Barista Reminiscing

[An excerpt from unfinished novel Island Of Sanity.]

Emmett was delightful. A crowd favorite, should there be a crowd available to offer its well-earned approbation. He was also a guy with an edge, though safely backgrounded and surfaced only as needed, and even then ever so briefly. Should circumstances dictate, he could be a man of action. Like that period of time serving up beverages as a local barista.

"Emmett, what of that job-related rascally behavior you once hinted at," Walt probed.

"Que," stalling for time, was Emmett, weighing if, in fact, it was time to drop this load.

"You know, you told me about it that one time, speaking of your coffee shop gig. You pulled me aside during yo momma's annual Christmas party. The annual event where she showed off her Santa collection. Those one hundred plus Santas, some of which were quite spooky, dude."

"Oh yes, the Santas. Also, the de-caffeinated coffee served up to jackasses," slow rolled Emmett.

"Dude, that's not cool. You were a professional," Walt with mock derision.

"I wasn't a professional, I was a barista," Emmett scoffed.

"Tell me again," Walt liked a good story, and Emmett webbed stories nicely, like a snake oil salesman spinning one final yarn before blowing town.

"You remember. Under those special circumstances, what's a guy to do," Emmett's vague and unsatisfactory plea for a pardon.

Walt offered this nudge to grease the skids, "A customer orders coffee, caffeinated, like any normal person would order, but you and your colleagues took it upon yourselves to serve de-caf. I'm pretty sure that's the work of the devil. Devil maybe sounds rough, at least the work of someone as dastardly as who believes in the baseball pitch clock."

"The devil's work? Easy with the escalation, dude. That would be, and has been, for one example, more accurately displayed by one of Lucifer's minions outside a coffee shop door at 6:28 a.m. Shop opens at 6:30. Hours of operation clearly posted right there, on the very door the prospective patron was pounding on for two minutes, then angrily saying that we opened late. The doors were unlocked on time at 6:30. That person, the minion, is already amply pumped to tackle their day. That kind of behavior earns decaf, every time, because it's safer for the rest of humanity that person is not caffeinated," explained Emmett, totally believing his own words.

"What else? What other behavior could possibly be deserving of such decaffeinated ire," encouraged Walt, hiding a smile having lubed Emmett just enough to flow the stories.

"Well, let's see, there could be a scenario where a customer places their order, face to face at the counter, eye contacting the barista, then closing with 'And I'm in a hurry. Fucking hurry up.' Which you civilians might be surprised at the frequency of such rude outbursts. That person's getting decaf. Nobody deserves to endure such indignity. And besides, what kind of idiot talks like that to someone who will be handling their food," Emmett soundly expounded, one eyebrow arched high on his forehead for effect.

"How about the regulars? Always treat them well, do you," Walt knowingly asked.

"Almost always."

"Could you please address the almost," Walt prompted.

"One example. The community condiments," Em.

"A particular favorite topic of mine," said Walt, Emmett pointing at Walt acknowledging his pet peeve. Walt fastidiously abstained from publicly shared condiments. Sharing of such things, the too oft handled shakers and sauces, such widely and alarmingly varied degrees of sanitized, and unsanitized, public hands, was too intrusive for his delicate constitution, so he went without, even if it meant ordering pancakes and taking them down dry to avoid the community syrup beaker.

"This one person, a regular, like every time, would order their beverage, receive their beverage, then make their way to the condiment quadrant, where they would proceed to take off the top of the nutmeg shaker, spooned it into their drink, like, actually unscrewed the top of the shaker, stuck a spoon up in there, as if shaking the shaker would take too frustratingly long, so this person went spoon. And then, then, left the top off the shaker, spoon and nutmeg debris scattered in the community condiments area needing to be cleaned up and no other customers could use it. That person gets decaf."

"What, after the fact you switch them to decaf," Walt questioned.

"No, this happened every Monday at the busy morning rush, same person, every week. All my barista colleagues and I were busy behind the counter at that time, and now we had other customers clamoring for usable nutmeg. Nutmeg of all things," rolling his eyes. "One of us had to stop what we were doing to address this unnecessarily manufactured mess, fix this problem while other customers are waiting and now there's one less of us moving out product. That mess maker received decaf every Monday as a preemptive blast in anticipation of their forthcoming destructive behavior. They earned a decaf beverage," Emmett concluded.

"Does this happen at other coffee shops, do you know."

"Probably, jerks get served decaf. It's a universal blowback consequence," Em.

So went such conversations with Walt and his pals, when not otherwise watching or talking baseball. Their lives were filled mostly with such nonsensical travails as this. Well, at least, that would certainly be the impression of anyone who overheard their silly dialogue.

[The barista anecdotes are real life scenarios experienced by my sister, a former barista, and relayed to me with some mild prodding.]

Bitcoin's Origin Story

He was a computer programmer. Not that this made him unique. In his era most people were. If they couldn't program, they just weren't relevant. Well, that or an energy engineer, a field in which humanity found that it needed ever more.

This guy, though, had been selected for the special mission. It was those technical skills that caught the attention of the project's directors. His focus field was blockchain programming. That won him the honor of being selected for this mission.

Satoshi Nakamoto was a blockchain pioneer. His talent showed promise for an integral role in the application of this computer programming technology. He was its vanguard and his charismatic enthusiasm would lead others ashore.

The countdown sequence for the time travel launch had been initiated. While command center worked its way through the lengthy preliminary checklist, our time traveler was strapped in for transmission. Safety protocols were underway and his immediate supervisor was speaking to him remotely into his ear piece.

"Satoshi, remember, this mission has just the two jobs. That's it. First, leak our energy technology to the past. That energy technology must be in place for the second part of the mission's success."

"I understand. Introduce our future energy technology donation to the past and it'll practically drive itself forward," Satoshi said, repeating back the corporate talking points eager to end the micromanaging.

"That's right. Historically, transition to a new energy source takes two plus decades. Wood to coal, coal to oil, oil to this. Time will be needed to win over the naysayers, then to replace the obsolete infrastructure. We need that infrastructure in place when the timeline catches up to our present."

"Roger that, command center," Satoshi's patience almost expended.

"Second goal, introduce digital currency. That is the future. Well, it's our present, really, but our present is launching with you traveling back to the early 21st century. Digital currency will take a generation to become widely accepted. You must make that introduction. Start it and secure that it sticks," said the supervisor reviewing his notes.

"Satoshi, also, the mission's timeline is undetermined. Likely two years, possibly three, it's not entirely known. You'll be pinged with two weeks advance notice before recall. OK, any last question or comment before launch," closed his supervisor.

"Yeah, just the one," said the time traveler.

"Satoshi, no. We are forbidden from personal enrichment. That means me, you, and everyone on these time travel missions," answering before the anticipated question was even asked. This had been a recurring, and occasionally heated, discourse between the two in the months leading up to launch.

"Just a toe tip, maybe," he asked with a wily smile, knowing a toe tip was also an absolute No.

"Look, I'm sure you're joking, but you are not allowed even a toe tip. You will introduce it. Filch not. Remember your oath. Our oath. . . OK, is there anything else," asked his supervisor, hoping not.

A wink and thumbs up. The clock wound to zero. The Launch button turned green and was pressed. Operation Bitcoin was launched and Satoshi would arrive safely in 2007.

A safehouse had been established by project administrators. This would be his domicile during the mission. He would never meet them, the local administrators. Bills would be blindly paid. Rent, utilities, food, a generous per diem. All he had to do was perform his mission, and he would get started lickety-split. Truth is, he was eager to start, test his capabilities. An actual challenge on the field of battle.

His initial technology drop was the blockchain database, the first ever, and it was a marvel, even if hardly understood. Most programmers of that era hadn't even heard of this stuff. Some had, the early collaborators, other programmers. They were well behind in his level of sophistication, but eager to learn and be on the wave of the future.

Virtual chat rooms were started back in 2007 to stimulate conversation and interest in blockchain technology. Satoshi's initial posts in those chats were abundant and generous, always eager to help and stoke interest. A gregarious talent in which he proved tremendously effective.

Then there was the increased visibility and awareness that came with his Bitcoin White Paper document, released on Oct. 31, 2008. The first big digital footprint that made Bitcoin a thing even outside the closed community of programming. That was the next big foray. By this time he'd been on the ground for only a year and was already leaving a wide wake behind his every keystroke. 

That Bitcoin White Paper caught people's attention, not that anyone really understood it. Digital currency was mentioned, whatever that was, thought most people. It was not being discussed intelligently, because really, who knew what it was outside those who were on the obscure block chain forums. Those few who were aware considered it to be a daring idea. Or a ruse. They weren't sure which.

Satoshi was the undeniable chief amongst his growing band of citizen programmers. His acolytes said he had a clear vision as if delivered from the future. Which, of course, he did, because he was. 

Then Bitcoin went live! It lived. The talk and preparation had finally come to fruition. Embedded in the block chain was 'The Times 03/Jan/2009 chancellor on brink of second bail out for banks.' A digital time stamp bearing a headline from an English newspaper, same date as Bitcoin's inception.

The mystique of Bitcoin was one thing, its curiously uncertain origin. But the tremendous energy drain, that was another thing entirely. The energy needed to run the computers capable of performing the block chain functions was beyond fantastic.

As blockchain technology expanded, and it expanded exponentially, being practiced by teams of IT technicians around the world, it left a wide wake in electrical grids that would be difficult to sustain. Bitcoin mining, as it was called, became a well populated niche industry consuming more energy annually than the entire state of Washington. Also, the entire country of Argentina and was expected to shortly surpass Norway.

For example, a single mined Bitcoin was said to leave a carbon footprint of 223 tons of CO2. That would be an alarming note, except nobody really knew what 223 tons of CO2 looked like. If they did, the populace, the future of Bitcoin would be destined for failure, that astronomical environmental drag. But it was not, because nobody did. By the time people were aware of the unsustainable energy needs, Bitcoin was well beyond stopping. There's no stuffing that genie back in the bottle, so goes the saying.

As projected, the time travel team of the future, understood that more energy would be needed to sustain digital currency. Current levels of energy production, current levels in the past visited by Satoshi, would fall well shy of supporting humanity's present, Satoshi's past. The cost and environmental inefficiencies of the current energy sources made it unsustainable. Thus, the necessary future energy technology donation, the mission's first goal. An energy source was needed that was more efficient, cleaner, and less expensive than what was fueling the 2000s. Satoshi had that energy technology donation.

Back at Command Center, their real hope, the realistic expectation, was that Satoshi could start the process on both goals. The energy technology donation to fulfill future energy needs, plus that digital currency thing. Foundational work for which subsequent time travel launches were already planned and in training. These subsequent launches to finish his stated work. There was little expectation that Satoshi would guide both missions to success. It was simply deemed too much.

Satoshi, meanwhile, was a different kind of guy. He carried himself with a certain virtual charisma. His digital persona was that of a goodwill ambassador fostering an inviting environment to encourage other programmers to follow. Which they did, talented ones. Programmers were attracted to the attention and buzz like moths to an illuminated lightbulb. Bitcoin was going to make it. Energy loads remained questionable.

The energy of the future. It would need to be less expensive, more cost efficient, and cleaner than today's sources. It must be so abundant and easily accessible that India, China, and Turkey would forsake their ample coal power plants for this new stuff. 

Satoshi's purposeful new energy data leak had also gone well. His industrious nature. A number of packages containing the technology drop were furtively delivered into the hands of world renowned university laboratories, specifically those deeply engaged in energy research. Also, by personal genius, Satoshi caught the attention of one of the richest people in the world. Bill Gates.

A real world-shaker was Gates. Satoshi's information-transfer patsy. By a whim of his tremendous ego, Gates stepped into his role with unexpected zest and aplomb. More abundantly than could have been hoped.

Gates operated under the benevolent delusion that saving the world was his responsibility. His purpose. His tremendous accumulated personal fortune, on the strength of his computer company's wild success. He used a portion of his enormous wealth to back, and buy into, a number of these early energy hopefuls, the business start ups. Potential future energy sources for which his name would be attached for generations, so went his thinking.

In quiet moments of reflection, Satoshi couldn't help but chuckle to himself at how well the two goals had progressed. He cared not about credit, only mission success. And heck, if it could be so arranged, maybe a little financial taste for himself, the toe tip, authorized or not.

He had started work toward that personal third goal. Not that the project's board was aware. Personal riches. It was strictly disallowed. A moral issue. Satoshi's morals, however, were malleable. Much like his computer programming capabilities. Whatever it takes, get it done. Why waste time talking when time is better used for doing.

On a lazy weekday afternoon he received his call back ping. After almost three years in the past, he was two weeks away from returning to the future. He had succeeded in his missions, the two official goals, against all odds, and also deployed that furtive goal of personal enrichment. How then could he carry his riches forward to the future, his present? How to avoid command center's probing and watchful eye?

With a hot chocolate cooling on the desk, not even caring to employ a coaster, so buoyant was his good mood, he completed the last bit of sequencing and securing passwords. He'd peeled off a significant amount of that digital currency for himself, making him the untraceable owner of the first million Bitcoin. 

After his call back to the future, he would be absent in the present, his past, away from this secret unauthorized Bitcoin cache. But when the timeline caught up to him, in his present, several decades into the future, on the strength of that indelible sequencing, he would claim possession of those Bitcoin blocks, securely stashed away in the past awaiting him. He needed only wait for those decades to peel away.

In 2011, he would simply disappear. After more than 500 chat room posts and charismatic technology sharing, Satoshi's participation abruptly stopped. It would just inexplicably end one day. No warning. Nobody knew what happened, why he stopped. Only that he had turned over source code control to other trusted programmers. Then, Satoshi was never heard from again. Just disappeared. What happened, asked those close to the action? It was just work. And the work had been completed.

He sat back, reached for his hot chocolate. Chocolate was a scarcity in the future, so he indulged his robust hankering heartily and with a gusto well exceeding good grace. The warmth of the cup was a comfort. What would his future look like once the present timeline caught up with him, he thought. Another sip.

[The titillating mystique surrounding Bitcoin and Satoshi Nakamoto, its purported founder, or coterie of people operating under that monicker. There's much urban legend to fascinate one's curiosity from whence Bitcoin sprang. There were more than 500 digital forum posts under that name over three years, then suddenly it stopped, cold turkey. Also, those first million Bitcoin in the sequence, never touched, at least to date. That much can be and has been confirmed. What gives? I sure don't know, but I enjoy thinking of the possibilities.

Time travel is one explanation for the mysterious origins of Bitcoin. With that as the impetus, this narrative fills in all the blanks, intermingling those verifiable facts with questions yet unresolved. This briefing is, of course, the truth.]

Snickers Bar

"Oh Christ," he said stepping across the threshold into the second floor apartment unit. There was a dead man lying on the couch. No visible wounds, no signs of struggle, but definitely dead. But that was not the reason for his outburst.

He'd been a paramedic for twenty years. He was very familiar with death. The lives saved by him and his team were numerous. Getting upset at death had long ago vacated. In this case, the vocal exasperation was induced by the contents on the nearby plate on the coffee table.

The police had been called by the tenant in the neighboring unit. The TV was on too loud. In truth, it was not loud, but yes, too loud for 2 am. After the neighboring tenant received no response to pounding on the wall due to the loud TV, they put on their slippers and went to pound on the dead man's door. The initial knocks, also unanswered, quickly escalated to the pounding.

"If you don't open the door, I'll call the police." He did not, so the other did as he said.

The police kicked the door in after there was no response to the butt end of a flashlight banging on the door, including the verbal warning to 'open up.' Death was quickly diagnosed. TV was turned off. Paramedics were called.

The plate on the coffee table had a whole and untouched King size Snickers candy bar. There were three wrappers on the table. All King size. The dead man's digital blood sugar tracker had been removed from his wrist and was on the table next to the plate. The nub of what appeared to be bar number two was on the man's chest.

He had been a diabetic and must have figured that he'd lived enough. What might have been the final straw was not known, if it ever would be, if even the dead man knew. A final note had not yet been located, but the intent was clear. The dead man had decided to sign off. 

Earlier that evening he walked to the mini-mart, bought three large chocolate bars and a Coca-Cola, pealed off all three wrappers, the large and delicious candy bars were laid out to serve their purpose.

TV had been turned on. It was loud, but would not have seemed inordinately so earlier in the night, say 8 or 9 pm. The ambient noise from the other apartment units would have rendered this no more bothersome than ambient white noise. But as the night slipped into early morning and the other sources of noise were extinguished, this loud TV became the singular source of annoyance, as evidenced by the neighbor finally reaching down and donning their slippers.

As for the paramedic, the striking visual causing his outburst was that third candy bar. The unwrapped and untouched Snickers.

'Dammit. Nobody'll eat that now. Dude couldn't open them one at a time,' he thought to himself pondering the waste. 'Had to open all three, never got to three. At least he didn't peal off four Snickers. But hell, the shame of it,' as he watched the police tilt the plate, the Snickers skidded into a labeled evidence bag.

The paramedic was a good man. Good at his profession, even if a little askew at what riled him up. The dead man was lifted, then lowered into the body bag and zipped it closed. A teammate rolled the body bag out the door on the stretcher. Sure would be nice if he was as concerned for the carcass as he was the pristine chocolate bar.

If he'd been a doctor, this rugged brute, his bedside manner would be said to be decidedly poor. Yet so imperceptive, was lummox, that he had difficulty seeing beyond his own shoes. The real story wasn't what he was doing, the paramedic. The real story was why the dead man had done what he did.

Five hours earlier, returning from the mini-mart, the dead man had grabbed a plate from the kitchen cabinet and the small paper bag from the mini-mart, then trudged forth to the couch. His feet dragging as if he were tired. Tired from a busy and long day, or just too much rough living, could not be discerned from his languid gait.

Placing the plate on the coffee table, employing the unusual grace as if he were serving the queen mother, before sitting on the couch. The gravity of the evening's agenda subconsciously dictated his reverential deportment.

Letting out a great sigh, almost a moan, he reached for the remote control, turned on the TV, a baseball game, before returning the remote to the table by the plate.

He emptied the bag's contents to the table. The three big candy bars and a Coke, to make sure the job got done. Tonight wasn't going to need a do-over.

He opened the three candy bars, placed them one by one on the plate. Parallel, each. On an important task like this, they would not be allowed to lay all cattywampus. Symmetry would call the proceedings to order.

He opened the cold Coke, closed his eyes and took a deep draw. So delicious, as made so by a diabetic's strict diet and its sugary restrictions. Then came the first bite of the first bar. So dangerous, and so tasty, enhanced by the treats' long absence.

The volume was turned up two more notches, he lay back on the couch, all stretched out with feet on the cushion, another bite followed by another. The ballgame's innings rolled by on the TV, as did the fatal succession of bites. As the first bar was concluded, he reached for the second.

As he advanced to the second Snickers, a sob emanated from the fellow. So much sadness and grief had been absorbed in his lifetime that it could no longer be contained. Another sob, half suppressed, followed by another notch of volume.

He took the first bite of the second bar. The tears started to flow. Slow, but there would be no stopping them now, not that he wanted them stopped. Not that he cared.

Another bite which became difficult to chew on account of the crying and occasional chest heaves. A big drink of soda. The crowd on TV was cheering loudly. The on screen excitement and tension was mounting.

He felt lightheaded, took still another bite. He was confused, no longer remembering what exactly had been that final straw. Why had he decided to end himself? Just as uncertainly, he didn't know if he wanted to stop.

[Inspired by a southern California story 20 years ago about a diabetic man who ate himself to death by means of two candy bars, plus one unwrapped and untouched.]