Chapter 4: The Real Estate Question
The lunch rush cleared out by 1:30 PM, leaving the coffeehouse in that strange mid-afternoon lull where time felt suspended.
I wiped down the counter for the third time, not because it needed cleaning but because my hands needed something to do. Terry was in the back office doing paperwork, and I had questions burning holes in my brain.
Questions about ownership. About money. About the long game I was starting to play.
I knocked on the office door frame. Terry looked up from a ledger, reading glasses perched on his nose in a way that made him look older than his forty-something years.
"Yeah?"
"Can I ask you something about the business?"
His eyebrows went up. In three years—Gunther's three years—I'd apparently never shown interest in anything beyond making coffee and collecting a paycheck.
"Go ahead," he said carefully.
I leaned against the doorframe, trying to look casual. "Who actually owns this place? Central Perk, I mean."
"Why?"
"Just curious. I've worked here three years and I realized I don't even know if you own it or if there's a corporation or..."
Terry set down his pen and removed his glasses. "It's complicated. The building is owned by Abraham Kaplan—old Jewish guy who owns half this block. He leases the ground floor to Riverside Coffee Corporation, which is basically a holding company set up by three investors. I'm the managing partner, which means I run the day-to-day and get a percentage of profits."
"So you don't own it outright?"
"I own thirty percent. The other two investors are silent partners—put up initial capital, collect dividends, don't care about operations."
I did quick math in my head. Thirty percent of a profitable Manhattan coffeehouse in the mid-nineties, before the Starbucks explosion really hit. Terry was making decent money, but he wasn't rich.
"How much would it cost to buy in?" I asked. "Hypothetically."
Terry laughed. "More than you've got, that's for sure. Initial buy-in was fifteen thousand per partner back in '88. Equipment, renovations, first year's lease—we sunk about seventy grand total into getting this place running."
Seventy thousand dollars. I had $847.
Terry was studying me with new interest. "Why the sudden curiosity about ownership?"
I shrugged. "Like I said, just curious. Figured I should understand the business if I'm going to keep working here."
"Planning to stick around, then?"
"Yeah," I said, and meant it. "I think I am."
He nodded slowly, like I'd confirmed something he'd suspected. "Good. You've been different the last few days. More engaged. Keep that up and we'll talk about a raise."
A raise. Right. Because what I really needed was an extra fifty cents an hour when I was trying to figure out how to acquire forty-five thousand dollars.
I went back to the counter, mind churning.
The math was brutal but clear. Even if I saved aggressively, lived on rice and beans, worked extra shifts—I'd need years to accumulate enough capital. And that was assuming I could convince Terry or the other investors to sell me a stake, which they'd have exactly zero reason to do.
I needed a different approach. Wealthy customers. Investors. People with money who might see value in backing a coffeehouse expansion or buying in as a fourth partner.
The door chimed.
A guy rushed in, mid-twenties, wearing a suit that looked expensive but rumpled, like he'd been wearing it for twelve hours straight. He had the kind of face that was perpetually ready to deliver a punchline—expressive, mobile, equipped with a natural sarcasm setting.
I recognized him instantly.
Chandler Bing. Data processing. Statistical analysis and data reconfiguration. The funny one who used humor as a defense mechanism and would spend the next ten years making jokes about how much he hated his job.
"Large coffee," he said without looking at me. "No, wait—medium. No, large. Is there a size between medium and large? Because I need exactly that much caffeine to make it through this afternoon without murdering someone, but not so much that I develop a visible twitch."
"Large it is," I said, keeping my voice neutral.
"Great. Make it fast. I've got a meeting in—" he checked his watch, "—eight minutes ago."
I made the coffee quickly, no blue light, nothing special. Just fast service for a guy in a hurry.
Chandler paid without counting the change, grabbed the cup, and headed for the door. He paused halfway there and turned back.
"Is this place always this empty in the afternoon?"
"Usually, yeah."
"Good to know. My office is two blocks away and the coffee there tastes like someone filtered it through a gym sock." He raised the cup in a mock salute. "I'll probably be back."
Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
I stood there holding his three dollars and change, thinking: In three days, you'll meet Joey at the coffeehouse. In a week, you'll be here every day with the whole group. Eventually, we're going to be friends.
But not yet. Right now, I was just the fast barista who didn't ask questions.
Chandler - 2:47 PM
Chandler Bing walked back to his office building thinking about the coffee.
It was good. Not amazing, but solid. Better than the break room sludge. And the location was perfect—two blocks from work, easy to hit during a long afternoon when the fluorescent lights made him want to stage a dramatic resignation involving fire alarms and at least one improvised musical number.
The barista had been efficient. Quiet. Blonde guy, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of face that wouldn't stand out in a crowd. The perfect service industry worker—there when you needed him, invisible when you didn't.
Chandler made a mental note: Central Perk. Good coffee. Quiet. He could work here on laptop days, assuming they wouldn't kick him out for camping.
He took another sip of the coffee and felt some of the afternoon stress unclench from his shoulders.
Yeah. He'd definitely be back.
The afternoon dragged into evening. I served the usual suspects—neighborhood regulars, students, a few tourists who'd wandered off the main drag.
At 6 PM, Terry emerged from the office with his jacket on.
"You good to close solo?" he asked.
"Yeah, no problem."
He paused at the door. "That question earlier. About ownership."
"Yeah?"
"If you're serious about understanding the business side, I can show you the books sometime. Profit margins, overhead, that kind of thing. Won't make you rich, but it might help you see how it all works."
It was an olive branch. An acknowledgment that I'd changed from drone to someone worth investing time in.
"I'd like that," I said.
Terry nodded and left.
I finished the closing routine—wiping down surfaces, restocking cups, counting the register. My mind kept circling back to the numbers.
$45,000 for a minority stake, conservatively. Maybe less if I could negotiate, maybe more if the business kept growing. Either way, it was a mountain from where I stood.
But I had advantages. I knew which customers to cultivate. I knew Chandler would become a regular, which meant I knew Joey, Ross, Monica, Rachel, and Phoebe would follow. I could use my powers strategically—not on them, not directly, but on the right people around them. Build relationships. Create opportunities.
I locked the front door at 9 PM and walked home through cooling September air.
My apartment felt smaller than usual. I sat on the bed with my notebook and did calculations.
If I saved every penny: $847 current savings, $6.50/hour wage, approximately 40 hours per week after taxes = $260 biweekly take-home. Minus rent ($500/month), food ($200/month), utilities ($80/month) = maybe $300 per month in savings if I lived like a monk.
At that rate, I'd have $45,000 in... twelve and a half years.
Unacceptable.
I needed a better plan. Multiple income streams. Investments. Using future knowledge to my advantage without being obvious about it.
The stock market was an option—I knew which companies would boom in the next few years. But I'd need seed capital first, and insider trading laws were a thing, even if my information came from transmigrated TV knowledge rather than corporate espionage.
I could write down major sporting event outcomes, bet strategically. But that required going to bookies or Atlantic City, and I had exactly zero experience with gambling.
Or I could focus on what I had: powers, position, and foreknowledge of six people who would become cultural icons.
The last option felt right. Build relationships with the gang naturally. Use my abilities to help them succeed. Eventually leverage those connections into something bigger.
It would take time. Years, probably. But I had years. The show ran for ten seasons. That was my timeline.
I closed the notebook and looked at the calendar on the wall.
September 21st tomorrow. Then September 22nd.
The pilot episode. Rachel in her wedding dress. The beginning of everything.
I set my alarm and tried to sleep, but my brain wouldn't shut off.
Three days ago, I'd been a dead man watching reruns. Now I was planning a decade-long strategy to buy a coffeehouse and build a life.
The absurdity should have bothered me. Instead, it felt like finally waking up after years of sleepwalking.
My eyes finally closed somewhere around 2 AM, and when I dreamed, I dreamed in blue light and coffee steam.
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