Just before I cross the Aurora Bridge, it starts to rain, and my hands go white-knuckled on my steering wheel. I flip on my windshield wipers, grimacing each time they lift as they make a horrible squeaking sound. While I love the rain of the PNW, it makes the metal grating of the Aurora Bridge slippery as hell and causes my anxiety to go sky high when I have to travel over it. It’s the thing I hate about my city the most and all of my daredevil, rush-hour traffic maneuvers grind to a halt as I slow my speed down to a near crawl, clearly pissing people behind me off.
As I inch across the bridge, I ponder that what I do love about Seattle can’t be found in tourist attractions or guidebooks. It’s the cultural diversity that attracts me to stay here despite the bad traffic and rainy weather. It’s the environmental conscience of most of the residents, a shared love and commitment to keep our planet healthy and whole. It’s the vibrant art scene and gorgeous scenery that’s unparalleled. Sure, call me a granola cruncher, but there’s not a lovelier place in the world to live than my city, especially on a clear day when you can see west across the Puget Sound to soaring views of the Olympic Mountains, or the even clearer days when Mount Rainier shines from the south with its snowcapped peak. I’ve heard that it can even be seen as far away as Oregon and British Columbia, but I’ve not seen that with my own eyes, mainly because I’m not much of a traveler.
Of course, that’s more by circumstance than desire, as I pretty much live hand to mouth working as a coffee shop manager in an expensive city and am too poor to travel.
I park in a garage two blocks from where I work. There’s a light mist—nothing that could actually be called rain—so I leave my umbrella tucked away as I move with the pedestrian crowd. It’s not enough to get my clothes wet, but the mist will wreak havoc on my hair.
My dad always used to say, “Finley… if you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life”.
I know that to be true because I really love my job and never think it’s a burden in any way. I even get a little squeeze of fondness in my heart when the front door of the coffee shop comes into view.
It’s called One Bean, and it’s the most amazing place ever.
Recessed in between a pharmacy and a small branch bank on 6th Avenue, the exterior is a worn red brick. The front door is solid wood on the bottom, painted black, with paned glass on the top. Just above the door is a small sign in white cursive lettering that says One Bean. I’m sure many marketers would frown on such a horrible effort of getting the shop noticed, especially since it’s recessed inward by about ten feet, but the owner was far smarter than they’d expect. As the shop itself is two stories, there’s a small balcony above the door that holds two tables where patrons can sit on a nice day. It’s bordered with black wrought-iron railing and attached to the exterior of said railing is the word COFFEE, done in marquis lettering three feet tall and blazing with light bulbs along each letter.
Edison light bulbs are also strung across the width of the recessed space, crisscrossed back and forth, and it provides for a magical atmosphere at night. I freaking love this place.
We open at six for the early morning commuters, and my day-shift manager, Lisa, has the place in tip-top shape by the time I walk in at eight. The interior is packed, and three espresso machines are chugging behind the counter at the same time. Glass cases on either side of the two registers showcase a delicious array of pastries, muffins, yogurts, granolas, cookies, breads, and other sweet edibles to have with coffee—or tea for the weird ones.
Glancing around with pride, I take in every filled table. The inside of One Bean is as charming and eclectic as the outside. The walls are the same worn red brick, and the flooring is reclaimed pine. The tables are bleached oak, and the chairs have the same matching wood on the seats, but the back and legs are painted black. Immediately to the left of the entrance is a floating staircase that leads up to the second floor, which has about half the space as the first floor. It’s a popular spot, and I know there won’t be an empty seat up there either.
I make eye contact with Lisa, who has been at One Bean for almost five years now. She wears her hair shorn into a buzz cut, which one might think would make her look mannish. On the contrary, her face is delicately feminine, and her makeup is so expertly applied that it enhances her beauty. She is always wearing some type of floating, gauzy dress, usually patterned in flowers or butterflies, giving her a bit of a hippie vibe. This totally contradicts all the piercings in her face—at least seven or eight in each ear, an eyebrow bar, a nose ring, and a stud on the outside of her lower lip. She’s like a patchwork of different styles, which is another reason I love working here. We aren’t required to wear uniforms, and we’re encouraged to be ourselves.
Lisa’s working behind the counter, and she gives me a chin lift. I point to the bathrooms down a short hall to the right, then to my hair. She grins, knowing exactly what I mean, given the weather outside and my unruly mop.
Weaving through the line of customers waiting to place their order, I head into the women’s bathroom. Same red brick walls and pine floors. Amber-colored bowl sinks are set into a wooden vanity with two stalls done in lacquered black paint.
It’s empty and as I step up to the mirror, I blow a frustrated sigh out of my mouth. Placing my backpack on the wooden top, I fish out a hair tie.
My mom was a redhead like me, but I only know that from the stories my dad tells or by old pictures of her. But my red is a bit different.
“Like fire,” my dad would always exclaim with pride. It’s vivid, bright, and loud.
And there’s a bunch of it. It hangs midway down my back and despite the fact I rarely cut it, it has various layers. Moreover, my hair can’t decide which way it wants to behave. Half is a mass of coiled curls that, when pulled taut, would reach my butt. The other half is merely wavy. When the two intermix, it makes for a crazy, hard-to-tame mane—and that’s on a good day. It’s impossible to manage on a misty day.
As such, I gather it up into a huge messy knot on top of my head. A few of the wavy shorter pieces fall out and frame my face.
I take a second to study said face, knowing I look like my mom there, too. Classic heart-shape, pale skin, adequately full lips, and I was blessed with the best eyebrow shape in the history of women’s eyebrows. They are delicately arched and rarely need to be plucked.
My most striking feature, by far, is my eyes, but far be it from me to be the one to laud my peepers. So many people comment on them—even strangers stop me on the street. From a few feet away, they are a strange bluish-green tint. Up close though, the colors don’t actually mesh but are differentiated. Close to my pupils are rings of gold, which striate into a circle of green, which melts into an outer border of blue. In my life, I’ve never seen another person with eyes like mine and sometimes that can make me feel overly strange.
My dad used to say that on the night I was born, an angel shot a bolt of magic into me, which fried my hair into curls and filled my eyes with the heavens.
Of course, my dad was nutters, so it wasn’t something I believed. I just found it to be charming.
Finished with my perusal, I leave the women’s bathroom and step across the hall to the office. I’m the only one other than the owner who has a key, and I unlock it to open the door enough to toss my backpack inside. The other employees have lockers in the small break room at the end of the hall. After locking it back up, I head to the heartbeat of the shop.