My first few days have been uneventful and I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved. After Mae told me about the whole ‘our customers are time travellers’ situation I expected more of an interesting experience. I thought I’d get the chance to speak with some intriguing people about when they’re from – not that I believe it any more than I did when I took the job. All of the customers wear modern clothes too which surprises me as I had envisioned a little caveman in a leopard print tunic coming up to the counter and grunting ‘Pum…kin… la…tey’.
Still, Mae insists every single one of them can time travel. Something that would be easy to confirm if not for the 3 rules I learnt on my first shift:
1. ASKING A CUSTOMER WHEN THEY’RE FROM IS FORBIDDEN.
2. ASKING A CUSTOMER WHAT HAPPENS IN THE FUTURE IS FORBIDDEN.
3. ASKING A CUSTOMER HOW THEY TIME TRAVEL IS FORBIDDEN.
These three convenient rules keep me sceptical. Regardless, Mae seems to be happy with my work. I show up on time, I’m kind to the patrons and I make a very good cappuccino.
My first Saturday shift starts in a few minutes. Generic breakfast radio faintly peeks over the clinking of glasses as Mae polishes them. When I asked her why we have a radio and not a TV, she seemed pleased that I had noticed and told me that ‘The radio keeps the travellers grounded in the year they’ve travelled to.’. She seemed less pleased after I asked her if she’d ever put a 1950’s playlist on to mess with them. Still, I don’t know what to expect from a Saturday. Will it be busy? I didn’t expect to see any customers at all on my first shift given the sequestered nature of the café, but they proved me wrong. We have barely any repeat customers either and when we do, they’re all elderly and Mae tends to them. So, I’m trying to unlearn my Saturday expectations and go in blind.
…
Busy. I have re-learned all I foolishly unlearned. I don’t even know how far into my shift I am because there are no clocks in here and I haven’t had a moment to check my watch. I empty the coffee machine, turn, and smile to the man at the counter.
“Good…” My eyes go wide.
“Afternoon?” He replies with a laugh.
“Good afternoon! Sorry, it’s been a bit of a busy one. What can I get for you today?” I dart my eyes at Mae to see if she heard that. She’s entertaining one of our repeat customers. Phew, got away with it.
“It’s quite alright, just a black coffee please. Modern.” Modern. We have an assortment of tins behind the bar, each labelled with centuries: 1600’s, 1700’s, 1800’s, 1900’s and Modern. Identical looking coffee beans in all of them. So, unlike most café’s, we don’t ask if they want cream, or if they would like some oat milk – we ask what century of coffee they would like. I whip him up a wonky mug of coffee and deposit the cash in the register. He turns to walk before looking back and points to the radio. “Would you mind if I request a radio station?”
“Not at all, what frequency?” I saw Mae do this for a regular on Wednesday so she can’t tell me off for doing it.
“103.4 please. It should come up ‘SportLive’.” He shouts to me as I fiddle with the knobs.
“Safe to assume you’re a sports fan then?” I ask, giving myself time to figure out how to change frequencies.
“Football fan. Making it my mission to go and see all of the major games. I’ve seen 19 world cup finals y’know. After I finish with them, on to the Champions League!” This radio is ancient, how on earth does it work. Ah ha! Crushing the knob in as hard as I can and twisting it turns the frequency dial and I rest it on 103.4.
“Is that alright for you?” I ask nursing my aching hand. He turns his head to listen intently to the innocuous chatter. His eyebrows jump up in excitement.
“Ah, Spurs v Arsenal. Hell of a game this one. Thanks.” As if he knows what happens. As if anyone here actually knows anything that’s going to happen. None of them are time travellers. It’s impossible. I take another look at Mae. She’s still chatting away to the elderly and, more importantly, out of ear shot. Screw it. I wave my hand to get his attention.
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“Excuse me! Sorry, before you sit down,” I lean in over the counter and shift my eyes back and forth. He understands my change of tone and leans in to listen, a mischievous smile growing on his face. “If this really is a hell of a game as you put it – what happens then?”
He jolts his head to Mae, then back to me, then up at the sign above my head where the 3 rules hang that was missing the day of my interview and then back to me.
“Spurs go 2 nil up, but Arsenal claw one back. Then in the 62nd minute, a Spurs defender gets a straight red and Arsenal end up coming back in the dying minutes winning it 3-2. This win for them was crucial as they end up beating Spurs to the top of the league by 2 points.” With another glance back at Mae, he puts his finger to his lips, smiles and sits at his table. Sure. In his defence, all of that sounds plausible. It also sounds easy to make up on the spot, which is what he just did.
I continue serving the never-ending array of customers filtering in and out and notice myself paying a bit more attention to the radio than normal. Not that I would ever admit it, but I suppose a small part of my wants to believe him. I start pouring an 1800’s coffee for a lady when the commentator says ‘He’s onside and 1 on 1 with the keeper…and he slots it into the back of the net. 1 nil to Spurs.’. In my trance of paying more attention to the radio than my job, I pour quite a lot of the coffee on the counter next to the mug, before correcting and filling it up halfway.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll whip you up a fresh one.” I apologise, wiping the boiling hot coffee up with a thin tea towel. The lady looks over my shoulder at the half mug of coffee.
“No need. I never finish it anyway, so a half-mug suits me better.” She says with a sympathetic smile. I refund her for her kindness.
Listening to a silly football game isn’t worth a semi-burnt hand and a free coffee, so I tune the radio out and continue working. I serve another two dozen customers, finally getting to the end of the rush. During the downtime, I wander around the floor clearing tables and making small talk to the patrons. My eye is caught by the football fan’s hand waving, and he asks for a refill. Waiting for the coffee to brew I tune my ears back in to the radio to hear the referee blow his whistle for half time.
‘…and there we have it, 45 minutes down and Spurs lead the game 2-1.’
Okay, a smart prediction so far, nothing more. I’m not going to believe in time travel just because he predicted a half-time score because that makes every pundit and gambler time travellers too. I shouldn’t even be focusing on this. Mae has been kind to me, this job has been kind to me, and I can’t risk messing it up by diving into rabbit holes. Time travel is not real.
As the day goes on, more customers filter out than in and I get back into a normal working rhythm. I get the chance to check my watch to find out its already 4:15pm. Just over an hour to go, unless Mae asks me to stay behind to help clean – which I will regrettably and undoubtedly agree to do. I restock the mini fridge underneath the bar with unlabelled bottles of water, fizzy soft drinks, and juices. Mae tells me the juices are from the present because the fruits are juicier, water is from the far past before pollution and the fizzy soft drinks are from the future because-
‘…ed card for Sp…’ .
I whack my head on the underside of the bar. I give the bar a wide berth at my second attempt standing up and lean towards the radio.
‘…and with just under half an hour to go, how will this affect Spurs’ chances at keeping the lead. Looking at the replay of the tackle, it’s a clear red card. Now, Arsenal make some attacking changes, hoping to use the next 28 minutes to pressure their opponents.’.
I don’t move. The radio sounds like gibberish. Whispered conversations from the shop floor boom in my ears. It cannot be true. This is just another prediction, people bet on red cards in games all the time. But this accurately? With the precision he’s gotten everything right, even down to the minute? I know what this is, it has to be a repeat or something. I railroad toward Mae and interrupt her conversation.
“I’m just popping to the loo.” Mae gives me a quick nod and I dart away. I fiddle with the rusted latch and lock the door and bring up the ‘SportLive’ website on my phone. My thumb – no, my whole hand is shaking as I hover over the ‘Live.’ Tab. I press it. A list of abbreviated football team names appears in a list, so I tap on the ‘ARS’ assuming that’s Arsenal. Scrolling down shows me written highlights minute by minute.
‘62nd minute. Spurs are down to 10 men! He went flying in with a reckless tackle and has been shown a straight red card. Spurs 2 – 1 Arsenal.’
Oh my god. I place my phone back in my pocket, easily unlatch the lock and stumble back out on to the shop floor. All of the customers look the same but different. The aura they give off is intense. They all clearly know so much more than I can even imagine. They’ve seen sights historians spend decades researching. Yet here they all are, casually sitting here sipping caffeinated beverages… that I made for them.
For the first time since I started, a genuine smile creeps across my face. These people are all time travellers.