirely safe in. The specter of early death loomed over her, as it did over all her sisters. 

“Chris, stop.” The manager shushed his employee and pushed him aside, though he didn’t seem angry at all. He then turned his full attention on Maxine as the barista sulked into the back room again. “Okay, so I’ll comp you for your order and you can be on your way. Sound good?”

“What?” cried Maxine. “That’s it? Sir, your employee misgendered me! Intentionally!”

“I know, and I’m giving you a refund. What else do you want?”

She could taste blood in her mouth now, from the marks her teeth had left on her cheeks. “I want you to fire him!”

“Lady, would you just take your drink and get the hell out?” a voice from behind her hollered. “Some of us have places to be!”

No one vocally agreed with whomever had spoken, but no one vocally disagreed, either. It dawned on Maxine like a light turning on in a dark room: No one was on her side here. Even if they weren’t “technically” transphobic, they considered her a nuisance and weren’t taking her seriously. If she tried to keep this up, she would inadvertently paint a target on her own back.

“Hey, I’m sorry, okay?” The manager didn’t seem apologetic in the slightest. “He’s a kid. Kids are stupid sometimes. Just cut him some slack, all right?”

Maxine knew exactly how she wanted to respond to that, but she couldn’t get it out. She could only nod, accept her scone from a stone-faced worker, grab her probably now cold coffee from the bar, and hurry out the door. Once outside, she could feel her stomach doing somersaults, her brain feeling as if it were bruised as dysphoric thoughts tackled her like football linemen, one after the other. She wasn’t hungry or thirsty anymore. The latte and the pastry went straight into the trash. They felt tainted. She felt tainted. 

Only when she had stormed to the nearest bus stop, eyes averted to the ground, and the rain truly started to soak through her cardigan, did she realize that she had forgotten her umbrella inside the coffee shop. She cursed under her breath and fought the urge to cry. There was no way she was going to go back there, no matter how much she liked that umbrella. It was cute, and it had been a gift from an old friend who called her the older sister she had always wanted. And of course, its practical use was now sorely missed, for the sprinkle had become a downpour, and the bus stop’s tiny awning did little to stop the inevitable drenching. 

How convenient, Maxine bitterly mused, feeling the predictable lump in her throat grow larger. In her moment of sadness and pain, this was the weather that accompanied the moment. She tucked her hands into the wet sleeves of her sweater and shivered.

“Hey.”

She looked up. The rain no longer touched her. A large, newsprint-covered umbrella hovered over her head. An older man also stood under it, the last remaining hairs on his head bristling as he looked toward the street. His wizened face caught whatever light was left of the day, his lips thin and white, as if he had told all his life stories already.

They stood under the umbrella together in silence at first. Cars whizzed by as if chasing one another. Water splashed up haphazardly from their tires. 

“You all right, love?” the old man asked, his voice thin and wheezy but full of genuine kindness. 

Maxine blinked and stifled a sob. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

“It’s no trouble. This umbrella’s big enough for the both of us.” He looked at her and gave her a gentle smile. “You’ve got a long way home?”

“Not too long. I take the 45.”

“Should be here in a minute, then. Do you have to walk after that?”

“Yeah, but only for five minutes. I’ll be fine.” 

The man didn’t seem convinced, but he nodded and exhaled loudly. “I haven’t seen summer rain like this since I served in Nam. Those were hellish monsoons - everything was sticky. And the mosquitoes. My god, it was a nightmare. This is nothing compared to it.” 

Maxine felt foolish for acting like her misadventure in the coffee shop had been so tame compared to this man’s obvious trauma. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be, love.” The man smiled again. “Just be sure to get yourself a nice umbrella, all right? Young lady like you shouldn’t catch your death of cold out here.” 

Young lady. This guy got it, at least. She was happy that she usually passed. 

“And may I just add, if you don’t mind an old cooter like me saying so,” he continued, “that that cardigan is absolutely lovely on you. The color suits you well. My wife has a cardigan just like that.” 

Maxine almost blushed. The 45 bus rolled around the corner at that point, and she lined up to board it. 

“Thank you again,” she called out to the man as he hobbled toward the awning. 

“Don’t mention it.” 

She slipped onto the bus, settled into a musty blue seat, and closed her eyes as the bus began to move.

*** 

The apartment was warm and comforting, and as Maxine stepped inside, her brown tabby, Bindy, bounded up to her as she always did, purring loudly. Maxine laughed and scritched the furry feline behind her ears, just as her roommate, Charlie, shouted from the kitchen. 

“Hey, you’re home!” They entered the living room, all undercut and flannel shirt and ripped jeans. “I thought you had a full shift.” 

“Nah. Four hours. Slow day.” 

Charlie smiled. They had been Maxine’s roommate for over a year now, and they got along quite well. It helped that Charlie was non-binary, so they certainly understood what it was like to be misgendered constantly. 

“Did you get yourself a pumpkin spiced latte?” they asked, as Maxine pulled off her still damp cardigan and hung it up in the hallway closet. “I know you’ve been dying for one.”

“I wasn’t able to,” Maxine lied. “I just wanted to get home.” 

“Really?” Charlie clicked their tongue, then smirked mischievously. “Well, in that case, you can be my taste tester! I’ve been experimenting with something.” 

“‘Experimenting?’” Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good. 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Charlie insisted, disappearing back into the kitchen. “It’s not the beef casserole I tried last weekend, okay?” 

“All right,” muttered Maxine, though she was still skeptical. Bindy mewed loudly beside her, demanding another petting session. 

Once the tabby had gotten enough pampering (which was never enough in Bindy’s eyes), Maxine joined Charlie, only to find them pouring an orange-brown concoction into two white mugs. At first, she couldn’t figure out what it was: Then, she smelled it. Ah, the smells were divine! Cinnamon. Sugar. The perfect hint of espresso. And some extra spice, perhaps? 

“I thought you’d come to your senses and forego the store crap,” Charlie explained, as they handed a steaming mug to Maxine. “So I decided to make my own pumpkin spiced latte for you. Finally put that espresso machine and milk frother I got for Christmas to good use. I added some nutmeg, too. For some kick.” 

“You are so extra,” giggled Maxine, lifting the mug to her lips and blowing on the brew. 

“Hey, you’re the basic bitch who demands four dollar coffee,” countered Charlie. “So consider it a present. A real latte for a real woman.”

They both sat down on the couch with their beverages, and Charlie turned on a Youtube video. But Maxine was somewhere else. She had taken her first sip of homemade pumpkin spice latte. Heavenly. She would never have to go to another transphobic coffee shop again.

This was a short story I wrote in order to model short story writing for my English 1 class. The stories they worked on needed to be focused on a scenario in which the main character faced some form of prejudice and discrimination. I'm looking forward to sharing it with them during class this week!