Written by Alex Tomchak Scott
Illustration by Stuart Mayberry
I’ve begun to suspect myself of fighting bulls during much of my spare time. I imagine a Fight Club-type scenario in which, when I believe I am sleeping, I am actually prancing around a sold-out arena pursued by a lowing Minotaur. That would explain why my Mexican coworkers at Espresso Roma call me “Torero,” which in their native Spanish means “Bullfighter.”
Of course, like all the theories I’ve come up with, there are some holes in the nocturnal alternate personality hypothesis. Why, for instance, is my closet devoid of boleros and hats with dingle balls, accepted necessities of the bullfighting trade? But if that’s not the reason, why do the teenage baristas, Ezekiel and Miguelito, call me “Torero”?
I know what you’re thinking. “Why don’t you just ask them?” I’ve tried that. I am still trying to decode the answer: “No sé, güey,” served up by Ezekiel alongside a broad unhelpful smirk.
Ezekiel only speaks as much English as he has taught himself during the couple of years he has been in the United States (e.g., “two rusty chai teas for here”). I, meanwhile, had to look up “no” in an English-to-Spanish dictionary. Language, then, may be a problem.

Hence, I was forced to theorize. My first theory was simple: The name must be a sinister double entendre; they must not like me.

I deployed the old “something in my eye” excuse to disguise my whimpers until my shift ended and I ran home to bury my face in my pillow. Hours later, when I had finally mopped up the mucus and tears, I looked up torero on the Urban Dictionary website. The only entry read as follows: “Mascot of the University of San Diego.”
So I had a new theory: My coworkers thought I was a student at the University of San Diego. If anything, that was more offensive. I know nothing about USD, but anyone who works three non-consecutive weekday shifts in Eugene while going to school in San Diego is basically the Charles Manson of carbon emissions. And I see myself as very environmentally conscious.
So during my next shift I dropped some subtle hints that I was not a USD student. For instance, “Where’s the bathroom, you ask? Well, if you mean the bathroom at the University of San Diego, I regret to inform you that I haven’t the foggiest idea, as I am by no means a current student of that college. You should consider using a closer bathroom, as that would likely reduce your carbon footprint.” I like to think it did the trick.
Hence, I was forced to theorize. My first theory was simple: The name must be a sinister double entendre; they must not like me.
Pleased to have put that question to rest, I grabbed a bucket of innocuous-looking coffee grounds and began to scoop them into the coffee filters. A couple of minutes into the task, jet engine noises I was purring to punctuate the journey of each spoonful into its designated filter were interrupted by a profane expectoration from behind me.
With a shout of “Ay, cabrón!” Juan Manuel shoved me out of the way and plunged his nose into one of the filled filters, then poured its contents back into the bucket from whence they came and repeated the process with the six already set out in front of him, all the while lashing me with unspeakable Latin profanities as I stood aside, white knuckles woven across clenched teeth.
I later learned that Juan could smell the difference between drip coffee grounds that were supposed to go in the filters and espresso, which is what I had filling them with. As I imagined stampedes of severely over-caffeinated customers charging and butting down the shop’s walls just to expend a dangerous surfeit of energy, I spun a new theory: Perhaps my incompetence so enraged my coworkers that they, like bulls, wanted to gore me to death.
I resolved then that I needed to learn two things: How to do my job correctly; and Spanish. The former, I figured, would follow the latter. And to do that, I would force immersion on myself by communicating only in Spanish while I was at work. But I didn’t speak Spanish, so I spent a lot of time being silent, developing more theories. Was I called Torero because I’m a Taurus, so I am the bull, and the name points up my self-destructive nature? Maybe I had too much beef in my diet. Other theories involved Robert E. Lee, African swallows, and unspeakable acts performed by the Pillsbury Doughboy.
Silence also gave me time to observe my coworkers and see how the coffee business really worked
By the time I got frustrated and gave up on learning Spanish, Ezekiel and I were arm wrestling and playing catch with dishrags during dull moments. Miguelito was asking me for help in writing salacious text messages. I could clean all the bathrooms in the restaurant in ten minutes and sort of work the cash register, as long as nobody asked for a pastry.
“Torero” has become my name, whatever the reason for it. I’ve never wondered if there was some nefarious purpose when my parents gave me the name on my birth certificate, so I don’t see the point of wondering about this name. (Although now that you mention it, what kind of middle name is Roberto, mom?)
Three months into the job, my dishrag got some flakes of croissant stuck to it when I was bussing tables. I unfolded the rag and began vigorously shaking it to get them off, as I’d done since I began working at Roma. Just like a bullfighter does. I peered over my shoulder at Ezekiel and Miguelito watching me from behind the counter. They were chuckling. I grinned.