Chapter 2: The Sarcastic Barista
The morning air in Pasadena was a little too sunny, a little too perfect. It felt like a bad movie set. After a night of unpackaging and a morning of avoiding the increasingly frantic-sounding footsteps from downstairs, I decided I needed coffee. Not the instant coffee that comes in a jar that expired during the Reagan administration, but a real, honest-to-goodness, artisanal coffee.
I found a cafe a few blocks away, a small place with a quirky sign that read, "Caffeinated and Cynical." I had a good feeling about this place. As I walked in, the aroma of roasting beans and a faint, subtle hint of condescension filled the air. My kind of place.
I walked up to the counter, and there she was. A woman with dark, sharp eyes that seemed to be taking in the absurdity of the world with a dry, comedic flair. She had her dark hair tied up in a messy bun, and a "T's" tattoo on her wrist. She was a perfect picture of "I'm a genius but also, I really don't care about your order."
"What can I get for you, pal?" she asked, her voice a low, sardonic drawl. It was Paige. I knew it. My brain, now running on a supercharged Intel chip, immediately cross-referenced all the information I had on her from my old life. Prodigy, multiple PhDs, a history of underachievement and a general dislike for all things pompous.
"I'll have a coffee," I said with a small smile. "And a side of sarcastic commentary about the man in the corner who's trying to order a triple-shot, low-fat, decaf, gluten-free mocha."
She raised an eyebrow, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I think the commentary comes free with the coffee. It's our house specialty. What kind of coffee?"
"The kind that will help me survive living above a real-life comic book villain with a roommate agreement," I said, leaning on the counter. "You wouldn't believe the things this guy has in his contract."
"Oh, I think I might," she said, a wicked glint in her eyes. "My last roommate had a chart for who was allowed to use the shower and for how long. It was color-coded by our respective levels of existential dread. But I'm assuming your roommate's is more of a mathematical treatise on the nature of cleanliness."
"Close," I said, chuckling. "He has a 'Quiet Time' schedule and a clause about 'unnecessary and excessive vertical impact noises.' And I think I've already broken a dozen of them."
She let out a short, bark-like laugh, and then her eyes widened. "Wait a minute. Unnecessary and excessive vertical impact noises? Did you move into apartment 4B? The upstairs anomaly?"
I blinked. "The upstairs anomaly? Is that what I'm called now?"
"Yeah," she said, her smile broadening. "I heard a dramatic gasp this morning, and then a series of what sounded like plastic toys falling from the ceiling. Leonard, Sheldon's roommate, is in the corner with a friend. I believe they're both discussing the 'Upstairs Anomaly.'"
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Leonard and another man, Raj, sitting at a table. Leonard was nervously fiddling with a napkin, while Raj was trying to say something but was only producing a series of high-pitched squeaks. My brain, with its newfound knowledge, immediately identified the problem. Selective mutism. It was a classic "Raj" moment.
"So you know my tragic tale," I said, turning back to her. "What's a guy to do? My neighbor has a more detailed contract for living than most countries have for their constitutions."
"Well," she said, as she wrote on a coffee cup with a sharpie. "I'd recommend a good cup of coffee. It won't solve your problems, but it'll give you enough energy to create new ones." She handed me the coffee. The label on the cup read, in a perfect, sarcastic scrawl, "For the Upstairs Anomaly."
I took a sip. It was perfect. Strong, dark, and with just a hint of "I hate my life." It was a taste I was all too familiar with.
"So, what's a guy like you doing living above Sheldon Cooper?" she asked, her eyes narrowed in a mix of amusement and genuine curiosity.
"I have no idea," I said, a small, self-deprecating smile on my face. "I think the universe has a very strange sense of humor. Or maybe it's just really, really lazy. It just put me in the first available apartment."
She laughed again, a genuine, joyful sound that seemed to lighten the entire cafe. "I think the universe is a lot smarter than you give it credit for," she said, and then, in a perfect, spot-on imitation of Sheldon's dramatic gasp, she mimicked, "It put you there for a reason."
I laughed so hard I almost choked on my coffee. This woman was my soulmate.