Chapter 8: The Sonogram Week - Part 1
Twenty-four hours taught me more about the gang than a week of observation.
They had patterns. Rhythms. Like a jazz ensemble where everyone knew their part even when they claimed to be improvising.
Monica arrived first, always. Between 5:00 and 5:15 PM, straight from the restaurant, smelling like garlic and stress. She'd order her decaf cappuccino, claim the orange couch like planting a flag, and wait for the others.
Rachel showed up next—now that she was living with Monica, they often walked over together. Rachel had started her waitressing training yesterday and looked like someone had explained quantum physics using only hand gestures. Overwhelmed didn't cover it.
Chandler and Joey arrived as a unit most days. Chandler from his office job, Joey from auditions or the apartment or wherever actors went during the day. They'd bicker about something meaningless—sports, women, pizza toppings—and settle into their usual spots.
Phoebe was unpredictable. Sometimes early, sometimes late, always carrying her guitar and at least one story about a massage client that defied belief.
Ross was the variable. Depended on the museum schedule. Depended on his mood. Depended on whether Carol had called.
Today—September 24th—Ross arrived at 5:47 PM looking marginally better than yesterday. He'd remembered to gel his hair properly.
I had his coffee ready before he ordered.
"Thanks," he said, accepting the cup. Then, after a pause: "You remember how I take it."
"You're a regular," I said. "It's my job."
He smiled slightly. "Well, you're good at your job."
Simple interaction. Thirty seconds of conversation. But it was thirty seconds more than canon Gunther got in months.
Progress.
The afternoon shift had been interesting.
A woman in an expensive suit—designer, if my limited fashion knowledge was correct—had walked in at 2:17 PM. She carried a leather briefcase that probably cost more than my monthly rent and wore the expression of someone who made important decisions before 9 AM.
I'd used Passive Glimpse while making her cappuccino.
The vision showed her in a glass office, skyline view behind her, making phone calls that moved markets. Wall Street, definitely. The kind of money that could buy Central Perk three times over without noticing the charge.
I made her drink with pink light—warmth and connection, trying to create positive association with the coffeehouse.
She took a sip and her shoulders relaxed fractionally.
"This is excellent," she said, making eye contact for the first time. "What's your name?"
"Gunther."
"I'm Caroline." She pulled out a business card—thick stock, embossed lettering. Caroline Walsh, Senior VP, Merrill Lynch. "I'll be back tomorrow. Same time, same order?"
"I'll have it ready."
She left a five-dollar tip on a three-dollar drink.
First wealthy regular acquired. The pink light had worked—she'd remember me, remember the coffee, remember the feeling of this place being worth returning to.
I'd tucked her business card into my wallet and added her to my mental list of people worth cultivating.
Now, at 6:30 PM, the gang was in full swing.
Monica was explaining something about kitchen hierarchy to Rachel, who looked like she was trying to absorb information through sheer force of will. Chandler and Joey were arguing about whether Die Hard was a Christmas movie. Phoebe was tuning her guitar.
And Ross sat slightly apart, coffee going cold in his hands, clearly thinking about tomorrow's sonogram.
I was restocking napkins when Rachel approached the counter.
"Hey, um—" She checked the small notepad where she'd been writing orders. "Can I get two decaf lattes and a regular coffee?"
"Sure." I started the espresso pull. "How's training going?"
"I'm terrible at this." She laughed, but it sounded stressed. "I mixed up three orders today. Three! Terry's being really patient but I can tell he's wondering why Monica vouched for me."
"You'll get better," I said, steaming milk. "Everyone's bad at first."
"Were you?"
I thought about Gunther's muscle memory, the three years he'd spent perfecting the craft before I'd taken over his body. "Yeah. Dropped an entire tray of drinks my second day. Learned to carry things differently after that."
That was probably true. Felt true, anyway.
Rachel's expression brightened. "Really?"
"Really. Just takes practice."
I finished her order and she carried the drinks back to the gang's table with slightly less anxiety in her shoulders.
Small kindness. Cost me nothing. But she'd remember it the next time she felt incompetent.
Rachel - 7:15 PM
Rachel Green was starting to realize that running away from your wedding was the easy part.
Building a new life was significantly harder.
She'd thought getting a job would be simple—how hard could waitressing be? People ordered things, you brought them things, they paid. Basic transaction.
Except she kept forgetting orders. Kept mixing up decaf and regular. Kept spilling things. Her feet hurt in a way she didn't know feet could hurt. And she was pretty sure one customer had asked for her number, which was flattering but also terrifying because she had no idea how to navigate being single in New York City.
The blonde barista—she should really learn his name—had been nice about her obvious incompetence. He'd made it seem normal, human, like everyone struggled at first.
That helped more than he probably knew.
She brought the drinks back to the table and distributed them carefully. Monica immediately launched back into her explanation of restaurant politics, but Rachel's attention had drifted.
Ross looked miserable. She'd known Ross peripherally in high school—Monica's older brother, the smart one, kind of nerdy in a sweet way. Seeing him now, clearly going through something painful, made her want to help.
"You okay?" she asked, sitting down next to him.
Ross looked up like he'd forgotten she was there. "What? Oh. Yeah. Just... Carol's sonogram is tomorrow."
"That's good though, right? You get to see the baby?"
"I guess. It's just weird. Seeing my ex-wife pregnant with another woman's baby. While I'm still processing the divorce. And the gay thing. Not that there's anything wrong with—I'm not homophobic, I'm just—"
"Adjusting," Rachel finished. "That makes sense."
Ross managed a weak smile. "Yeah. Adjusting."
Monica jumped in with reassurances. Chandler made a joke that almost landed. Joey offered to come along for moral support, which was sweet if impractical.
Rachel watched them support Ross in their chaotic way and felt something warm in her chest.
This was what she'd been missing. Real friends. People who actually cared instead of just showing up to social events because that's what you did in your social circle.
She'd left Barry at the altar. Left her parents' expectations. Left the safety of Long Island.
But she'd found this. Monica's weird friends. This coffeehouse. The blonde barista who told her everyone struggled.
It wasn't the life she'd planned. But maybe it was better.
She took a sip of her coffee—the barista had made it perfectly, exactly how she liked it even though she'd never specified—and let the warmth of it settle into her bones.
I can do this, she thought. I can actually do this.
By 8:30 PM, I'd used two of my three daily vision allowances and tested the orange light twice more. Both times, the recipients had visibly brightened—more willing to try new things, more creative in their thinking.
Terry had left me to handle the closing shift alone, which meant I could observe the gang without interruption.
Joey was teaching Phoebe some kind of acting exercise that involved pretending to be a tree. Chandler was reading the newspaper and making sarcastic comments about every article. Monica had pulled out a cooking magazine and was marking recipes with a pen.
And Rachel was writing in a small notebook—journal maybe, or a list of things she needed to figure out.
They were settling into their configuration. Finding their rhythm. Becoming the group that would define a decade of television.
I cleaned the espresso machine and watched them exist.
Tomorrow was September 25th. The day after that, Ross would have his sonogram. The timeline was progressing exactly like it was supposed to.
My job was to be here. Be useful. Be present without being intrusive.
And slowly, carefully, become someone they actually noticed.
Caroline Walsh had noticed me today. Had taken my business card—well, Central Perk's card that I'd written my name on. First step toward building a network of people with actual money and influence.
Rachel had talked to me like a person instead of a service dispenser. Progress there too.
Ross remembered that I remembered his coffee order. Small, but meaningful.
The pieces were moving into place. Not quickly. Not dramatically. But steadily.
The gang left around 9:15 PM, laughing about something Phoebe had said. I locked the door behind them and started the real closing work.
Wiping down tables. Cleaning the espresso machine properly. Counting the register. Restocking for tomorrow.
By 10 PM, Central Perk was clean and quiet.
I stepped outside, locked the door, and walked home through cooling September air.
Two days had passed since the pilot. Two days of observation, testing, careful application of powers.
I was building something. Slowly. Patiently.
The notebook came out when I got home. New entries:
September 24-25 Caroline Walsh - Merrill Lynch VP, responds well to pink light, will return Orange light confirmed: creativity/optimism boost Rachel: struggling with job, receptive to encouragement Ross: sonogram tomorrow (Sept 26), visibly stressed Gang patterns established: 5-6 PM arrival, stay 3-4 hours, orange couch central
I studied what I'd written. The data was accumulating. The plan was working.
Tomorrow, Ross would see his son for the first time. And I'd be there, in the background, making coffee and watching history unfold.
But not just in the background anymore.
This time, I was part of it.
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