The Psychic and the Foodie: A Love Story

Chris S. Burns

2nd Place, 2018 Short Story Award

Featured, Autumn 2018

Look, two things: first, I have no idea why I’m psychic, and second, you need to understand that it’s not awesome being psychic. Everyone thinks it would be, like it’s some kinda superpower. I know everyone thinks it would be. But trust me, all those things you imagine or maybe see in movies – how it makes it easy to get laid or win at poker – none of that works. I mean, by the time you read the mind of someone you’re hitting on to see what they want you to say, they’ve already swiped left or right in their brain. You can see what a poker player’s holding but when you win too easily and they decide you’re cheating, it gets ugly. Even if you’re a detective or judge and can tell who did it, what good does it do? You can’t prove it.

Every once in a while I’ll get a ping that I should approach a person or I’ll know when someone’s lying, but mostly it’s listening to people debate the most efficient way to cross the street. “I could cross here and wait for the light on that side, or I could go straight here and maybe no cars will come and I can get across in the middle . . .” It’s like that, except with everyone, all the time.

Being psychic, it kinda sucks.

It’s why I like places where people are habitual. Starbucks is the best. Starbucks, for all its sugar and caffeine, is extremely peaceful. It's all muscle memory and no free will. People queue up, put their brains on silent, and wait their turn. They get that first cup of coffee, or a Frappuccino on a hot day, or fill their face-holes with one of those breakfast sandwiches that should be disgusting but they’re super addicting, but whatever they’re doing, they’re not thinking too hard about it. Occasionally someone’s way too excited for a cake pop, but the volume in the room is still way down. Starbucks might not be designed for it, but it’s a psychic sensory deprivation chamber.

So I get coffee here every day, along with most of these people. I’ve seen Nice Suit Guy. Updo Braids Girl gives me a nod of recognition. Teenager Perpetually Studying is all names and dates and never looks past her screen. My favorite barista, Abby, is here, and because I can read her mind I know she has a crush on me, which is awesome and not as creepy as it sounds since I literary can’t control this and also she’s kinda loud about it in her head. And yes, knowing that could be the benefit of being psychic, but I also know she doesn’t date customers and doesn’t want anything more than flirting, so . . . what good does knowing it do?

But some guy I don’t recognize is in line behind me, and he is seriously wrecking my day. He's getting a latte. He's good there. But he also wants something sweet, a pastry or cookie or brownie. That’s fine, except somewhere between his drink and his snack he's become one of those “choices are the hardest part” people. You know the type. He’s one of those “I just can’t decide!” people.

I’m standing right next to him and he’s thinking, “What do I want? I don’t know!!!” He’s thinking, “I should go with my usual. But maybe I should go with something different? Maybe there’s something I’ve never had!” (It’s Starbucks, man. There isn’t something you’ve never had.).

I’m trying to block him out. I fiddle with the wrapper on some expensive sea salt chocolate square from the Dominican Republic. I listen to the music. I recognize the song but don’t know it. It’s poppy and processed and probably a cover or something from a soundtrack. I mean, this song’s so dull a kitten wouldn’t play with it. Abby’s singing along in her head and even she doesn’t know what it is or care. I really try focusing on the lyrics. I crinkle the edge of the wrapper but I’m not even a little distracted.

Being in a place designed from the ground up to be pleasant works for me, but for this guy it doesn’t work at all. It’s in places like this, filled with natural greens and browns, rounded edges, all the signs focus-grouped to reach their most non-threatening potential, where he really gets hung up. He hasn't noticed the song. He’s all internal exclamation points. I have no idea what he’ll get but he’s so loud in my head I want to choke the shit out of him either way. He’s thinking, “I should get something different!” He’s thinking, “Goethe said ‘Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aide.’” (Goethe never said that. Some other guy did.)

I’m guessing here because I can’t rip information out of brains, I just go with what people are thinking to themselves, but nothing gives this guy an existential crisis like picking off a menu. He’s probably totally fine making critical decisions at home or work. This guy could be an ER doctor. He could probably be trusted with nuclear launch codes. But here, Crisis Guy’s anxiety is through the roof. If he were saying out loud the stuff that’s going through his head, someone would call 911.

All I can hear is “I should just get the same cookie I always get. What’s wrong with a cookie? But that banana nut bread looks amazing! Fuck. Fuck! What’s wrong with me?” (Lots of things, Crisis Guy, but it’s okay. You’ll get through this. We’ll get through this together.)

The line steps forward and I set down the chocolate and pick up a tin canister of mints that somehow claim to be fair trade and I shake it gently, the rat-a-tat not blocking this guy out. I kinda want to just leave, but I’m not giving ground. I was here first. Teenager Perpetually Studying is packing up so it’ll be that much quieter. I hate every moment of this, but goddamn it I’m staying the course!

The line steps forward again.

I mean, it’s been like three minutes, but I’ve been with Crisis Guy through the whole thing. I don’t care about it, but I’m starting to want to know how it ends. It’s like if you walk into a room and someone is watching the finale of a reality dating show you’ve never seen – you might hate reality TV, but you stay to see who wins.

This is the part where there’s just two finalists facing the star of the show. The music builds and a camera pans down from above and the producers make them pause an unrealistic amount of time and stare at each other, two randos facing some garbage person they're pretending to love, or have convinced themselves they love, I can't tell in the recording. I've always wanted to be on set to find out what they're really thinking. If the benefit of being psychic is that you want to be on set for the taping of a reality show, then, well, it’s a shitty super power is all I’m saying.

God, it’s crippling though, hearing all this play out. He’s exhausting himself. If brains could sweat, his would need a shower. The future might have been bright and shiny when he woke up this morning, but now it’s bleak. He’s looking at this problem like it’s forever but the line’s moving.

I’m starting to feel for him. Despite the fact that I want to beat this guy into the shape of a paper coffee cup and throw him into the compost bin, I’m totally curious. I need to know what he’ll decide. He’s going crazy and I’m thinking What’s it going to be, Crisis Guy? A chocolate croissant? A brownie? A cake pop? What’s the decision? HOW WILL YOU END THIS?!

“The smart thing to do,” he’s thinking, and he’s actually sweating now, and knows it, and can't stop anything about this situation, “is to realize that I’m not going to be happy either way, so I should just get the latte.” But this guy, he’s not doing himself any favors. He didn’t wait in line behind me and Updo Braids and five others to make the smart decision. With the amount of calories and fat in the average Starbucks item, no one comes here to make the smart decision.

I’ve ordered. Abby doesn’t like my shirt but she says she does and we talk for a second. I tip big.

Crisis Guy’s coming to the end. I hope he orders whatever’s big enough to gag on. But that’s not fair. I hope he orders what he likes. He doesn’t deserve any of this. This is just too dumb to be deserved. It’s not worth it. He just needs some breathing exercises.

I linger by the espresso machine, right at the edge of the counter, eavesdropping on his solo conversation. The anticipation is maxing out.

Crisis Guy’s at the front of the line. He’s about to explode. His brain has gone from dogs barking idiotically at the moon to alarm bells ringing to an air raid siren. Abby’s coasting. She’s moved on from me and my shirt. She looks him square in the eye. There’s a new song on and she doesn’t even know she’s singing it in her head. She’s all ear-to-ear smile and the practiced routine of customer service pleasantness when she says, “Hi!” and asks, “What can I get for you?”

He hesitates as his anxiety crescendos. His brain gone full Wagnerian opera. His head is loud like a howler monkey hate-fucking the Transformers franchise, but the scream dies abruptly. He squares his shoulders and levels his eyes at Abby. His brains turns way down.

He's made his decision.

He orders.

“A grande latte and a chocolate chip cookie, please.”

And with that, I take a long, gentle breath of relief, I take a sip of my Frappuccino, and I prepare myself for the chaos outside the door.