“It’s not that big of a deal,” she said. “I mean, I really. I didn’t. No, I didn’t really want coffee. Not really, anyway.” Ten seconds earlier, she held a precariously balanced iced vanilla latte between her philosophy textbook, a day planner, and a hand-me-down iPhone 13 from her grandmother. Unlike other twenty-somethings, she refused to carry a purse, putting her identification and debit card in what could hardly be called a front pocket of her jeans. Her graphic t-shirt looked like a Rorschach inkblot test, obscuring the Fab Four, John, Paul, George, and Ringo.

“I can’t believe that you did that!” Standing a few people behind the coed was a soccer mom, sunglasses atop her shoulder-length hair, stylish clothing, and a string of big pears wrapped around her neck, accenting her tan cleavage. Her red heels clicked on the tile floor, slowly moving through the line. Something about her said she wasn’t used to waiting. Either that or she was naturally impatient. To say she was wearing something cheap, like Guess blue jeans, would insult her affluent husband. At least everything about her said that was the case. Any man dumb enough to stare would get a tongue-lashing, to say the least. Would she swear? Probably not, but you can never tell. “Sweetie, are you okay?” She stepped out of line to check on the girl, who wasn’t doing anything but standing in shock, looking at her book and planner, now covered with a vanilla latte.

The coed bent down, gracious as ever, and started picking up her stuff, seemingly oblivious to the embarrassment this should cause her. The T-shirt girl looked up at the woman. “No. I’m fine.”

“No. You are not, you sweet girl.” She didn’t help, nor was she going to bend over to help her pick up her stuff, but she did shout at the staff, “Can you stop what you are doing and help this girl? What is wrong with you people?” The gentleman who barreled into the girl wore a silk suit, gold Rolex, and Wayfarer sunglasses. Rushing out the door and staring at his phone, two other patrons stopped him. Covered in colorful tattoos and visible, atypical body piercings, he held a muscled arm across the door. The second patron, a woman with dreadlocks, wearing a bright tie-dyed broom skirt, Birkenstocks, and sunhat on the back of her head, said to the suit, “You, sir, are not going anywhere.” Tattoo guy looked down on him because he stood at least a foot taller than him. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to; he just shook his head. No.

Suit looked up and saw the tattoo guy holding his arm over the door. From the outside, someone attempted to push the door open, and he turned around, looked at a mousey-looking guy, and scowled. Looking scared, he ran from the door. Not running, but more like a panicked walk.

“Excuse me,” he said, touching the tattooed guy’s arm. “I’m late and need to be going.”

Tattoo guy stopped the door from opening. Hippie woman stood close enough for him to smell the sweet patchouli scent. Not that she would’ve done much except darken someone’s aurora. She could never do something so vile, knowing karma would visit her. Instead, she dug through a small pouch tied loosely around her waist, pulling out a small bundle of dried leaves.  

Soccer mom’s heels clicked over the tiles, holding her pearls to keep them from swinging wildly around her neck. “Ted? Ted Howard? That was you that knocked that sweet young lady over? Without so much as an apology?”

“No. Really. I’m fine.” Her Beatles t-shirt, now stained with coffee, was almost dry. “I’m going to leave. All of this really isn’t necessary.” The planner’s coffee-stained pages started wrinkling. But the woman wearing the pearls wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Nonsense, dear.” She snapped, and three workers behind the bar rushed to her. “You,” she snapped, pointing at the first girl rushing over to her. She had black hair and a nose ring, “get her another drink, and he,” she thumbed at the door, “will pay for it.”

“Marjorie, I don’t have time for this.” He glanced down at the Rolex again. Marjorie, the woman with the pearls, wasn’t having it.

“Ted, if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s when people like you treat young ladies like her,” she eyed the girl, “like second-class citizens. You have more manners than that. And I expect better from you.” She pointed at the tattoo guy. “Let him go, Bruno.” He shrugged and crossed his arms, standing next to the door, no longer blocking people from coming or going. He glared at Ted. “And you, hippie chick,” she pointed to the hippie woman, “sage the hell out of this young woman. Right now.” The hippie woman lit the sage, smiling and smudging the girl in the Beatles shirt with the smoke.

“You can’t light that in here,” one of the other workers said to her, trying to stop the hippie woman from cleansing the girl. “It’s against the fire code.”

“Who pays the fines if you get in trouble? The owner?”

“I suppose so,” the middle-aged man answered. His gray-black streaked hair looked like Gandalf, the wizard. He was busy mopping up the drink.

“Fine.” Marjorie snatched her phone out of her purse. “Yes, hi. No. No time for pleasantries. I need you to do something for me. Find out the owner’s name. I don’t care. Put everything else on hold.” She saw the black-haired girl come back with the coed’s drink. “What’s your name, dear?”

“P.J.,” she answered, blushing.

“P.J.?” She shook her head. “Okay. P.J., who’s your manager?”

“That would be me,” Gandalf replied. “Gary. Gary Tressman.”

“Gary? I’m Marjorie. Marjorie Ashcroft. One second,” she turned her back to him, talking to her phone. “Wonderful. Okay. I know he’s not. Get it anyway. Double his asking price. Cut the check this afternoon and have it on his desk before the end of business. Let me know when it’s done. Thanks.” She hung up and faced Gary. “Well, Gary. This may be a bit awkward for you, but I’m the owner now. And I say,” she eyed the hippie woman who was almost done cleansing the young lady with sage, “she’s more than welcome to cleanse anyone she likes. And, yes. I’ll pay the fine.”

Gary shrugged. “Suit yourself, Ms. Ashrcroft. Tell me,” he pushed the mop cart toward her, “do you know anything about running a coffee shop?”

“Nope. But I’m guessing you do.”

“I do.”

“Good. Starting tomorrow, you and I will talk about how staff will treat guests, how you will have the authority to make better decisions for all the customers, and if you ever see people like this,” she pointed at Ted, who still hadn’t left, “you have my permission to ban them from entering the premises. Does that work for you?”

“It does. Until tomorrow, Ms. Ashcroft.” He pushed the mop bucket to the back.

“And you, Ted.” She held out her hand, waiting.

“Fine.” Ted rolled his eyes and pulled out a wad of cash, more money than the tattoo guy, hippie woman, or Beatles t-shirt coed ever saw at one time. “Is this enough to keep my good name out of the papers?” He put it in her hand, and she pushed it back.

“No. Give it to,” Marjorie looked at the girl, “what’s your name, young lady?”

“Izzy.”  

“Well, Izzy, is it? Today is your lucky day. You can say you met Marjorie Ashcroft today, and she made sure you were compensated for being assaulted by a terrible real estate mogul. You can’t say his name because we have a deal, right Ted?”

He rolled his eyes, waiting for Izzy to take it from him. Izzy shook her head no. He put it in her hand.

“I can’t take this,” she said, trying desperately to give it back to Ted. “It’s too much. It’s only a T-shirt.”

The hippie woman approached Izzy, wrapped her arms around her, and whispered, “Sometimes our reward for being kind to others is kindness being extended to us. If you fail to take the blessing, you may miss another opportunity to bless someone. Take the blessing, my child.”

Izzy smiled. “Okay.” She was trying to figure out where to put all the cash.

“Can I go now, Marjorie? I’m late.”

“Oh. Yes. Leave. Go do whatever it is you do, Theodore.” Waving her hand, she watched him jet out of the café. “Alright then. You.” She looked at the one worker standing still, waiting for her instructions, the third person of the group she had called a few minutes earlier. “Can you make a half-caffe vanilla spiced latte with almond milk and a splash of chai?”

“Yes, Ms. Ashcroft. Right away.” Like the black-haired girl, he was much younger than Gary but moved faster than any of them.  

“Oh, sweetheart,” Marjorie looked at the girl, fighting to put all the cash into her almost non-existent jeans pockets. “where is your purse?”

“I don’t carry one.”