Chapter 10: The Thumb
Phoebe walked into Central Perk at 11:47 AM on Thursday, September 29th, holding a soda can like it contained either a bomb or the secret to enlightenment.
"I need witnesses," she announced to the mostly empty coffeehouse.
I looked up from restocking cups. "Witnesses for what?"
She set the can on the counter with theatrical precision. "Open this."
"Why can't you open it?"
"Because I already did. At home. And I found something. But I need witnesses for when I call the soda company, otherwise they'll think I'm lying." She pushed the can toward me. "Go on. Look inside."
I picked up the can—felt the liquid slosh around—and peered into the opening.
A human thumb floated in the soda.
"Is that—"
"A thumb," Phoebe confirmed. "An actual human thumb. In my soda."
I set the can down carefully. "You should probably call them."
"Oh, I'm calling them. I'm calling them so hard." She pulled out a notebook with a phone number already written down. "I looked up their customer service line. Do you think I should sound angry or traumatized? Which gets more money?"
The casual way she said "more money" made me grin despite the severed digit currently contaminating her beverage.
"Probably traumatized," I said. "Anger makes them defensive. Trauma makes them want to fix it."
Phoebe's eyes lit up. "You're smart. I like that." She grabbed the can and headed for the payphone in the corner. "Wish me luck!"
I watched her dial, then shift her entire demeanor into distressed civilian mode. The performance was impressive—voice shaking slightly, pauses in all the right places, just enough emotion without overselling it.
She hung up five minutes later looking satisfied.
"They're sending someone to collect the thumb," she reported. "And they offered me free soda for a year, which I said wasn't enough because I'm traumatized and might need therapy."
"How much are they actually giving you?"
"We're negotiating. But I'm thinking at least five thousand."
She was thinking small. The episode—if I remembered correctly—ended with her getting seven thousand dollars. Not a bad payday for finding a dismembered body part in your drink.
"Good luck with that," I said, meaning it.
Phoebe studied me for a moment with that unsettling awareness she sometimes had—like she could see through walls or into thoughts.
Then she winked and walked out, thumb-soda in hand.
Chandler showed up an hour later looking like he'd slept in his suit.
He ordered coffee without making eye contact, which was unusual. Chandler's default setting was eye contact plus sarcastic commentary. Silent and withdrawn meant something was wrong.
I made his latte and watched him take it to a corner table, away from the windows, away from his usual spot.
Then he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
He didn't light one—Central Perk had a no-smoking policy—but he held the pack like a security blanket, turning it over in his hands, pressing it against the table.
I'd seen this before. Canon Chandler had a smoking relapse somewhere in the early episodes. Stress from work, from life, from being twenty-something in New York with no clear direction.
The green light appeared when I concentrated on it—a new color I'd been testing over the last few days. It seemed to promote calm, reduce anxiety. Perfect for someone white-knuckling their way through nicotine withdrawal.
I made myself a coffee with the green light active, then "accidentally" made too much.
"Hey, Chandler?" I walked over to his table. "I messed up the size on this one. You want it? On the house."
He looked up, surprised. "You sure?"
"Can't sell it. Might as well not waste it."
He accepted the cup and I went back to the counter.
Five minutes later, I saw his shoulders relax. The cigarette pack went back in his pocket. He actually took his phone out and made a call—something about meeting Joey later—his voice returning to its usual rhythm.
Small intervention. But it counted.
Chandler - 1:23 PM
Chandler Bing hung up with Joey and stared at his second coffee.
The first one had been fine—good, even, the way Central Perk coffee always was. But this one was different. Like drinking liquid meditation.
Which was insane. Coffee didn't work like that. Coffee was just roasted beans and hot water and maybe some milk if you were feeling fancy.
But his hands had stopped shaking. The craving for a cigarette had dulled from screaming need to background static. And the knot in his chest—the one that had been there since his boss had implied Chandler's entire career might be redundant—had loosened enough that he could actually breathe.
It's just good coffee, he told himself. That's all.
Except he'd been drinking Central Perk coffee for weeks and it had never done this.
He looked over at the counter. Gunther—the barista, the quiet one—was serving someone else with the same efficient, unremarkable competence he always showed.
Maybe Chandler was just having a good moment. Maybe the cigarette craving was naturally fading. Maybe he was reading too much into it.
He finished the coffee anyway. Felt better anyway.
Left a bigger tip than usual, just in case.
Monica brought Alan to Central Perk that evening around 6 PM.
I'd been expecting this. The Alan episode—everyone loves Monica's boyfriend except Monica, who feels smothered by their enthusiasm. Classic Friends setup, would resolve with them breaking up off-screen within a week.
Alan was exactly like I remembered: handsome in a conventional way, friendly smile, the kind of guy who looked good on paper and said all the right things.
"Gunther, this is Alan," Monica said, clearly nervous. "Alan, this is Gunther. He makes the best coffee in Manhattan."
"Nice to meet you." Alan offered his hand and I shook it. Firm grip. Eye contact. Practiced charm.
"What can I get you two?"
"Decaf cappuccino," Monica said.
"Regular coffee, black," Alan added. "I'm a simple guy."
The others arrived shortly after—Ross, Rachel, Joey, Chandler, eventually Phoebe. They greeted Alan with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for long-lost relatives.
Ross clapped him on the shoulder. "Monica told us about you! Software engineer, right?"
"Yeah, data management systems."
"That's so cool," Chandler said, with what sounded like genuine interest instead of his usual sarcasm.
Joey asked about sports. Phoebe asked about his aura. Rachel complimented his sweater.
And Monica sat in the middle of it all, smile getting tighter with every compliment her friends gave her boyfriend.
I'd seen this dynamic before—not just in the show but in real life. When your friends love your partner more than you do, it creates pressure. Forces you to examine feelings you'd rather avoid. Makes you wonder if you're the problem for not being as enthusiastic as everyone else.
Monica's knuckles were white around her coffee mug.
I made her another cappuccino—no light, no powers, just perfectly executed—and brought it to the table without being asked.
She looked up, surprised. "I didn't order this."
"On the house. You looked like you needed it."
Our eyes met for two seconds. In those two seconds, I saw her register that I'd noticed her stress, had responded to it without making a big deal about it, had given her a small kindness in the middle of social chaos.
"Thank you," she mouthed silently.
I nodded and went back to the counter.
Small moment. But it mattered.
The gang stayed until 9 PM, still fawning over Alan like he'd just solved world hunger. Monica's smile never reached her eyes.
I gave it a week, tops, before she broke up with him.
Monica - 8:47 PM
Monica Geller was surrounded by her favorite people in the world and wanted to scream.
"Alan, you have to come to dinner Friday," Rachel was saying. "We'll make a thing of it."
"I'd love that," Alan replied, perfect smile in place.
Ross was asking about his work. Chandler was laughing at his jokes. Joey wanted to know if he played basketball.
Everyone loved him. Everyone.
Which should have made Monica happy. Her boyfriend getting along with her friends was supposed to be a good thing.
Except she didn't love him. Not really. She liked him. He was nice and stable and said the right things. But there was no spark, no excitement, just... pleasant compatibility.
And watching her friends fall over themselves to embrace him made her feel like she was trapped in someone else's life.
The second cappuccino Gunther had brought her sat warming her hands. She hadn't ordered it. Hadn't asked for it. He'd just noticed she needed something and provided it without fanfare.
It was the kind of attention she wished Alan would show—reading her mood, responding to her needs without being told.
But Alan was busy charming her friends, and she was sitting here wondering how long she had to wait before breaking up with him without looking crazy.
Maybe I am crazy, she thought. Maybe there's something wrong with me for not appreciating a perfectly nice guy.
She took a sip of the cappuccino. Perfect temperature. Perfect foam. Made by someone who paid attention.
Monica looked at Gunther behind the counter and felt a flash of gratitude for someone who saw her as more than just the hostess who brought people together.
Then Alan put his arm around her shoulders and she forced herself to smile.
Three days passed. Phoebe's soda settlement came through—seven thousand dollars, just like the episode. She celebrated by buying rounds for everyone and tipping me fifty dollars on a three-dollar drink.
Chandler kept sneaking cigarettes outside but always came back in looking twitchy. I kept making him coffee with green light whenever he showed up. The cycle continued.
Monica and Alan came in twice more. Both times, the gang loved him. Both times, Monica looked more distant.
I was learning something important: having foreknowledge meant watching tragedies unfold without being able to prevent them. Chandler would quit smoking eventually, but not before struggling. Monica would break up with Alan, but not before weeks of feeling smothered. Rachel would struggle with her job, Ross with his feelings, Joey with auditions.
I couldn't fix everything. Couldn't even fix most things.
But I could make good coffee. Could offer small moments of calm or hope or comfort.
Could be there, present and helpful, when they needed it.
It had been three weeks since I'd woken up in this world. Three weeks of serving coffee, testing powers, watching the show unfold from the inside.
I was settling into a routine: morning shift, afternoon experimentation, evening observation. The notebook was filling with data on power usage, customer patterns, canon events.
But routine wasn't enough anymore.
I'd spent my first life watching from a distance. I'd spent these three weeks mostly doing the same thing—just closer, with better coffee.
I needed to do more. Be more. Build something real instead of just documenting what happened around me.
Caroline Walsh, the Wall Street woman, had become a regular—came in at 2 PM every Tuesday and Thursday, always ordered the same thing, always left generous tips. Two more wealthy customers had emerged from my strategic use of Passive Glimpse and color infusions.
The financial plan was starting to take shape. Slowly. Incrementally. But real.
And the gang—Ross knew my name. Monica had noticed my attentiveness. Chandler was unconsciously seeking out my coffee when stressed.
I was becoming visible. One small interaction at a time.
October 1st arrived with cooler air and falling leaves. I walked to work through morning crowds and thought about the next phase.
Phoebe had seven thousand dollars. Chandler was struggling with addiction. Monica was in a relationship that would end badly. Rachel was learning to be independent. Ross was preparing for fatherhood. Joey was chasing auditions.
And I was making coffee that glowed with invisible light, one cup at a time, building a life I'd never had before.
Not a bad trade for dying alone in a studio apartment.
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