Five to one. Lunch is done. This is Germany. Meetings will start again. At one, sharp. The office is crawling back to life. Same as every office. Corporate life, rebooting. Coffee it is.
We’re standing in a small kitchen, next to our desks on the second floor. It’s packed in here. Half the company must have suddenly run from the canteen two floors down to squeeze in here. The food smells are strong, even up here. They have crept up the stairs. People carrying lunch back on their clothes. Sweetness, the sugar, the pastries. Garlic, that distinct smell, unavoidable.
This tiny kitchen owns the most important piece of equipment, the coffee machine. A typical automated company coffee machine. The machine grinds the beans. Hisses and spits. Working non-stop. A comforting routine. Watching the coffee being poured. Cup after cup. Anticipation is high. Or rather addiction.
The line is long. It always is at five to one. Five minutes until you’re late. You’ll need an excuse. You never know when these corporate machines decide to die. Without warning. They just stop. Mid-hiss. Then the beeping starts. The blinking. Frustration travelling backwards through the line. You need the caffeine. Now. Quickly.
The talks are good though. Nobody minds standing and chatting. The departments cluster around each other, all easily recognizable. You gravitate towards familiarity. There’s the backend people, their noise loud and cheerful, talking about weekend plans, festivals, music. And in-between the talkative people, the typical bathroom dance gives away a few sad souls. Five minutes left. Tick tock. The bio break announcing itself. Direly needed. The line is long, very long. The anxiety high, the caffeine addiction practically another smell on top of the garlic. Someone opens a window. Good idea. Fresh air to fight it off.
There he is.
Stefan. The man. Coffee cup in his hand. His corner office sits right behind the kitchen, so he strolls naturally around the corner. Unexpected. He catches us off guard. He wears his typical half-smile. I recognize it by now. Open. Approachable. Human. Inviting. He’s one of us. He’s not. He commutes in from hours away. Hired by the board for the hard stuff. He’s fired people. Relocated people. Reorganized departments. Decisions that changed where people worked and who they worked with. If they still worked here. Same half-smile through all of it.
“You guys having a good day.”
“Yeah.” “Great.” “Going fine so far.”
“What’s with the coffee machine? The line’s long today.”
“Don’t know.” “A lot of people.” “The townhall starts soon.”
“Oh well. I’ll get coffee later then.”
And he’s gone again. Made his entrance, chatted, socialized, yet another impression. Our chill chat disrupted, a little awe left behind. Mine included. I really need to get over authority.
A minute passes. Probably less. Then Maria comes around the corner. Unexpected again. Minus the awe.
What you need to know about Maria is this: She’s the kindest soul in the building, an angel. That’s not a compliment. It’s a fact. And she’s the last person you’d expect to skip any line. Which is what she does. Straight past the backend people. Past the bathroom break dancers. Past me. The cup in her hand.
“I’m really sorry, but I need to skip the line real quick.”
And everyone makes space, moves out of the way. Naturally. Politely. Warmly, even. Nobody hesitates. The line opens for her instantly. For the cup, to be specific. That piece of crowned porcelain. That nobody remembers crowning. That everyone recognizes anyway.
The machine stops, the hissing ends. Maria picks up the cup and disappears back around the corner. The easy chats are slow to pick back up again.
I don’t know if Stefan asked her. I never heard him ask. I’d bet stupid money he did. Maybe he didn’t even need to. If he had skipped the line himself, I would’ve happily stepped back. He’s busy. Important. Paid accordingly. That’s OK.
If you’re king enough to cut the line, be king enough to fucking cut it yourself.
Wow. Your language is cool and stylist. Like Hemingway's. Cryptic sentences.
Maria stayed with me longer than Stefan did.
"She's the kindest soul in the building, an angel. That's not a compliment. It's a fact." That line is doing more work than Stefan's entire CV.
Because he didn't cut the line, but outsourced it. And the elegance of it is that she had to apologise. He got the coffee, she carried the shame. The kindest person in the building is always the cheapest to spend.