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to work for money. Actually, I don't really care about whether or not I have money. Sugar says that is a rich person's conceit, but I told her it's not my fault Sid is rich and Sugar agreed, that's true. Anyway, I am not a mall junkie kind of girl who needs to save money for hair clips and glitter makeup and boy band CDs. Excuse me while I go retch at that thought.
    So I try not to use the fact that I don't actually need the Java the Hut job as a reason to be rude to customers who complain that their coffee is not hot enough or who say "I asked for a latte and you gave me a cappuccino," huff, when I know for certain the word latte was uttered to me. I also try not to roll my eyes at customers who assume that because I am a teenager working for minimum wage and what barely counts as tips that they need to speak extra slowly to me. "Miss, could ... I... please ... have ... a ... single ...
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    blended ... decaf... capp ... with ... extra ... foam? Did you get that? Are you sure? Want to repeat it back to me?"
    If you have to have a job, Java the Hut is the place to be. Maybe because the coffeehouse is located all the way out in foggy and cold Ocean Beach, but everyone is pretty mellow. The place has old bean bags for chairs and sofas from the Salvation Army and ancient books on bookshelves which customers actually read and there is always the smell of saltwater mixing in with the coffee scent. Wallace has even installed a special rack for customers to park their surfboards. What is extra cool is that since the surf at Ocean Beach is so fierce, the surfers have to be extra strong to swim out. Which means Cyd Charisse gets to admire some customers with buff bods and tight pecs in wet suits all day long, uh-huh.
    Some establishments have signs saying "Shirt and shoes required." At Java the Hut, shirts and shoes are optional if you don't mind freezing in the Ocean Beach chill, but you can check your perkiness at the door. I mean, this is not a place where employees have to ask would you like to super size that order and then offer a pearly smile.
    Delia, who is the daytime assistant manager and Java's girlfriend, makes the days go by quickly. She is a dancer studying at San Francisco State. She stands on her toes when she is grinding coffee and grooves to a hip-hop beat as she clears tables. She always has funky music blaring at the store. She likes to shake her booty as she adds register receipts at the end of the day, singing, "Make my funk the P-Funk, I wants to get funked up."
    Delia says how can I have a name like Cyd Charisse and not want to be a dancer. Have you ever actually
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    watched a movie where Cyd Charisse danced? she asked. Not really, I said. Delia is trying to get me to come to the modern dance class she teaches at a nearby dance studio, but when I picture myself there, I see myself wearing a tiara and a tulle tutu, standing on tippy toes in combat boots and frowning. No thank you.
    Nancy has figured out a way to get back at me for having a summer job. She sends Fernando, the driver, over to Ocean Beach in the Mercedes with the dark tinted windows to pick me up after my shift. I have offered Fernando my whole salary as hush money to not come pick me up, but he won't take it. "Orders is orders," he said, which I understand. I know the difference between a latte and a cappuccino.
    Fernando drinks straight black coffee every day while he waits for me to finish washing dishes and sweeping the kitchen. That's how I figured out something about Fernando. He is Sugar's soulmate. Every day after I give Fernando his black coffee, I clock his sugar-pouring time and it's about ten whole seconds. That's a lot of sugar for a guy with a long red scar on his face, the kind of leather face you would never think to ask, "Can I make you an espresso drink this evening?" I mean, he is black coffee and then some. Some sugar.
    Fernando is not that old, even though he is a grandpa. He is a widower. I would say he is in