ignatzami

ignatzami t1_ivhmgxv wrote

Reply to comment by eli_underhill in WA voter turnout lagging behind pace of last midterm election by MondayCrosswords

I called the non emergency number to let them know a person was loitering in the parking lot of the closed library, yes. They asked how long they’d been there and I said at least an hour as the ground under their truck was dry, and it had been raining for about an hour. The dispatcher asked if they were parked by the ballot box. I said yes. They thanked me for the call, and I went home.

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ignatzami t1_iugklsf wrote

Reply to [WP] You are a barista in a 24 hour coffee shop. Every night at 3:33am a demon appears for the Dark Lord's latte. by WarturtleWitch

I work for a 24hr drive-up coffee chain in the Seattle metro area. You might have heard of us, the boss got in hot water playing fast and loose with PPP loans at the height of COVID. Anyway, I work the night shift. The differential makes it worth it, and most of my customers are Boeing blue-collars looking for 32oz monstrosities with 10 shots of espresso, and at least a dozen shots of syrup.

I've got my regulars, lots of them in fact. One of the big advantages of the night shift, especially in Seattle, is the night owls are consistent. There's Derek, who comes through on a fixed gear bike he made himself, orders a doppio, and calls me honey. Then there's Jim, Josh, and Frank, the adorable gay triad that live in the flats across the road. They always swing through on the way to, or from, somewhere naughty. That's always how Frank describes it. "We're off to somewhere naughty!" He says. Three coffees, cream, sugar for Josh, cream for Frank, black for Jim. That's the thing, you get to know the regulars, the good tippers, the oddball orders like the one guy that gets a 16oz steamed cold brew. Still not sure about him.

Then there's the car. That's the thing, I don't know the guy's... the drivers? Whatever, the entity behind the wheel, I don't know their name. Let's be clear, I'm not religious, I don't believe in ghosts, or spirits, heaven, or hell, but there's something just... not right about this car, and the thing that drives it.

3:33am, every day. Gorgeous car, never a speck of dirt, or dust on the high gloss black paint. Looks like a 40's Rolls Royce Phantom, only it's not. I dated a guy for a few months who was a total car nut. The sex was good, and I learned more about classic cars than I ever cared to. I mean, this car's perfect. Showroom fresh, absolute mint, black exterior, and this deep maroon interior. Not a badge, or mark anywhere on it. Windows tinted just on the inside of illegal, and the weird thing? The weirdest thing, it's silent. I mean silent. Not Tesla silent. Even with an electric car there's some noise. The tires on the ground, the tick of the inverter, the sounds of the cooling fans, or a belt, or even the sound of the air moving around a large metal object. Cars, regardless of their power train make noise. This one just doesn't.

I remember the first night, right at the height of COVID, we'd been declared "essential" so I was out at night slinging coffee. I turned away from the open drive-up window to check my phone, and maybe get in a quick level of Candy Crush. I knew I'd hear any car pulling into the drive, and wasn't worried at all about being caught out. Then, out of nowhere, a soft cough behind me.

I spun, dropping the phone in my haste, and there was a car at the window. That car. "Sorry, one minute" I said, pulling my mask over my nose and bending to scoop the phone off the floor. That was my first impression of the car, the long fenders, the white wall tires, the absolute silence. I stood, taking a moment to collect myself and looked through the window with my best barista smile firmly on my face.

You ever see a wolf? Not in a zoo, but in the wild? I did once. I was snow shoeing and came around a fallen tree and there, maybe fifty feet in front of my was a wolf. Full size, grey, those alien yellow eyes. That little part of your brain that knows, on some level, you're food started to scream that this, right here, was dangerous. As I looked out the drive-up window, taking in the car, and the immaculately dressed figure at the wheel, the coiffed hair, the obviously expensive sunglasses, black leather driving gloves, the hint of an olive tan, the too-white teeth behind thin lips. At that moment, that little part of my brain started to scream.

"Latte, small, cream"

His, it's, their, voice slid into my ear. I say slid as I can't describe it any other way. The sound was a violation on some basic level, the sound was simply wrong. There's no way I should have been able to hear them over the traffic and yet, I heard every word. Cold, clear, as if they had whispered into my ear from an inch away. I moved on reflex, grind, tamp, lock the portafilter into the machine. The shot glass slipped through my fingers tumbling onto the black anti-slip mat. I noticed, at that point, my hands were shaking, adrenalin thundering in my ears, my throat terribly dry. I grabbed the other shot glass, and hit the double button. The machine hissed, filling the shot glass to the brim, 3oz espresso and crema.

"Dairy is fine." They said. I hadn't even had a chance to ask, they knew the question before it left my lips, and answered before I could ask. I nodded numbly, filling a 12oz cup with milk, steaming to 130 degrees, espresso in, lid, sleeve, I turned back to the window as they extended a thin arm through the open window of the car, their gloved hand holding a jet black card.

I took the card, no name, expiration date, nothing. Just a flat black rectangle with an EMV chip. Still half on autopilot the card slid into the machine. A second later a single chime informed me the transaction was approved. I passed the iPad through the window to the waiting... car, and they signed. A simple three rectangles, a small dot in each, and a $2 tip. Then, just as suddenly, and silently, the car, and the thing behind the wheel were gone.

Now, every night, 3:33 the car simply appears. I've stopped questioning it. The order never changes, nor does the appearance of the driver, or the condition of the car. It's as if I'm stuck in a loop. 3:33am, every night I work, I make a latte, small, with cream and the whole time my brain screams that I'm in terrible danger.

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