Chapter 3: Learning the Menu
September 16, 1994 - 7:23 AM
I developed a system.
Not a good system. Not even a smart system. But a system nonetheless.
Saturday morning rush meant approximately forty customers between 7 AM and noon. I'd use the blue light on three of them—spaced out by at least an hour, randomly selected, normal orders. Then I'd watch what happened.
Customer one: nervous guy in his twenties ordering a cappuccino, kept checking his watch. I made it with the blue light active, concentrating on confidence, calm, you've got this.
The light flowed. The vision came. I saw him on stage somewhere, microphone in hand, audience laughing. Comedy club, maybe. The image dissolved after three seconds.
He drank the cappuccino standing at the counter. His leg stopped bouncing. He left a two-dollar tip on a three-dollar drink and walked out looking steadier.
My head felt fine. Just the slight tingle.
Customer two: woman in her fifties, ordered an Americano, had the defeated posture of someone carrying too much weight. I made it normal. No light. Control group.
She drank it, left, didn't change. Scientific method in action.
Customer three: college-age kid with textbooks, clearly studying for something important. Regular coffee, but I added the blue light. Thought about clarity, focus, understanding.
The vision showed him in a classroom, hand raised, answering a question. Professor nodding approval.
He drank half the cup right there at the counter, then gathered his books and found a quiet corner. I watched him study for the next hour. His notes got more organized. His expression shifted from frustrated to engaged.
By 11 AM, I'd hit my third use. My head felt... pressured. Not quite a headache, but definitely uncomfortable. Like my sinuses were trying to expand but couldn't.
Three per day, I noted mentally. Maybe four if I push it, but that's the safe limit.
Terry was working the counter with me today—weekends always needed two people. He kept shooting me looks when he thought I wasn't paying attention.
"You're acting weird," he finally said during a lull.
"Weird how?"
"I don't know. Focused." He wiped down the espresso machine. "Usually you just go through the motions. Today you're actually paying attention to the customers."
Because I was literally studying them like lab rats, but I couldn't say that.
"Maybe I'm trying to be better at my job," I said.
Terry snorted. "You've worked here three years. Little late for a performance review attitude."
Three years. Gunther had been at Central Perk for three years already. That meant he'd been here since 1991, building a life in the background while the world moved around him.
Not anymore, I thought.
The afternoon was slower. I resisted the urge to test the fourth vision, remembering the pressure building in my skull. Instead, I focused on normal work—cleaning, restocking, making drinks without any glowing hands.
By 4 PM, I was exhausted. Not physically. Mentally. Keeping track of who got what, watching for results, maintaining the facade of being normal Gunther—it added up.
I clocked out and went home to my empty apartment.
September 17, 1994 - 6:52 AM
Sunday morning started with a splitting headache.
I woke up and immediately regretted being conscious. My skull felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton and then hit it with a hammer.
Hangover? I thought, trying to remember if I'd drunk anything last night. No. Just water and stale bread for dinner. This was something else.
I dragged myself to the bathroom and stared at my reflection. Gunther's face looked pale. Dark circles under the eyes. I looked like death warmed over.
The headache pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
I made it to work fifteen minutes late. Terry was already there, opening up, and he took one look at me and frowned.
"You okay?"
"Headache," I muttered.
"You look terrible." He pointed at the back room. "Take thirty minutes. I'll cover the counter."
I should have argued. Should have insisted I was fine. Instead, I collapsed into the break room chair and put my head in my hands.
The pain was localized—right at the base of my skull where I'd felt the tingle yesterday. Like I'd strained a muscle, except it was inside my brain.
I overdid it, I realized. Three visions yesterday, probably three the day before. I'm pushing too hard.
The system needed adjustment.
By noon, the headache had faded to a dull throb. I managed to work the counter without grimacing every time someone spoke. Terry kept watching me like I might collapse, but he didn't send me home.
I didn't use the blue light at all. Didn't even test it. Just made normal coffee for normal people and tried to figure out where I'd gone wrong.
The answer came around 2 PM when I was wiping down tables.
I'd been treating the powers like a video game. Three uses per day, reset at midnight, spam them until the meter runs out. But that wasn't how it worked.
The visions took something from me. Energy, focus, whatever you wanted to call it. And I needed recovery time. Not just hours—days, maybe.
I pulled out my pocket notebook during a quiet moment and added new notes:
Vision cost: mental energy, cumulative Recovery: at least 24 hours between heavy use Symptoms of overuse: headache, fatigue, looking like death New rule: 2 visions per day MAX, with rest days
It was frustrating. I had power and couldn't use it freely. But pushing too hard would either break me or get me noticed, and both options sucked.
Terry - 3:47 PM
Terry had managed Central Perk for six years and thought he'd seen every type of employee.
Gunther had always been the quiet one. Reliable, competent, completely forgettable. The kind of worker who showed up on time, did the job, and never caused problems or made improvements.
Except for the last three days.
Something had changed. Gunther was... awake. Paying attention. Actually engaging with customers instead of just processing orders.
And today, he'd shown up looking like he'd been hit by a truck, then somehow recovered by afternoon.
Terry wasn't stupid. People didn't just transform overnight without a reason. Drugs, maybe. Or a nervous breakdown. Or—and this was the weirdest option—Gunther was actually trying.
He watched the blonde man make a latte with perfect form, the kind of muscle memory that came from years of practice but rarely got used with actual care.
Keep an eye on him, Terry decided. If this is a breakdown, it'll get worse. If it's growth, encourage it.
Either way, something was happening with Gunther, and Terry needed to figure out what before it became his problem.
By closing time, I felt almost human again.
The headache was gone. My energy had returned. I'd learned an important lesson about limits.
Back at the apartment, I sat on the bed with my notebook and actually organized my thoughts.
Powers Documented:
Blue Light Effect
Function: Boosts confidence/focus in drinkerActivation: Concentration on "perfection" while making drinkVision: Shows future event, 24-48 hour rangeCost: Mental energy, cumulativeLimit: 2 uses per day maximum, needs recovery daysDoes not work on self
Unconfirmed:
Other colors? (Yellow, red, green, etc.) Can vision range expand? What happens if I push past limits? Are the visions guaranteed or just possibilities?
I stared at the list. Three days of experimentation had taught me the basics, but I'd barely scratched the surface.
The yellow light—I remembered seeing it mentioned somewhere in Gunther's memories, or maybe I'd imagined it. I needed to test it. But carefully this time. With proper rest between attempts.
I also needed to verify the visions. Mrs. Henderson's meeting would happen tomorrow—Monday. If I could confirm she actually closed that deal, then I'd know the visions showed real futures, not just wishful thinking.
Outside my window, Manhattan was settling into evening. September 17th became September 18th. Monday would bring new customers, new opportunities, and—if I'd counted right—the pilot episode was approximately four days away.
Rachel would run into Central Perk in a wedding dress. Ross would see her and fall apart. Monica would offer her apartment. The six of them would start orbiting each other in that specific configuration that would last ten years.
And I'd be there. Making coffee. Watching it happen.
Except this time, I had powers. This time, I had a chance to be more than just the guy behind the counter.
I just needed to figure out what "more" meant.
I set my alarm for 6 AM and tried to sleep. Tomorrow would be a test day—minimal power use, maximum observation. I'd watch Mrs. Henderson come in for her usual Tuesday latte and see if my vision had been accurate.
If it had been, then everything changed. If it hadn't, I was just a barista with a very specific hallucination problem.
Either way, I'd know more tomorrow than I knew today.
That was progress. Small, careful, methodical progress.
It would have to be enough.
where are the povs
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