Chapter 13: The Butt Double
Joey Tribbiani exploded through the door at 3:47 PM on Monday, October 10th, moving so fast he nearly knocked over a woman carrying two lattes.
"I GOT IT!" he shouted at volume ten. "I GOT THE PART!"
The entire coffeehouse turned to stare. Joey didn't care. He was vibrating with excitement, practically bouncing on his feet as he made a beeline for the orange couch where Chandler sat reading a magazine.
"You got a part?" Chandler asked. "That's great, man. What is it? Waiter number three? Dead body? Background hospital patient?"
"Better!" Joey grabbed Chandler's shoulders. "Al Pacino's butt double."
Silence. Then—
"I'm sorry," Chandler said slowly. "Did you just say Al Pacino's butt double?"
"Yeah! They're filming a shower scene and they need someone with Pacino's build to be in the steam. It's for a real movie! With Al Pacino! Well, my butt will be in a movie with Al Pacino. Same thing!"
I was making drinks behind the counter, listening to Joey's triumph with mixed feelings. The vision power activated before I could stop it—Passive Glimpse triggered by the intensity of Joey's emotions.
The image came fast: Joey on a film set, moving around in a shower stall, overacting every small gesture. A director's face growing redder by the second. Joey getting pulled aside. The words "you're fired" floating through the steam.
Three seconds, then gone.
The tingle at the base of my skull confirmed the cost, but it was worth knowing. Joey was about to experience the classic actor's rollercoaster—triumph to disaster in under 48 hours.
I couldn't warn him. He'd never believe me. And even if he did, he needed this experience. Needed to learn the lesson about overacting, about taking direction, about the volatile nature of show business.
All I could do was give him confidence for the attempt.
I made Joey's usual coffee with blue light active, concentrating on you can do this, trust yourself, be professional.
The gang was arriving—Monica through the door with Rachel, Ross trailing behind them, Phoebe showing up with her guitar. They all descended on Joey's announcement with varying degrees of enthusiasm and jokes.
"So you're saying your butt is good enough for Al Pacino," Monica said. "That's... actually kind of impressive?"
"It's very impressive!" Joey insisted. "Do you know how many guys auditioned? Hundreds! But they picked me. They said I had the perfect butt."
"Did they actually say that," Ross asked, "or are you paraphrasing?"
"They implied it strongly."
I brought Joey his coffee and set it on the table. "Congratulations."
He looked up, grinning. "Thanks, man! This is huge for me. Huge!"
I nodded and went back to the counter, watching him celebrate with his friends.
Joey drank the coffee quickly, still riding the high. The blue light wouldn't change what happened on set—he'd still get fired for overacting—but maybe it would help him handle it better. Maybe he'd be confident enough to bounce back faster.
Small interventions. That's all I could offer.
Joey - 8:23 PM (The Next Day)
Joey Tribbiani stood on the film set trying very hard not to freak out.
This was it. His big break. His butt was about to be immortalized on film alongside Al Pacino's actual face. Future generations would watch this movie and see Joey's—well, his backside—and think "that is a quality posterior."
The shower set was constructed in a warehouse in Queens. Steam machines created artificial fog. The director—some guy named Marcus who wore a beret unironically—was explaining the scene for the third time.
"You just stand in the water," Marcus said, sounding tired. "Let the steam build. Move naturally. Like you're actually taking a shower. Not like you're performing 'Shower: The Musical.' Just... be a normal person showering."
"Got it," Joey said. "Natural. Normal. Like I'm home."
"Exactly."
They started filming.
Joey stood under the water, which was actually freezing because apparently art required suffering, and tried to be natural.
Except natural was boring. Natural wouldn't get him noticed. Natural wouldn't lead to more roles.
So he added a little something. Ran his hand through his hair with extra drama. Turned to face the camera with his best smoldering look. Reached for the soap like it was a precious artifact.
"CUT!" Marcus's voice echoed through the warehouse. "What... what are you doing?"
"Showering?" Joey said, still in the water.
"You're performing for Broadway. This is a shower scene. For the background. You're not the star, you're the butt double. I need you to just stand there and let the steam do the work."
"Right. Sorry. I'll tone it down."
They tried again. Joey toned it down to an eight instead of a ten.
"CUT! Still too much!"
Again. Joey went to a six.
"CUT! You're still doing something weird with your shoulders!"
And again. Joey tried for a four.
"CUT! Are you incapable of standing still?"
By take twelve, Marcus pulled Joey aside with an expression that Joey recognized from every director he'd ever disappointed.
"Listen," Marcus said, not unkindly. "You're a talented guy. I can see that. But this role requires someone who can just... exist. Not perform. And you're a performer. It's not working out."
The words hit like a physical blow. "Are you firing me?"
"I'm releasing you from the role, yes."
Joey stood there dripping shower water and shame, his big break dissolving like steam.
Wednesday afternoon, Joey walked into Central Perk looking like someone had told him Santa wasn't real and then kicked his dog for good measure.
I was restocking cups when he entered. The gang was already there, and they immediately knew something was wrong.
"What happened?" Monica asked.
"I got fired." Joey collapsed onto the couch. "The director said I was overacting. In a shower scene. How do you overact in a shower?"
"Oh, honey," Rachel said, reaching over to squeeze his hand.
"It's not even a speaking role! I literally just had to stand there and I couldn't do that right!"
Chandler tried humor. "Well, at least your butt is still perfect. They can't take that away from you."
Joey didn't laugh.
The gang went into support mode—Monica offering food, Ross offering paleontology facts as distraction, Phoebe suggesting energy work. It was chaotic and loving and exactly what Joey needed even if he didn't know it yet.
I watched from behind the counter, learning their support vocabulary again. Each of them contributed something different, but together they created a safety net.
When Joey got up for a refill twenty minutes later, I had his coffee ready.
"Thanks," he mumbled, not making eye contact.
"Next audition will be better," I said quietly.
He looked up, surprised. The coffee guy didn't usually talk beyond taking orders.
"Yeah?" His voice had hope in it, fragile and desperate.
"Yeah. This was a learning experience. Next time you'll know."
Joey studied my face for a moment, checking if I was being sincere or just polite. Whatever he saw convinced him.
"Yeah," he said, stronger this time. "Yeah, it will be."
He went back to the couch with his coffee and rejoined the conversation. The support continued. The jokes got better. Joey's smile returned gradually, not all the way, but enough.
I went back to making drinks and thought about failure. About how necessary it was. About how I couldn't protect them from it even if I wanted to.
My job wasn't to fix everything. It was to be there afterward with good coffee and quiet encouragement.
Joey would book another role eventually. Would learn from this disaster. Would become the working actor he was meant to be.
But that journey required falling down first.
The next three days brought an unexpected development.
Joey's theater friends started showing up.
It started with two actors from his improv group on Thursday evening, then expanded to a casting director who'd seen Joey in an off-Broadway showcase, then a theater owner who knew someone who knew Joey's agent.
By Saturday afternoon, Central Perk had acquired a new regular demographic: the theater crowd.
They ordered complicated drinks—soy lattes with specific foam requirements, pour-overs with precise timing, espressos that needed to be "bold but not bitter." They talked loudly about auditions and callback and who was sleeping with which director.
And they tipped well.
I used Passive Glimpse on three of them strategically.
First: The casting director, a woman named Patricia who dressed in all black and carried headshots in her bag. Vision showed her in an office, reviewing comp cards, making phone calls that changed people's lives.
I made her cappuccino with orange light—creativity boost, hoping she'd think of interesting casting choices—and she complimented the coffee loud enough for everyone to hear.
"This is the best cappuccino in the Village," Patricia announced. "Joey, you didn't tell me this place was gold."
Joey, who'd been sulking at the couch, perked up. "Yeah, Gunther makes great coffee."
First time Joey had said my name. Small victory.
Second: The theater owner, an older man named Marcus (different Marcus, apparently it was a popular name in theater) who had money written all over him. Expensive watch, tailored coat, the kind of confidence that came from owning property in Manhattan.
His vision showed a small theater, sold-out shows, money changing hands. Successful operation.
I gave him blue and pink combined—confidence and warmth, building positive association with the space.
"Charming place," he said to Joey. "Reminds me of the cafes we used to haunt back in the seventies. Before everything became corporate."
Third: A wealthy patron of the arts, a woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Steinberg and wore jewelry that probably cost more than my annual salary. Her vision showed galas, fundraisers, checks being written to theater companies.
I made her drink with pink light only—warmth and connection—and she settled into a corner table like she owned it.
"Joey, darling," she called over. "Does this place cater? I'm hosting a salon next month and the coffee would be perfect."
Joey looked at me. I looked at Terry, who'd just emerged from the office.
"We can discuss it," Terry said, suddenly interested.
By 7 PM, the theater crowd had transformed Central Perk's atmosphere. The orange couch crew was still there—the gang had their regular spot—but surrounding them was this new energy. Artists and creators and people who made things happen.
Patricia approached the counter for her third drink of the evening.
"You're very good at this," she said, watching me work.
"At making coffee?"
"At reading people. I've been watching. You give everyone exactly what they need—strong for the stressed ones, gentle for the tired ones. That's a skill."
I shrugged. "Just doing my job."
"Well, you do it well." She left another generous tip.
The theater crowd became regulars over the next week. Not every day—their schedules were chaotic—but often enough that Terry noticed the revenue increase.
"Whatever you're doing with the theater people," he told me on Sunday, "keep doing it."
"Just making good coffee."
"Sure." He didn't believe me, but he didn't care. Money was money.
And I had three new contacts in the industry—Patricia who cast shows, Marcus who owned venues, Mrs. Steinberg who funded productions. None of them would be useful immediately, but in a year? Two years? When I needed investors or connections or influence?
They'd remember the barista who made perfect coffee and created a space worth returning to.
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