The Day the Magic Died

It is always the same reaction. As they look for a distraction from the coming store, their eyes glaze over the brown and gold display, blending in with the surrounding brickwork.

Then their head turns back, slowly. “The what?” they ask themselves, perhaps taking a single step forward, like it would help them read it better. Then comes the squint, perhaps in confusion from the name or just from trying to piece the portions of lettering still intact.

Convinced they’re having a delusion, they’ll ask for confirmation, whether from a fellow furniture shopper or, better yet, someone coming to or from the narrow doorway. “Excuse me,” is always how it starts. “Does that sign say what I think it says?”

Even if they’ve been to the shop, the interviewed individual will look back up at the sign. “Most likely,” they will say, if they’re a regular. If they, too, are a first timer, a repeat of the first follows. A step, a squint.

“The House That Jack Built with Five Coughy Beans?” they will read in slow, confused voices.

Any regular in the area will quickly correct them. “Oh, no one calls it that,” they’ll say, waving them off with their unoccupied hand. “It’s just Coughy Beans.”

If there are more regulars, especially ones who don’t know each other, more names will be dropped.

“Jack’s Beans.”

“Five Beans.”

“Jack’s House.”

“Jack’s House of Beans.”

Then, at some point during the storm of names, each regular will realize theirs is not the only affectionate nickname, and hurry away to drown their broken-hearted sorrow with the elixirs brewed within.

Left alone again, the hesitant purchaser of possible dining table sets lets their gaze wander away from the sign, which is still as confusing as when they first saw it, to the specials listed in the window.

“Jack’s Jokes. A Bean of Bravery. A Cup of Cheer.”

The list goes on – whimsical titles, a welcome distraction from the impending, assumed divan transaction. “I could use a cup of cheer,” the forlorn furniture purveyor decides, and reaches for the knob.

This is when the second reaction hits. A regular, accustomed to the oddities, will no longer notice, until this reaction comes. The hand touches, then releases. The eyes, still looking at the specials, drops to the knob.

“Why is it shaped like a bean?” the newcomer will say.

If any of the disillusioned shop-goers are still shuffling in the area, they’ll sort of, “Huh,” to themselves. “I guess it is shaped like a bean, isn’t it?”

There is no explanation given – and truly, there is no explanation. The doorknob is shaped like a bean, and that’s just the fact of it.

Deciding to ignore the uniqueness (and some won’t – they’ll go about their furniture shopping, a couch richer and quite a bit less rich financially), the newcomer opens the door.

The air that hits them is warm. Or cool, depending on the season. But, somehow, it is exactly the right temperature. And it is filled with flavor. Like a free sample of what’s to come, the smell of coffee, honey and tea sweeps over them in a perfect blend.

A coffee shop enthusiast will take a deep breath. Even those accustomed to cheap and easy coffees will take a moment to relish in the deep atmosphere.

Though drowning in the heavy scents, the newcomer will also realize that there are two sounds. One, a happy bell above their heads, smiles down at them through wafts of freshly-ground coffee. The second, a cheerful face above a brown and gold apron, gives them an eager greeting.

“What can I get you?” they ask, stepping up to the register.

This, of course, is if there is not a line, which is there often is in The House of Beans. If this is the case, then the newcomer will get a brief wave and welcome, and the rustling mass of patrons will give them a look. Most will smile, welcoming them into a sanctuary of peace. One or two will give them a look of foreknowledge, prophesying the addiction that will build. Anyone who has had Jack’s coffee can tell you – it will bring you back.

At the counter now, the newcomer is beset by a massive blackboard of options, frantically searching for something that fits with what their heart desires. “Uh,” they say.

The barista gives a knowing smile. “How are you today?” they ask.

“Overwhelmed with options,” the newcomer says, still scanning, but not wanting to hold up the line.

“We get that a lot,” the barista said. “Oh, hello, Stef and Izza! Good to see you!”

The newcomer glances behind them at a line beginning to grow. Panic starts to set in. “Uh, can I have a drip coffee, I guess?” they say in desperation.

Like a Greek chorus, the line erupts in perfect unison. “Take your time! We don’t mind waiting.”

Of course, the encouragement doesn’t settle any nerves, and so the barista offers a solution. “Take a seat at the counter,” they say, nodding to an empty stool, “And I can take your order whenever you’re ready. Better not to rush this sort of thing!”

Gratefully, the newcomer sinks into the stool, still scanning. When they are finally ready, the barista gives them a look. “What are you looking for today?”

“Can I have the Cup of Cheer,” the newcomer says.

“Sure thing,” the barista says slowly, writing the order on a cup taken from the mountain behind them. “Tough day today?”

“I have to look at furniture,” the newcomer says miserably.

Though they can’t put it into words, the barista understands. It’s like having to buy new friends. Sometimes, it’s wonderful. Other times… It feels like bribery.

“Dudley’s is a good shop,” the barista promises. “You’ll find good stuff.”

The cup is sent to the other employees and disappears behind clouds of espresso steam and boiling tea. Its directions are written in coffee scrawl, indecipherable to any outside of the trained few behind the counter. To those who know, it reads:

One cup cheer. One shot levity. Pinch of decisiveness.

The cup is returned, brimming with energy and topped with an impressive caramel art. The newcomer picks it up, looking at it curiously. “Is that a chair?” they asked.

The barista just smiles. “What do you think?” they ask.

The newcomer takes a sip, and their eyes light up. A feeling is brimming in their chest. A newfound vitality. A belief that they can take on the task of furniture shopping. It’s foreignly familiar to them – like a once-known face glimpsed through the dim window of a Chinese restaurant. The face clarifies, and the newcomer returns the smile.

“I think this is some of the best coffee I’ve ever had,” they say, standing up. “I’ll be back, for sure.”

The barista smiles at them as they leave, this time not noticing the bean-shaped knob. But the barista’s attention returns to their customers. “And how are you?” they asked, listening to the inflection as the next one in line responds.

In the back, drinks are crafted like final essays. Each ingredient perfectly placed, no one piece overwhelming the whole blend. At the base, of course, is coffee, roasted locally and ground in-house. But like the foundation of a mansion, it serves only to bring about the majesty of the completed product. Each item, meticulously curated and added, ensuring the proper match for the customer.

A dash of courage for customer who is buying coffee for themself and date in the park. And, let’s be honest, a dash of courage for the date, too. A hint of youth, to let them both see the world in a new way.

A shot of peace for the one who had unexpected news the night before. Cheer, added liberally, to raise their spirits and prepare them for this new day. A taste of sunshine, to remind them that the night does not last.

There is a stranger in town, unaccustomed to happy faces and welcoming hearts. This cup will likewise hold peace, but blended with hope and honey, for you should never underestimate the power of simple nature.

Unseen, and almost unacknowledged, all who enter The Bean House leave with a new perspective on life and their place in it. The baristas see it. Some of the customers, attuned to such things, will also notice. But most will assume it is merely the coffee, a stimulant reaction in their drug-deprived mind, satisfying the craving that’s been gnawing at them since they’ve woken up.

But the baristas know different. They know the flavors they craft, and know their skill.

Likewise, any reader will also have figured out the secret.

But, dear reader, as the title has warned, this place of peace and perfection faltered. A day came, one that would change everything about The Coughy.

On this morning, like all mornings, the door is opened early by a barista. And, just as soon as they enter, they can feel it.

The aromas still hang in the air, but they are motionless, a lack of breath and movement like they had always had. The air is heavy, almost damp, like a paper airplane stuck in a swimming pool.

Perhaps, they hope, turning the machines on will lighten the atmosphere. And so they do, and for a second, Jack’s Five Beans returns to bright, filled air that used to be. But then it disappears, and while the paper airplane lifts into the air, the flight is erratic and inconsistent.

A sense of doom seems to lurk in the shadows, disappearing whenever a barista glances at it. But it mocks them, making faces as it cartwheels across the wall, the only joyful thing in attendance this morning.

“But what do we do?” asks one of the staff, a new hire who is still becoming accustomed to the structure of Coughy House.

It is the oldest of them all, twinkling eyes beneath graying hair, who speaks up. Somehow, these spirits are not dampened, even with the aura of desolation swimming across the ceiling.

“Let me show you the oldest magic,” they say.

“Old magic?” the others chorus, wondering what it might be.

The oldest barista is tying their apron on, checking the espresso machines and coffee pots, as if it’s a normal day. The others crowd around. “Won’t you show us?” they ask, but the barista just shakes their head.

“You’ll see soon enough,” they say, that same glimmer in their expression.

The feeling of destruction has receded now, the power of the look eroding its power in an instant. A few of the staff still feel the clench of the icy claws in their hearts, but they trust the look. Everything will be okay – everything must be okay.

Their first customer arrives, and everyone holds a breath while they order. It is the eldest barista who takes the order, smiling graciously and moving into the back.

They disregard the specials – though flavorful, their effects would be impotent now. Then, before leaving, they begin to rustle in their apron pocket.

The others gather around, trying to see what magic will appear to fix their problem. To their confusion and surprise, all that is brought out is a sharpie.

“But it’s a magic sharpie?” one of them asks.

The oldest barista laughs quietly, but gives no reply. Instead, they scratch something onto the side of the cup, trying to keep the coffee scrawl legible. Everyone tries to read it, but the barista shoos them off. “This isn’t for you,” they say. “Order your own.”

They walk the cup to the waiting customer with a smile and a cheerful greeting. The customer takes the cup, taking a sip before they find a lid. “Wow, that’s delicious,” they say, then notice the writing. They look between it and the barista, a slow smile opening on their face. “Thanks,” they say, and the barista just smiles back.

“Of course. Come back soon.”

The customer walks out, their attitude changed and head held a little higher.

The baristas crowd around the oldest of them all, begging for answers. “What did you write?” one of them blurts out.

“How did you do that?”

The oldest barista calms them down with a smile and a settling motion with their hands.

“You start with coffee,” they say. “That’s the base. But as for the writing? It’s just like everything we make.”

A hint of peace. A touch of optimism. A breath of courage. A pinch of hope. A taste of sunlight, letting you know the night won’t last.

A magic older than any known to man. A magic that does not rely on elixirs or perfect blends. A power beyond any that claim supremacy.

It is, of course, the power of words.

For a word can lift you up, or tear you down. A word can make you brave, or leave you in fear. Indeed, the weight of words is more powerful than the strongest mage or wizard.

And words are not all. The magic is caught in a glance, a smile and an understanding nod.

It is a magic, though used by all, is often misused and neglected.

And so, knowing you hold this power in your hand, it begs the question.

How will you use the magic of words?