The Perfect Blend (7 page)

Is God in the details?

W
ill Grey draws a neat, perfect square on the whiteboard. “Square footage. For those of you in the retail sector, this is the measuring stick for ninety percent of your operations. For those of you in the service sector, it's less important depending on the type of business you're proposing, but it can't be overlooked.” He's in a dark suit and tie tonight, one-hundred-percent serious businessman. I wonder if it's for my benefit.

“Josh Mason.” Will points at the man I call cyber-guy. Josh wants to fire up VibeNet, the next fabulous people-connecting Internet engine. Long hair, knit cap, artful glasses, goatee. Handsome and charismatic but with a geeky edge. A haircut that looks like he never combs it but probably ran him two hundred dollars. Drives to class in either a Jeep
or one of those European scooters. His laptop is hands-down the coolest gadget I've ever seen. And you should see his cell phone. I have a feeling I'll be seeing Josh on the cover of
Small Business Tycoons Monthly
in five years, if not fewer.

“Yep?” Josh pokes his head up over his laptop.

Believe it or not, Josh is my ideal Higher Grounds customer. Think about it: how likely is someone like Josh—in all his intellectual superiority—to darken the door of a church? I know this is a sweeping generalization, but it will be the same type of sweeping generalization that will keep Josh from ever giving Christianity a serious thought. You've got to fight that kind of thinking out in the everyday grind of the real world, not from a church pew.

I could get Josh to show up at Higher Grounds for a cup of coffee. He might resist at first, but I'd get him eventually. Then, we'd start doing what people do over coffee—talk. And even though I could never match philosophical wits with Josh, I could introduce him—over coffee, of course—to someone who could. A lively, engaging debate would ensue. That's where things would get interesting. Where Josh meets people who think like him, but have discovered that Jesus makes sense to people who think like him.

All this happens because we've found a common ground for people of faith to meet people who need faith. An accessible meeting place where faith meets the world and the world meets faith. Where
common ground
gets taken to a
higher ground.

Ahem.
I've digressed just a bit. But now you see my passion for the subject. You see why I can't let this dream go no matter how high the price.

Back to today's lesson.

“Josh, what kind of square footage do you need?” Will asks.

“I'm in cyberspace, man.” Josh spreads his hands. “No walls, no limits.”

“Just you, your brilliance and few gigabytes, that's it?”

Josh smiles confidently. “That's the beauty of it. Tiny start-up cost, millions to be made.”

“Planning to explode on the scene, work like a dog for two or three years, then sell it for a multi-million-dollar profit and retire to Fiji, are you?” Will sits on his desk. I've noticed he always sits like that before making a big point.

“Something like that, yeah.”

“And the computers, electricity, files, paperwork, desks, lamps and such go where?”

“Got that all figured out,” replies Josh. “I got a huge garage with a heater in it. Half of Silicon Valley started in a garage, so I figure I'm just keeping with tradition.”

“And when VibeNet goes global,” Will gets up and returns to the whiteboard, “which, of course, it will, you'll need employees and their files and their computers and their desks and—” he throws a look over his shoulder to the class “—is there anyone here waiting for their chance to work in a garage?”

“I'll have my millions by then so it won't be a problem.”

“There's where you're wrong.” Will draws a long line from one end of the whiteboard to the other. He makes a big dot at the left end and writes Launch above it. “I'm not saying you won't make millions, Josh, but you can't
assume
you'll make millions.” He makes a mark two-thirds of the way down the line. “It'll take you six months to find an adequate facility that can grow as fast as your company can.”

Will draws a squiggly line back from the two-thirds mark to a new mark one-third down the line. “You'll need to know exactly when you're six months out from expansion, what benchmarks you'll hit when you get to that stage and how much extra capital you'll need to make it happen.” He puts a question mark over the one-third mark he just drew. “In short—and this lesson is for all of you—you can't just make it up as you go along. Business is too unforgiving for that.” Will stares right at me. “For someone like Maggie, with very high start-up costs and high customer variables, it's absolutely crucial. Your plan, Maggie, may be the most crucial of all.”

He's never called me Maggie in front of the class before. And he's singling me out. As someone who needs the most help. I think I'm entitled to get my dander up in this circumstance. Why couldn't he go pick on Mr. Mushroom Pasta Sauce over there? He's got to buy a whole industrial kitchen and packing facility. That's got to be more complicated than a coffee shop.

So now you understand why I stomped down the
hallway after Will the minute class was over. “What's the deal singling me out?”

“Maggie, I…”

“And you called me Maggie in class. Forget the Miss Black? All of a sudden it's Maggie?”

Will thumps his stack of books down on his office desk. “Very well then,
Miss Black,
I'll be more careful in the future.” His eyes darkened over in a split second.

“Fine.”

“And I did not single you out.”

“You did. Jerry Davis has the same issues as me. If not more. I didn't see you pointing at him.”

“I did not point at you. And Jerry Davis has already turned in a comprehensive financial plan. With his
first
loan application. Unlike you.”

That was a low blow. “So what on earth is he doing in class?”

“Because he needs to learn marketing and salesmanship.
Unlike you.
”

Earl Grey must have been captain of the debate team. He just put me in my place and complimented me at the same time. That's not fair. “I hate that planning stuff. I'm terrible at it. Most of it seems useless to me when you factor in all the stuff than can affect a business like mine.”

Will simply glares. He could silence a pack of my nephews with a single glance.

“I hate this stuff,” I repeat. “I think you know I hate it. It takes all the faith out it.”

Will looks both surprised and exasperated. Like
he thinks I'm blaming him—which, of course, I sort of am. “This is business,” he says, his glare softening into something more like concern. “This has nothing to do with faith.”

“You're wrong.” In fact, he couldn't be more wrong.

“Am I?”

Okay, I wasn't going to get into this with him, but he's asking for it. “You read my application. You know this is a coffeehouse with a Christian atmosphere. It has everything to do with faith. You told me on the rugby pitch that you're a man of faith. You, of all people, should respect the fact that God gave me the vision to open this coffeehouse. I've not been able to think about anything else since He gave me this idea. This is God's plan and I trust Him with the rest of it. Trust, Will. Surely you get that. Trust and faith, even in business. Maybe especially in business. What I'm doing is all about faith and business. Because for me—and lots of other people God took very seriously—business is all about faith. Did Joseph have a business plan to become Pharaoh's right-hand man? Did Moses have an itinerary before he left Egypt? God doesn't always give us the plan. That's why it's
called
faith.”

Will looks momentarily blindsided by my speech. I cross my arms over my chest to keep myself from saying
So there!
at the end of my lesson on Faith Without Facts.

“You're wrong.”

How can he state it so simply like that? I'm
revising my three-word list on Will Grey.
Exasperating
now tops the list.

“I am not.”
Ooo, clever comeback, Mags.
Please. That's the second time we've had that little juvenile exchange. What is it about this guy that gets me into argue-mode so quickly?

Will holds up a single finger. “Joseph,” he replies, glaring me down, “had a long-range plan that covered fourteen years of feast and famine.” He ticks off another finger. “Moses gave specific directions to divide the people up into tribes so that they traveled in distinct groups with distinct responsibilities. Which makes him,” he folds his fingers into a point aimed straight between my eyes, “the first biblical occurrence of management delegation, if you care to know. And even Noah had specific building plans, down to the square cubit, mind you. Square footage, Miss Black. Just like we covered in class. Faith and planning are not enemies.”

“Fine. Facts are good. Check. But don't you see? I don't need to know all the details now. What I need is to get
started
now.”

“Don't you see?” Will fires back. “You
are
getting started. This is part of getting started. It doesn't all begin the moment you fill someone's coffee cup and take their money.” His look is so intense that my throat tightens. “You have passion. You have vision. You live for what you're going to be doing. All those things are vital and they'll take you far. But they'll only take you
so
far.” Will takes a breath, as if catching himself up. “Look at it this
way,” he continues in a softer voice, “it takes a while to get the details lined up, but the faith is knowing
you will get there.
”

“Do you believe I'll get there?” I blurt out, suddenly consumed with the need to know his answer.

“I believe part of God's plan for Higher Grounds is that you get your tactics straight before you get there. And I believe,” he continues even more quietly, “that you are here because God wants you here. And I am here because God wants me here.”

There is a stunned powerful silence between us. Something hugely important was just said.

“And I believe,” Will says with warmth stealing back into his voice, “that those things are not in opposition to each other.”

Well, folks, there you have it: the world's first declaration of mutual faith and begrudging admiration conducted by argument. Are we visionaries or what? I lean against his office doorway. “How come we're so good at this?”

“Good at what?”

“Arguing.”

“I could say because I'm always right and you're always wrong—”

“Hey!”

Will makes a surrender gesture, both hands flying up into the air. “—but that would only start another argument, wouldn't it?” He smiles and the air between us is filled with something warm and energetic and…highly dangerous. We linger in it for
a moment—too long a moment—until Will clears his throat and reaches for another book. “Yes, well, you'd best be going.”

“Yes, of course. Lots to do.” I gather up my stuff. As I head out the door, he calls out.

“Miss Black?”

“Yes?” I turn, expectant for no reason at all.

“Keep the faith, Maggie. I'll get you there.”

A whole lot more bearable

“N
o, Margaret, don't.”

Nancy Chang nearly drops her floral sheers, her eyebrows lowering ominously as she prepares to launch into one of her speeches. Only I'm not in trouble now—well, not really. I've just told her I'm leaving GreenThings to work for a large coffee-bar chain for three months. No, the other one: Carter's Coffees. Seattle used to be the only city where that would be a multiple choice question. The rest of the world is catching up rapidly, however. And I'm going to work for the establishment. For Carter's Coffees, the big bad guys the whole world thinks is out to get all the little coffee shacks, booths, kiosks and independent shops that can be found on nearly every corner of this city.

You'd think I just told her I was going to work
for some sort of orphan-beating gangsters. Her reaction was that strong—and that negative. And that was just the part of the speech that was in English. When Nancy really gets riled about something, she switches to Chinese, even though she speaks perfectly good English. Carter's Coffees got called a few choice names in Chinese. I didn't ask for a translation.

I told Nancy I might be coming back afterward—but only because she looked like she might crumble into tiny bits.

But I'm not coming back. Those three months are just an education. On-the-job training. Every article and every book I've read on how to open your own coffee bar suggests you do a stint at one of the big chains to learn the ropes. At first, I admit I thought it way beneath me. I don't like those guys, even if their consistency has won them international acclaim. But you have to admit, they might know their stuff. Anyone making upwards of four dollars on an infusion of tiny brown beans people used to only pay thirty-five cents a cup for can't be that dumb.

I didn't see that until Will explained the value of research. The widespread error of entrepreneurs reinventing the wheel. Then, I saw the brilliance in it. Why repeat someone else's mistakes? Take brand X's hideous layout and change it while you employ brand Y's excellent brewing consistency. Visiting them is one thing—and trust me, I've visited them all hundreds of times. But working there, I'll see their dark underbelly. It's a great
strategy, provided I can stomach the oh-so-trendy souls some of these stores pull in as employees. Come on, you know what I mean. Those activist-rock-star types who sneer at you for insisting on whole milk instead of the organic gluten-free shade-grown soy they'd recommend.

I'll just think of it as a mission field. That's right, I'm on a mission from God and I will not be shaken.

Except, maybe, by the icy look in Nancy Chang's formidable eyes. “You are so much better than that!” she pronounces in her clipped accent. “Wait-ress.” It sounds like a curse the way she says it.

“Barista,” I correct her.

She shoots me one of her looks. Why do I attract people with death-ray eyes into my life?

“That big place? With no heart or soul? Did I teach you
nothing?
” She makes an indignant noise through her nose, looking at me as if I'm about to take the express train to my own doom. “You'll be back.”

As far as she's concerned, any company with more than fifty employees is corrupt and can't be trusted. They don't call my neighborhood The Artists' Republic of Fremont for nothing.

“You know how much I love coffee,” I offer, collecting fern leaves into a plastic bin. A burst of highly dramatic music from the tiny black-and-white television playing her Chinese soap opera seems to punctuate the moment. “I'll be happy,” I declare, just because I need something to say or I'll squirm right out of my skin. When it fails to placate,
I retreat into the storage refrigerator, putting away the ferns and escaping her ongoing glare.

“You'll hate it by the end of the month.” She calls, clipping a leaf stem with a nasty
snip.

“Come on now, Nancy, do you hate flowers just because you work with them every day?” I ask, coming out of the refrigerator. “Sure, it's corporate coffee, but it's still coffee.
I
drink their stuff.”

Nancy selects a bird of paradise and inserts it into the arrangement she's creating. Her words are as spiky as the bloom. “I am not a machine for making money.” She adjusts the bloom until it is angled just so, turning the vase this way and that to check the lines. “I am an artist making beauty. I make beauty every day.” She stops, satisfied with her design, then points the shears at me and growls, “You, you will just be making coffee for grumpy, tired people who couldn't care less.”

For all her angry judgment, Nancy's got a point. A good segment of your coffee-bar-customer population is grumpy and tired. Lots of people go to coffeehouses for celebration and conversation, but there's a whole other sector that just want their caffeine fix. The faster, the stronger, the better. If chatting them up while I get the milk temperature j-u-s-t right takes ninety seconds more, they might go elsewhere. Someplace with a drive-through. Something, by the way, that I don't want.)

My customers will walk in. And they'll walk in again and again after they taste my triple-shot caramel macchiato. My brother called it my
Porsche Potion because it was smooth and super-powered like the sports car.

That's me. Zero to sixty in under ten ounces.

 

“From order to drink in under six minutes.”

That's lesson number one at Carter's Coffeeschool. I'm sitting in yet another stark classroom, crammed into one of those desk-chair contraptions I remember from high school. How did I go from a great life to not one but
two
kinds of classes each week?

Coffeeschool isn't coffee, it's math. Formulas. Slogans and acronyms. Step by step preparation outlines. Manuals. Forms to fill out.
Forms,
for crying out loud. You remember how much I hate forms, right?

Remind me why doing a stint at corporate was a good idea last week? Remind me why I'm dragging myself through the rain and traffic downtown every day instead of walking three lovely, art-filled blocks to work amongst the blossoms?

“I hate forms,” says a deep voice with a Latin-American accent to my left. I look up to see a pair of espresso-brown eyes peering at me from over an employee manual. “Nobody ever brewed a great cup of coffee using a spreadsheet.”

“As a filter, maybe?” I reply, thinking I may have found a kindred free spirit amongst the corporate rank-and-grounds.

“Think they'd let us? I'd start with page 134.” My conspirator is a friendly young man about my
age with long, wavy brown hair. He wears an olive green T-shirt and tan cargo pants. Sort of an exotic adventurer look that not every guy could pull off—not that successfully, anyway. “That whole chapter is useless,” he continues. “But then, what kind of brew would come out of boiling water and laser-printer ink?” He mimes tearing the page out of the manual. “Not organic in the slightest.” He smirks a bit at the thought, then extends a hand. “Renato Oliviera.” He has the coolest ring I've ever seen. “But everyone usually calls me Nate.”

“Maggie Black.”

“Glad to meet you, Maggie Black. What number?”

No, he's not asking for my phone number, he's asking for my store number. We all were hired by different stores across the city, but we spend our first three days in training here at—and I will try not to choke on this phrase—corporate headquarters.

“Twenty-six.” In Belltown. Not as bad as the heart of the financial district, but not my beloved Fremont, either.

“Hey, me, too.” And how did I miss the even cooler cross around his neck?

“I'm thinking store number twenty-six just got a whole lot more bearable,” Nate says with a grin.

You know, I was just thinking the same thing.

 

Carter's Coffees—store number twenty-six—
was
a treasure trove of information. For example,
your average coffee-bar employee stays on the job about eight seconds. No, not really, it's more like 1.5 years, but it feels like eight seconds. Turnover is a big issue in this business. You've just gotten someone trained and they go off to law school or Microwhatever to get their real job.

Nate Oliveira and I became better friends as the week went on. Very cool guy. Artistic spirit, friendly, witty, loves coffee and—drum roll, please—committed Christian. Kindred spirit indeed!
Thanks, God.

I mastered store number twenty-six in the first four hours. I admit it, the bank's business classes are giving me an advantage here. I grasp the bigger picture better than most of the new employees (and lots of the old employees, for that matter). I'm feeling supersmart and my manager treats me very well. Should I be impressed with myself that I was managing a shift in my first week? Or unimpressed with Carter's standard for management material?

In any case, when the time came to do my equipment worksheet for class, I had it all right here in the manual. I used their list as a template, upgraded in a few places, lost the boring tableware and the nasty logo aprons, and turned in my assignment
early.
Early! Even Will's secretary, Bea, had her mouth open at that one. She gave me three peppermints out of her jar and a very approving look.

Why the promptness, you ask? Because the big bad brewing corporation wouldn't give me Wednesday night off no matter what I said. My beloved
auntie could have been on her deathbed, gasping to bequeath her millions to me with her final breaths, but unless I'd already accrued two hundred work hours, I'd still be stuck slinging coffee.

So I missed class.

After I've missed enough class already.

I suppose, then, that I shouldn't have been surprised when his lordship showed up at good ole store number twenty-six at the end of my shift. Looking supremely British and supremely agitated.

“You
are
here. Brilliant.”

I wiped the surprise off my face while wiping down a table. “No kidding. Why so stunned?”

Will swipes a hand down his face and looks around. “Well, when Bea handed me your assignment and your note, I'm ashamed to say I didn't believe her.”

Points for honesty. No points for tact. “You thought I was cutting class?” Of course, right after I said that, I realized he had
every reason
to think I was cutting class. I cut class before for pure vanity. Cutting for something else—
anything
else—should be easy to believe.

“Maggie Black unable to attend class because she's taken a job at Carters? A giant corporate chain coffeehouse?”

“You said it would be a good idea,” I counter.

“My point exactly. You don't have a history of agreeing with my good ideas.”

Nate comes out from the back room with a box of napkins. “Friend of yours?”

Now, how would you answer that question? I decide not to. “Nate Oliveira, this is William Grey.”

Nate extends a hand. It looks odd: artsy Nate shaking hands with suit-clad Will. “Pleased to meet you, Nate,” says Will. Nate just nods.

“Come to get Maggie off her shift?”

“Well…”

What do you know? Inscrutable William Grey actually flusters.