Occupational Hazards

There was a tall brunette at the front of the line, one that was getting longer by the minute. She seemed to have trouble making up her mind, asking questions about the pastries, the kinds of drinks among other things. Perhaps she didn't see the menu. It only took up a whole wall while being illuminated by a trio of spot lights. Rather hard to miss unless you were looking directly at it. The guy behind the counter must have gotten a double serving of patience when they dished it out.
I took the opportunity to look the place over again. From the outside, it looked like the kind of house your grandmother might live in. A short iron fence out front with steps leading up to a windowed porch, beyond which lay the entrance proper. It lead to a lounge area that may have been a living room at some point but was currently divided by a wooden archway that lead to the counter. It still looked like a living room with the couches and a coffee table there, even though there were a pair of smaller tables set up as well.
The left side had a couple of doorways leading into more seating areas. They may have been bedrooms at some point in the past. It looked cozy enough, and semi-private in case one had brought a date. And just perfect for some different activities that I might get to later, but for now they were occupied by students with their noses in their laptops.
To the right of the counter was the door out to the patio. I would guess it served as a smoking section as well. I didn't go outside to check. I couldn't smell anything, but there was a sign over the counter advertising their hookahs. Not my style. I'm an asthmatic.
Meanwhile, the lady kept hemming, hawing, and the barista never once lost his cool. I would never have been able to stand it back when I was working retail. He handled the situation with a cool reserve and good humor enough to get her through her order without causing a riot. Then my turn came.
I took a quick glance at the specials and ordered an Irish White Mocha. On the rocks. Handing over a five, I tossed the change into the tip jar, and sent another quick glance to a door to my left. The room looked empty, but there was someone with a laptop at a table just inside the door. A little inconvenient, but there was still time.
Taking a seat on the sofa along the wall, I set my bag down and pulled out my laptop. With company coming, it'd be best to set things up beforehand. I'm used to doing interviews with a tape recorder but my trusty Ghetto Blaster (my nickname for a cassette recorder that's older than I am) gave out on me just a few weeks ago. Although my laptop is equipped with a built in webcam and microphone. Convenient. And this room should provide decent acoustics when she arrives as well. Even with the busy counter just outside the doorway, it was still fairly quiet.
As I set up the recording software, I feel a slight stiffness in my fingers. I'm a little apprehensive about this one. Any kind of research has it's risks. Sometimes its rather fun. And sometimes I start to wonder if perhaps I'm getting in a little over my head. This subject in particular has made a living off of scams, cons, and quite a bit of handiwork. It's the latter that had me intrigued more than anything else, but this one smells like trouble. And she has green eyes. That's trouble enough on it's own, but I guess I've only myself to blame.
After testing the recorder, I set my hat next to the computer and opened up my manuscript, working on tightening up a few chapters. The barista came over a few minutes later with my cup. As hot as it was today, the creamy coolness of the drink was a welcome respite. Perhaps a bit too welcome, I was halfway finished from the first sip alone. As refreshing as it was, I'd like to savor it for a bit.
Half an hour later, I was down another page on my manuscript and the guy by the door had packed up and left, leaving me alone in the room. However it was only a couple of minutes more before my subject had arrived. She walked in with an even step, her eyes gazing at me with a cool confidence. She was dressed for the warm weather in a black camisole top with a white sweatshirt wrapped around her waist. I caught myself trying to decide if her air conditioned jeans came with the holes or if she was the type to let them wear out naturally before my civility reasserted itself and I stood to greet her.
She was tall enough to stare straight into my shoulders if she looked right at me. If one were to judge by her willowy form, it might be hard to discern her duplicitous lifestyle. As it was, she looked just like any other college kid in the joint, right down to her flip flops. I guess that's what made her so effective.
I lifted her hand and made a small bow, looking at her over her knuckles. She looked good as a carrot top. I remarked upon her change in hair color, asking if it had something to do with her occupation. She said she just felt like a change. Though she did get the self-coloring product via her usual methods. Although I'm not at liberty to say what those are.
When I sat back down on the sofa, she slid right up next to me and looked at my laptop. I asked if she minded a recording. She did. So I put my laptop away and pulled out my notepad and pen. While I would've liked a record to take notes off of later, it wouldn't be the first time I've done an old school interview. It's just not my favorite way of doing it.
While I was more interested in the technical details of her "work", I couldn't help but ask a few background questions, as well as for some personal details. Something she wasn't too shy about sharing. Hers is a story much like any other, a simple girl trying to get by in the world. Except while some take up a part time job for those little extras in life, she prefers a more direct approach. And while it's not something I can condone or sympathize with, I did feel some empathy with her reasoning, even if flawed.
As caught up as I was in the interview, it took me awhile to notice. But before long, she had inched her way along the sofa to the point where her knee was pressed against mine. As I was taking in her words, her face came right up towards mine with her eyes staring at me from across the notepad in my left palm which suddenly felt rather sweaty.
I blinked, feeling my eyes firm up with the realization of our positioning. Pausing in my questioning, I cocked a stern eyebrow at her when a bespectacled blond girl stumbled at the doorway. She might have gotten the wrong idea as she fumbled a bit upon turning round, likely in search of a different place to sit. I looked back at my green eyed subject and followed the curve of her arm, which had found it's way behind me as we were talking. She gave me a sheepish smile as she showed me black object in her hand. I plucked it from her fingers, replaced it in it's usual spot, and challenged her to try that again. She got me three more times before the interview was over.
As she got up to leave, I made a thorough check of my wallet ensuring everything was in it's place before handing her a business card. I don't think I'll have any more questions for her, but there's still the matter of compensation, something that will have to wait until next week. I think a nice Italian dinner is a fair trade, though I'm wondering if she might instead go for Chinese.
Lifting my hat from the table, I settle it firmly on my head, picked up my bag, and started out wondering if perhaps I should start keeping my wallet in my front pocket again.

Today's Setting: http://zephyrcoffeeandart.com/