In seconds, she’d dragged him into Kaz’s internet access joint two storefronts over and plunked him in front of a terminal.
She googled “Hero of the Teeming Masses” over his shoulder. The search took 0.37 seconds. “See,” she said, pointing to the top return. “It’s found you. But look, other people have mentioned it on their sites, too. How many e-mails did that guy get?” She grabbed the paper that was still gripped in his hand. “Nearly a hundred. Okay, so it looks like the ratio is about one in fifty that wrote.”
Dag didn’t answer. He was staring wordlessly again, his finger on the screen at the line that said: Results 1 - 10 of about 14,700.
• • •
Memo to: Zone Offices District Managers, Human Resources Managers
From: Chief Administration Officer, Seattle HQ
CC: Deputy General Counsel
Re: “The Hero of the Teeming Masses”
________________________________________________
Zone Offices are asked to continue efforts to identify the originator of the weblog www.heroblog.rawblawgs.com. This individual’s previous disparaging (though, according to Legal, not libelous) comment(s) indicate discontent with BlackArts. There is also indication in the entries that BlackArts employees eavesdrop on private customer conversations and business, an image we do not want to foster. HR Managers are instructed to perform field visits to all retail outlets in their districts and undertake interviews with all employees to determine if the author of this weblog is in fact on staff, and to assess any level of discontent that this individual may be attempting to spread among other staffers. As the United States Postal Service has learned all too well, discontented employees may be a danger to themselves and others.
Written reports are requested in three weeks’ time.
Principle Number Two in the BlackArts Mission Statement: Welcome each other’s differences and encourage them in our business models.
• • •
1. Go forth and get thyself a permanent marker.
2. When unwanted other is asleep, draw dotted lines around the offending party’s wrists, ankles, waist, neck. Especially neck.
3. When the above body art is discovered, no conversation will be needed.
Ten
“It’s just another month,” the girl barista was saying to the other one, a guy, while ignoring Rhoswen, who was waiting to order. “You have to stay through the Whistler Film Festival. The film types can’t do without their designer coffee. Tips really pick up that week.”
The guy didn’t look convinced, and Rhoswen was on a mission anyway, so she didn’t mind interrupting them. Also, being the customer in this scenario pretty much made her the one who had to be listened to, so she butted right in.
“Um, Heather?” she said, pointedly looking at the woman’s name tag. “Could you stop giving that young man a hard time and please tell me what’s the most difficult drink to make in here, because that’s what I want.”
Heather rolled her eyes at Rhoswen, then turned and squinted at the board. “That’s the Coco-moko-chococaramelotto-brownie-hotto,” she said.
Rhoswen laughed. “You’re making that name up.”
Heather shook her head and pointed to the picture on the wall. “I wish. They pay very serious money to someone up in Marketing to come up with these names. I make ten times less, and I have to say them. Anyway, it’s got, like, a twelve-step map of directions and every ingredient in the place. You can put the whole thing together, and at the last second, if you don’t drizzle the caramel syrup over the whipped cream with exact geometric precision before the whipped cream melts, so that it looks just like the picture, you have to start all over. It’s also about a thousand calories. And it costs five-fifty. It only comes in large.”
“I’m in,” Rhoswen said, plunking a ten down on the counter. “Is he up for this?” She turned to the tall, blond barista behind the coffee bar, making the drinks. “You up for this, big guy?”
“Heathen only hates this one because she can’t do it,” he said.
“Heathen?” Rhoswen said. “Not Heather?”
“Heathen,” he said. “Anyway, in the hands of a master, it’s a piece of cake.”
“Brownie,” the girl said. “And don’t skimp on them.” She moved leaned forward to check out his name tag. “Dag. Is that a typo? Are they so cheap here, they won’t re-do a nametag or is someone just dyslexic?”
“It’s old Norse,” he said.
“It’s unfortunate,” she said. “Why didn’t you go with your middle name?”
“It’s worse,” Dag said. He looked her up and down. Rhoswen let him get an eyeful. Young. Long, curly red hair. Willowy-slim, and nearly as tall as him. Freckles. “I usually only get this much attitude from ten-year-olds,” he said, pouring milk into the steamer. “What’s your name?”
“Dag!” Heathen warned. “Don’t tell him, miss, he’s just going to make fun of it. Dag, don’t mock the customers.”
“I’ve got the corner on worse,” Rhoswen said. “How about Rhoswen?”
Dag had to stop measuring chocolate syrup to laugh. “No shit?”
“No shit. It’s Welsh.”
“What the hell does it mean?”
“Fuck if I know.”
Dag opened a container. “We’re out of brownie chunks,” he said. “This is going to take a few minutes while I cut some more. Have a seat if you want. I’ll bring it over.”
She shrugged. “’Kay.”
From the table she sat down at, it did look like a fiddly damn drink to make. And it backed up the line, even without the banter. Heathen was racking and stacking coffee orders while Dag added and stirred, sprayed and sprinkled, occasionally checking a laminated card posted over the sink.
Rhoswen juggled sugar packets while she waited. A kid in a stroller at the next table gurgled in delight.
Finally, on the way to her table, Dag swooshed the drink past Heathen, clearly showing off. “Piece of cake,” Rhoswen heard him say.
“About time,” Rhoswen said, catching the last sugar as he arrived.
Dag nearly dropped the drink. “You juggle!” he said.
“We all have our talents. I picked this up this summer as a kids’ camp counsellor. I also know the words to every Hannah Montana song and can name all the Yu-Gi-Oh characters and their powers.”
“Truly marketable skills,” Dag said.
“One of yours, I presume, is making refreshing and intricate beverages.” She raised her spoon, ready to leap in.
“Wait!” he said, putting it down in front of her. “Don’t go poking a spoon in it until you’ve completely appreciated the aesthetics. The precision of the drizzle. The perfectly mounded whipped cream. The profusion of brownie. Someone at head office, clearly only looking for ways to torture the front line, thought