NBAD (the 1st Annual)

Nick got up earlier than needed that morning, and he, after his shower and breakfast, ironed his pants and pressed his shirt, the latter of which he does not do too often. On that particular, sunny morning, Nick was proud, very proud of his achievement. As he buttoned his shirt in the mirror, he looked deep into his eyes and they looked back with admiration. Smile. Deep breath. Exhale. Pat on the back. This day was special, and as he strolled up the few blocks to open up shop, he whistled along with the birds who chirped their songs of hunger and love, he nodded greetings to the homeless who looked back at him apathetically, he said things such as, “Top of the day to you,” and, “Lovely morning, ain’t it?” to all the men and women on the sidewalk who passed by, each of them turning up the song on their ipod in lieu of responding

This past winter, on the wettest, coldest, and grumpiest of days, his customers all stumbled about zombified, ready to drink blood if forced to wait too long. His employees were all in exactly the same condition. All those lattes and mochas, americanos, muffins and cookies, yet not one muttered thank you, not one smile, nod of appreciation. That morning, Nick had come up with a plan. Immediately he sprung into action, contacted the people who sat in the Offices of the City, jacked them up with quadruple shots day after day until they finally broke. Hypnotized and shaking, they spread the word across the Board.

National Barista Appreciation Day. The first annual. Where the caffeinated folk of caffeine reliant bodies and caffeine obsessed minds would spend the day celebrating, offering up a grand kudos to the brave women and men, and those in between, who serve them coffee each and every day. Where they could bow down in respect for those who save their lives in so many ways. Today was that day: the nation's newest statutory holiday. The closer Nick came to his little corner-coffee shop, the stronger the smell of the freshly brewed block-sized coffee pot. At the intersection, he stopped and looked up to the sky. A small plane flew on by. A long banner reading “Welcome to the 1st Annual NBAD!!” trailed behind. Nick took a deep breath, a feeling of accomplishment wafting through his veins.

The street itself was shut down. The police, java in hand, stood at their barriers, next to cardboard cutouts of the hundreds of baristas who ruled the strip. The sidewalks were decorated, lined with streamers, banners, and helium filled balloons. Kids, who had the day off school, ran around in a tizzy, singing songs about coffee and farmers in the fields, their parents at their designated booths: smiling and pouring, mixing and brewing, chugging back an espresso shot whenever they could. There were politicians, flame-throwers and musicians; stilt-walkers, street performers and instant-magicians; journalists and newscasters, their cameras and assistants; celebrities and designers, all partying with their choice roast of the newly sprung season. People marched with their cups and their mugs, toasting and cheering, dressed as their favourite barista, favourite pastry, or, simply, a giant round, glowing and beautiful coffee bean. One woman dressed as a human-sized, triple-cup, cappuccino machine.

As Nick walked around that early morning in the spring, singing along his praise and gratitude, there was just one thing that troubled him—one detail he’d failed to address. On the other side of the street, accompanied with sour frowns and honey stained teeth, were the bitter and jealous tea-drinkers picketing with their honey-sweet signs and gradual caffeine peaks. Meditative and reflective, they peacefully snickered amongst each other, knowingly, waiting patiently…. It wasn’t too long into the morning, barely halfway to noon, as Nick soon found out, that the celebrations reached a destination beyond his own belief. Loud and fervent, passionate and zealous, then, without warning, all was calm and everyone went very silent. The tetley-frowns formed into fruit-filled smiles as the chants and the dances, the grinders and hot-water reservoirs, and all other festivities formed to barely a mumble and eventually ceased to exist. Behind Nick, the partygoers all slumped over, crashed simultaneously, practically fell asleep right there on their feet, yawning and twitching, unable to move, unable to speak.

The final drip-drip-drip of one last coffee machine would be drowned out by the sound of a kettle, proudly echoing all the way down the street.


Ldm