I dreamt of becoming a barista once upon a moment of my elementary days. I was inspired by the coffee maker at the downtown of Puerto Princesa. I remember correctly, I had my first matcha coffee there when they offered it the first time. Its texture wasn’t as frothy as a usual caffè latté should be, but man, that matcha coffee got me on the hook with matcha until now.

I watched how the barista carefully ground the coffee beans into powder and got them in thingamabobs to be transformed into their liquid version. He then added the matcha powder to warm tablespoons of water before mixing it with a small broom-like wood to make this creamy green texture. After that, he would steam and froth milk before mixing in the sweet, good matcha and pouring it right into the coffee, stylizing it with a cute green leaf-like foam. It was my go-to drink whenever I was happy, I was angry, I was stressed, or whatever emotion I was feeling at the time. There’s something about matcha that makes me want to crave more. It’s like I’m dependent on it.

I smiled at the thought, bringing myself back to the reality.

During the wee hours of the shop, before it officially opened, we were given a quick trip down the lane so that our motherfucking manager here knew where we would need assistance. That involves making us create cappuccino.

“Eh? But why?” queried your confused Arthur, who was already at the brink of the unknown.

“What do you mean ‘why?’ Like, ‘Why am I wanting you to make something?’ or ‘Why cappuccino and not matcha latté?’”

“Well, er,” I stammered. Wait, what—stammered? No, no, no, no puede Arturo, putang ina nga naman, ¿Santa María por qué es eso? I facepalmed my face in defeat.

“Well, what?” Kaizer went to the drawer and pulled out some whole coffee beans. Its aroma exudes across the whole counter, fragrant like eau de parfum. “Answer number one: I want to know where I will fit in when I teach you the other things you should be doing as a barista.” He scooped two grams of those beans and shoved them into a small cup with a digital weighing scale underneath it. It is black in color and has LED lighting. He weighed it to just exactly 18 grams. No more, no less. He sprayed something in the cup—water, I think—before shoving the contents into a grinder and throttling it to life.

Before I could even open my mouth to ask what the hell he had sprayed on the coffee beans, Gale interjected. “It’s just plain ol’ water. Nothing special, Arthur. Helps remove the static energy.” He patted my back, and it felt like I got tasered in surprise. Even my Arthur, Jr. was surprised, too, when he said my name. I noticed Kaizer glared at me, signaling me to look at his work and not wander my eyes on others.

The grinder stopped running when all of its contents were falling into this cup before being transferred to a canister-like case with a long handle. It looks like a big spoon with a flat cylinder base. It was silverish, compared to its black handle, and looked like a strainer at the bottom. Won’t that fall off there, by any chance? I stopped my mouth from asking another question, and I just continued watching the craftwork.

Kaizer started putting a hollow black cylinder with a cone-shaped base in the canister. He got a small round brush—that kind of brush you use on your head as a massager but rather a smaller version of it—and skimmed the grounded coffee beans to distribute its contents. Probably, the cylinder prevents those beans from falling to the ground.

When he finished skimming it, he took off the cylinder and took another cylinder with a rotating base. It’s like a small fan, probably to even out the distribution. He shoved it into the canister and rotated the cylinder twice before removing it. Finally, he took another cylinder where it would compress those beans fully by being pushed using a thumb or a palm. After that, he topped it with a thick round mesh.

“This,” Kaizer noted, breaking the silence that surrounded the whole counter, holding the canister in his hand, “is a portafilter. This is where the ground coffee will go.”

He took another thick round mesh and held it to our eye’s reach. “This is a puck. It helps keep our espresso machine clean.”

“And how about this one?” Gale asked while holding the cylinder used to compress those beans. He examined the cylinder with cute, inquisitive eyes.

“That’s a tamper.” He held the other cylinder, the one that was used to distribute the beans. Obviously, he called them distributors. The hollow cylinder is called a dousing ring, and the brush a blind shaker.

“These three are commonly used so that no beans will be wasted,” butted Sean. “I’m actually impressed by his elegance in the making as if the procedure is so . . . ‘sacred’ is the word in my head.”

“You’re too obvious in wanting to be the boss’s pet, Sean,” rammed the nonchalant Luke as he pinched again Sean’s ear downwards. I smirked at the two’s exchange before my eyes fell back towards the devil’s work. Kaizer locked the portafilter in the espresso machine and set the pressure to a nine. He left it for five seconds before releasing it on a readied cup, where underneath is the small black digital weighing scale from before. Gooey brown liquid spouted out of the portafilter’s base onto the cup until it weighed exactly 25.200 grams before loosening the pressure to a six.

He then grabbed a package of whole milk from the small fridge on the side and poured it into a small metal pitcher until the milk reached the starting point of the spout. Then, he released a little steam and water on a metal stick on the side of the espresso machine before shoving the pitcher on it. He turned on the metal stick, and we heard some buzzing sound coming from the milk. It seems that he is inserting water and steam into the milk so fast that the milk is turning counter-clockwise. His right hand enveloped the whole pitcher, acting as his thermometer. He turned off the espresso side of the machine when the coffee reached the 36-gram mark. A few seconds later, he turned off the stick's side. He then again releases a few steams and water before wiping it with what seems to be a microfiber cloth.

He gently tapped the pitcher on the counter before grabbing the cup of coffee and pouring in the milk. He initially poured it from high above before slowly going back into the surface of the cup and finishing the cup with a leaf art in the cappuccino.

“Answer number two,” said Kaizer, “is that cappuccino is the basic latté among all lattés. We’ll get into those coffees later when I can assure myself that you can at least make one cappuccino.” He left the cappuccino at the counter for us to see. “I want to see how you all would make it. I will be using this cappuccino as our taste basis.”  Kaizer looked at me, and I knew he wanted me to go first. I took a deep breath and rolled my eyes.

“Fine.”

“The coffee is not brewed enough, and the milk is not steamed enough.”

I . . . wanted to wreck the brains of this motherfucker right here, right now. This was the second cup I had made; the first one, he complained that the milk was steamed too much. I clenched my fists to stop myself from snapping. I mumbled instead, “I’m gonna find a book about coffee and smash it over your goddamn head, you son of a bitch.” Kaizer smirked, and I clenched my fists tighter before breathing out. “Welp,” I said.

“Been there, done that.” Kaizer looked at Gale and gestured for him to start the practice.

“Aye, aye, cap’.” Gale went for the machines and copied what Kaizer did when he first made the cappuccino. As Gale swiftly and charmingly stroked his hands on each gizmo, I found myself looking at them and smiling unconsciously as I slumped on the counter.

“Geez, Arthur—right?” Sean said, bringing me back to reality, “You seem to swoon on Gale more than Luke does—ouch!” I glimpsed at Sean, having his ear pulled again by the ever-so-nonchalant Luke. “Sheesh, Loki, do you have a kink in ear-pinching?”

“You’re just jealous you’re not Gale,” bickered Luke. Sean shrugged at the thought. Needless to say, he’s used to the other guy’s sly remarks. I wonder whether Sean had a day where Luke wasn’t such a tease.

“Maybe yes, maybe no.” Sean teased and flashed a smile to Luke.

“And I’m done.” Gale handed Kaizer the freshly brewed cappuccino, and he tasted it. Kaizer smiled faintly and nodded his head.

“Not bad, not bad.” Kaizer handed me the cup, and I reluctantly took it. “You taste it, Art.”

“Ah, no. No, thank you.” I quickly placed the cursed cup on the table. “I think the coffee is good, even when I don’t taste it.”

Kaizer shrugged, “Suit yourself.” As he was about to take the cup from the table, someone knocked on the glass door. I glimpsed in the direction of the door and saw a gorgeous man in a blue suit holding a large canvas. It had a painting etched on it, and it looked so melancholic, I guess? “The painting has just arrived, I see.”

Kaizer grabbed the handle of the glass door and there the man entered the facility. They greeted each other as if they’d been best of friends. Oh, nonsense. Except for Roxie, I don’t know that he actually manages to attain a friend. Or maybe I underestimated him. Kaizer took the painting and placed it on the side.

“That’ll be free of charge; take it as my welcoming gift for The Espresso.” The man smiled and went on his way, but Kaizer held his hand, stopping the painter in his tracks.

“Thanks, Lucas. I’ll refer you to the mayor here if he will need some paintings to be done.” Lucas blushed, lost for words before composing himself.

“It’s Amadeo, geez,” the painter reminded. He went closer to the motherfucker and caressed his chin. I gave him a side-eye and Gale noticed it, chuckling silently and mouthing: Probably, the gaydar ain’t working well. “We’re past the point of last name basis, Kaizer, mon amour.” Kaizer, in all awkwardness, stepped aside and laughed nervously.

“I—yes, yes, Amadeo.”

“Oh, mon amour—j’adore le fait que tu sois si timide alors que tu as fait trembler le lit la dernière fois.” Sean’s eyes widened, and Luke smirked. What the fuck does this Amadeo, Lucas, or whatever this painter’s name is, saying?  I looked at Luke and Sean in confusion.

“Nope, not telling,” Sean shook his head and grinned. Jesus Christ, why in all languages I did not focus on French during high school?

Kaizer shushed Amadeo with his index finger and nervously looked at his surroundings. We quickly composed ourselves so as not to make the atmosphere any more weirder than this. “Pas aujourd’hui, Amadeo, s’il vous plait.” Amadeo, in turn, looked around him. His eyes met mine, confused, but something in him felt like he had found his answer.

“Oh, I—I get it.” Amadeo, in a flash, became more formal and composed himself, glimpsing back to Kaizer with a faint smile. “But in any case, Kaizer. I appreciate it. I gotta go; au revoir.” He left the premises, and Kaizer anxiously waved his hands en el adios. Gale went towards him and nudged his shoulder to his.

“Looks like some gay has his briefs falling down for you, boss.”

“Not funny, ha-ha,” Kaizer grumbled and sighed. “I can’t with Amadeo Lucas.”

Kaizer looked at me with all the melancholy in his eyes for I don’t know what reason: Is he sad that another gay is hitting on him, or what? It felt like he was telling me that this was the reason why he bullied me during junior high. If that’s the case, I swear to God I never hit on him, not even in a million years! “What? Just because a gay already hit on you means I would hit on you.” I snorted in disgust while crossing my arms. Sean and Luke meanwhile looked at me as if they were noticing something heavy in the atmosphere. Gale gestured for them to shush their mouth, probably scenting my distaste with our beloved boss. God, why did I even get here?

Kaizer shrugged and went back to the painting that Amadeo had left to him. Yes, it was melancholic, just like I had imagined. The painting depicted a young man curled up in a leather chair, his face buried in his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. Beside the chair stood another man holding a cup of coffee whose steam was rising from it. He’s gazing at a bridge shrouded in a misty haze through the open French windows. There seems to be a black silhouette falling from the bridge, which, my guess, would be a person trying to end their own life by jumping to the depths of the sea.

Kaizer hung the painting on the wall next to the counter, next to us, actually. I saw the title of the painting on the edge, “Julius,” it says.

 “You need not worry about what’s on your mind, Art.” Kaizer looked at me, eye to eye. Shivers went down my spine because I know that kind of look: it’s as if he wants to rip your life a-whole. “I never thought about it even for a second.” He grinned before going back to his business, gesturing for Sean and Luke to try making a cappuccino.

W­–what the fuck was that?