“So I have some interest in a venti, two-shot chestnut latte, but I have questions.”

“Ok…”

Tom adjusted his glasses and peeked through them at the line stretching back to the door.

“Well, mostly what I want to know is about the chestnuts.  Are they processed on site?”

“I’m sorry?”

“On site.  Is there a truck that shows up in the morning and dumps out a bucket of chestnuts in the back there?  And then you like crush them up in your chestnut machine and dump them in the latte vat?”

Tom couldn’t stop himself from sighing.  The salt and pepper in his hair wanted to reach out and strangle the kid he thought was about 20 years old standing there in his blue knit hat and Urban Outfitters bomber jacket.  Tom flashed back to his own days in a bomber jacket, which he wore when, you know, flying a bomber, not getting obnoxiously particular about a three-dollar Starbucks drink.

“No, there is no chestnut truck.  We have some chestnut trees out back, but those are not used in making any drinks here.”
The kid pulled a sour face and looked down as his brain processed how to handle the situation.

“Well, sir, how can you stand there and call something chestnut if you aren’t putting actual chestnuts in it?  Don’t you realize this is 2016 and the people demand real food?”

“Where do you get lattes that they are pounding chestnuts and hazelnuts in the back?  These are flavors.  If you want something that is ground in front of your eyes, order a coffee.  We have many kinds available that I will be happy to crush into oblivion in order to serve your drink needs.”

Tom hoped that was the option the kid chose.  He wanted to picture each coffee bean with that smug face and watch as the grinder pulverized it into bits and then bittier bits.  Then the scalding hot water would come.  The satisfaction would make his entire week.  But again came the frowny expression while the gears inside the little box of the kid’s head did their work, just as the line now officially made its way outside.  People were doing that awkward thing where they didn’t know quite who should be responsible for holding the weight of the door, so some lady had her foot wedged in there while the guy behind her half held it from the top.

“I was hesitant to even come here after reading the reviews and now, sir, I wish I had made a different decision today.”
Tom resisted the urge to grab the kid by the neck and do a two-stage hockey move – one quick rip to pull the shirt off his back and other to send an uppercut through his scraggly chin beard.

“I’m sorry if you’re unhappy with your experience.  I’ll be happy to make whatever you order or provide the address of another nearby location.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” the kid said.  He stared again at the menu board, running his finger through the beard as his squinted eyes became the vessel through which his drink choice would be channeled.  “Macchiato, huh?  That have anything to do with Machiavelli?  Because I have some concerns there.”

Is this kid serious?  Is this one of those hidden camera shows, or is this the way the world is now?  Why did I quit that consulting job?  Traveling the world was cool, but the market downturn and having to take a job quick to save my house was not worth dealing with this crap.

“Hello?  Sir?”

“I’m sorry, are you ready to order now?”  The sternness in Tom’s voice expressed every bit of his displeasure.

“Yeah, I think so.  I think I will have the chestnut after all.  YOLO, right?  Just make sure there’s not too much foam and that it’s super hot, ok?”

“Anything for you, young man.  Anything for you.”  Tom smiled his best customer service smile and stared the kid deep in the yes, vowing to himself that if he ever saw him out in the world, he would end a life and save the world.  Or at least save the next poor soul who would have had to take the kid’s coffee order.

“What’s the name?”

“I go by Diesel.”

“Diesel, like the fuel?”

“Well, it’s more like I’m the engine that makes my friend group go, so…”

“Diesel, ok.”

Tom grabbed the next venti cup from the stack and affixed his Sharpie in the best, clearest cursive script he could muster.  W-I-E-S-E-L, he wrote, chuckling to himself.

The next dozen customers all ordered in the combined time it took Diesel to make his decision.  He spent that time peering at the straws and coffee stirrers, as if there was a chance he might uncover some unacceptable way in which they were piled into their circular containers.  Then it came, the moment Tom had been anticipating for minutes.  His co-worker, Eliza, snapped the white top on Diesel’s cup and set it on the counter.

“That’s a venti, two-shot chestnut latte for Wiesel.”

Tom stared right at the kid, as he picked up the cup, examined the side, then peeked in Tom’s direction.  That’s right you sonafabitch.  Fire shot from Tom’s brain directly into the kid’s eyes.  He immediately looked away, turned slowly and walked out the door.  Ten minutes later, a new 600-word, two-star entry appeared on Yelp.

Victory for all.