The training was simple. I was brought to a bare, white room in a boxy, nondescript building. Inside were pictures of people in suits jumping hurdles and sitting in small groups of mixed ethnicity, smiling. They told me, and all the others, that it was my job to just be myself. That was all. I looked around at the other people there. They all looked sort of like me, and talked sort of like me, but lacked something. My authority was quietly established, and I coasted. They showed us slides of various smiling faces. The Bald Guy was there, wearing a collarless shirt and a blazer. There were others as well, with titles and brief synopses of their lives. They showed us a mission statement and a set of goals. They showed us charts marking the company’s growth. They showed us a documentary in which the Bald Guy explained to us what he’d explained to me the day I met him. They gave me newsletters, with more happy people in them, except these people looked a little more like me, with tattoos, and piercings, and old clothes, except they were smiling. They all wore green aprons, with the same logo. The logo was everywhere—somewhere unobtrusive, but obvious. They talked about what an ideal employee did, and to always ask ourselves that question, but to remember to just be ourselves, too.
         You were an ambassador of culture. You were encouraged to become what you had always dreamed of, and provide people with the ambiance that had been part of the Bald Guy’s original goal, the goal that had occurred to him back in the day when he’d been a struggling actor himself, fresh out of college, and idealistic, and full of integrity. Everyone in the Company was full of integrity. That was important. After a while, he’d come to the realization that he wasn’t intended to make it as an actor. But he saw that as no reason to give up his dreams—instead, he would find a way to dedicate his life towards helping other people realize their dreams, by giving them a place to make them happen. We were given a run down of the history of coffee shops, and how they’d played such an important part in the cultural evolution of the world. We were told of coffee’s magical properties, how ancient mystics had used it as a way to commune with God, and how, throughout the ages coffee shops had been the epicenters of fomenting revolution. That’s a direct quote. We were shown pictures of various historical figures who had hung out in coffee shops—authors, revolutionaries, plus that same rock star with the sunglasses. So the Bald Guy had found his purpose, and we were now a part of that purpose—to bring revolution to the people by showing them ourselves, in the act of revolutionary creation.
         I could almost say that I was excited. I was judged to be worthy of working the flagship location, based upon my performance in interviews and role-plays. I came out on top, the most perfect version, plain and simple, with nothing to prove to anybody. My trainers were proud of me, and I began my career. Not my job—my career.
         And then I met the Barista. She, with her full lithe body, her hair that mixed its natural color with the hair dye so perfectly, whose tattoos were obvious, yet tasteful, and subversive. With her eyes that never met mine, but danced around them, telling me I had something to prove. I would sit at my table, and type, and I would see her watching me from behind the counter, glancing whenever she thought I was not watching, and I would focus even more on my writing, on becoming what she was on the outside.
         When, a few weeks after I got hired, the Environmental Nourishment memo came, I therefore approached it with understanding. People were not noticing me enough. Their comments centered around me seeming unapproachable, engrossed to the point of being intimidating. They said I needed to open up, and that, therefore, the Old Man and I needed to spend at least three hours a day in open philosophical discussion. We needed to engage the customers in discussion, make them feel as if they were an active part of my process. So you would have to talk, and then fill out a form explaining what conclusions you’d come to, and how one of the customers had assisted you in realizing your vision. And you couldn’t really fudge. They were listening.
         Now, my first instinct was that this was ridiculous. Inane. Contrived. But my foot still throbbed, and I still had not made any progress with the Barista, and so I was willing to accept the feedback. I was still gaining on the arrangement in the long run. That was how I first started getting to know the Old Man. He was like a lot of guys I’d met over time, eternally focused on surviving one more day, and past the point when life holds any surprises, content just to survive, unaware of the existence of work. He had done extensive traveling, reading, drinking, and drug abuse. He was untamed—a rebel for life.
         Things went well for a while after that, a long while. The Barista began sharing things with me, picking up on things I would say to the old man or to the customers, and giving her point of view in a way that showed she was aware of my superior intellect, and would take on whatever opinion I had on any topic. She began letting her fingers linger on my hand as she handed me my refills. She began sitting close to me during her breaks, and asking if that was alright or not.

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