I cap the man’s coffee and place it close to me by the register. The snail finally pulls out her Coffee Card and hands it to me forcibly.
“Here,” she says.
I quickly swipe her card through the register and hand it back to her and tell her, “Thanks. Have a nice day.”
Snail lady then grabs the man’s coffee right next to my hand. I can only wonder as to why she thinks this hot cup of coffee is hers when she had to have seen me throw her clear plastic cup across the store to my co-worker. I reach out and grab the coffee out of her hand and tell her, “That’s not yours. Yours will be ready over there by the bar in just a moment.”
The man behind her says, “Get me a new one! I don’t want her filthy hands on my drink.”
“It is going quite well dear. We’ll know on Tuesday!”
“Have a great day Cheryl!”
“I will sweet-heart!”
“You see sir, the blueberry muffins are all the rage right now among the P.T.A., and about twenty-seven of them just mobbed through our store. Sorry. Would you care to try something else?”
The irritated man’s comment hangs over the store like a cloud ready to discharge a bolt of lightning. He just made a grievous error. Whereas he is neat, clean and obviously doing quite well, she is a down on her luck, washed out, uneducated drain on society. This means of course, that her ire shall rise to an outstanding level of intensity that will be completely lacking in reason. The irritated man’s well-nurtured sense of logic will come into conflict with her reasonless rage. He will then be forced to rely on his own indignant emotions to combat her to the inevitable stalemate.
“Excuse me?! How dare you! You, you, you FAT ASSHOLE!”
His face becomes red and his eyes are alarmingly wide as he almost spits, “Oh Yeah! Well I think you better run your fat ass on over to the eye doctor and get some glasses, ‘cause you aren’t seeing the right thing in the mirror if you think I’m fat!”
As much as I find this entertaining and would love to see how the whole thing unfolds, I need to mediate the situation back to a more acceptable level of hostility. They have the potential to be the catalyst that sparks a middle-class riot in the middle of my store. And while that too has appealing entertainment values, in the long haul it’ll cause more stress than it’s worth.
With that thought in mind I open my mouth to begin the moment of much needed closure when she makes a move that changes the situation entirely. She screams, “I’ll not be talked to like that, no sir I won’t! I don’t have to take that from you!” Her face contorts into a white-trash war face and then she launches herself at the irritated man with an impressive leap for a woman of her size.
“Yeah alright. Gimme that other blueberry thingie.”
“Tall non-fat chai tea latte for...Susan! Take care Susan!”
“Which one? The cake, the scone, or the bar?”
The irritated man was clearly unprepared for such violence because his reaction time wasn’t fast enough to deflect her ten red claws as they landed around his face and neck. The explosion of activity has severely altered the flow of the store and now it’s time to call for back up and attempt to contain the disturbance before it causes a nasty chain reaction of line violence. Stage one: Redeploy.
“Jeb! Run out and see if Chris is still around. Stacy! I need you to concentrate on getting those drinks out. Kisha! Kisha! Get it together girl. I need you to block this out and continue to ring the line through.”
The Cow has felt the need to assert herself and comes running out from the back room with her typical open-mouthed expression plastered on her face. “What’s going on here Jason? What did you do?”
I pay her no mind as I quickly hop the counter because the irritated man bellows loudly as he tries to pry the screaming woman’s hands off his face. Blood drips down his chin from a nasty cut by his right eye. The two slam their heavy bodies together and twirl around in a hellish caricature of dance. Jeb hits the door running, the line shatters and people are moving like shrapnel from a grenade. “Umm...I...I can help the next customer in line?” says Kisha with a quiver of fear that makes her voice shake.
It is here I walk a tight rope of a dilemma. To stifle this situation I need to separate these two wildebeests. To do so I must touch them. I am not allowed to put my hands on customers in the way I need to actually do this.
“Do something Jason! Mister! You better get your hands off her right now!” screams the Cow. Her natural inclination is of course to protect the herd. Never mind that she knows next to nothing of the situation or who is more in the wrong, she has that amazing white trash talent of wielding her ignorance like a weapon, a weapon that there is no good defense against.
“You fuckin’ crazy bitch! Get the hell off me! I don’t want to have to hit you!” shouts the irritated man, as she shakes her head quickly back and forth. He’s gaining the upper hand as her hair flies around her head in dirty streaks of blonde fury. Her mouth is opened wide and it spews forth loud and grating incoherent roars. Her eyes have glazed over and they resemble a cow’s eyes when spooked. I can tell she is about to fritz out into someone really dangerous, someone the irritated man has never dealt with. Someone he is incapable of dealing with.
“I have...I have a...a...tall hot chocolate.”
I make a snap decision and grab the woman’s elbow. I dig my thumb into the base of a nerve bundle in that uncomfortable little spot right behind the “funny” bone. Instantaneous reaction: “Arrrrgh! Oooo! Stop!” she screams. Her legs give out in the knees and her body sags downward to the ground. The irritated man lets go of her and tumbles backward in total loss of vestibular awareness. He flails wildly and crashes into a table of patrons who’ve been watching the spectacle like ringside wrestling fans. The middle-aged woman at the table scrambles away. The suit sitting next to her doesn’t move quickly enough and he hits the ground hard.
The table overturns as the irritated man lands on the tile. Two cups of coffee are tossed into the air. One takes a beeline flight path across the store while the other spills all over the two men on the ground. A high pitch scream draws my attention to see that the flying cup has crash-landed into a young businesswoman’s thighs. Her bright red skirt is darkening into crimson and she’s in the first stages of a horrible conniption.
“You little shit! I’ll have you fired! You can’t touch me! I’m gonna sue the shit outta you!” cries the crazy lady as she scrambles toward me. The Cow has run around to the front and is trying to get to her fellow herd-member. Stacy is looking back and forth in shock, whipping her ponytail dangerously. She’s been with the store for a long time, so her body is still moving, still making drinks reflexively while her mind reels from the commotion. Kisha is frozen. She can merely observe from this point now. She’s been floored by the combined events of the day.
I must become the glue that binds us together if we want to survive this day with our wits still intact. So I sidestep the crazy white trash chick and force my way deeper into the crowd of shocked, angry, disgruntled, afraid, and annoyed customers.
Stage two: Clean up and pacify.
The irritated man is wallowing around in an attempt to stand. The businesswoman is franticly moving around seeking resolution. The other patrons have started yelling and their combined voices have created a hum of indistinguishable sound similar to the noise of a school bus full of children. I’m gently reassuring customers and subduing them with free drink coupons. Jeb saunters back in with Chris in tow. I put my fingers to my ears as I watch Chris grab his shiny whistle and put it to his lips.
The shrill sound of the whistle slices through the commotion and finally, there is silence.
It’s amazing what the right kind of clothes can bring to a situation. Chris is not somebody anyone would just naturally acquiesce to, unless he’s wearing his uniform. It instantly elevates him in the right areas and bestows upon him power nature didn’t provide. They calm before him like lambs around sheepdogs, everyone except the irritated-
and-now-injured man along with his opponent who has chosen the route of tears to swim her way to safety and security.
Sobbing and dry heaving herself along the way, the woman who started it all says, “Sir! Sir. That man attacked me! And so did this worker. He broke my elbow! I wanna press charges!”
I was hoping that this morning rush would consist of only our pleasant regulars punctuated with equally pleasant randoms; my hope was misplaced. As exciting as this little spectacle was, its consequences are rearing its ugly head in my face and I can’t say that I’m exactly thrilled by it.
Chris responds by pulling out his pen and pad of paper, “Ma’am, I need your full cooperation here, which means I’ll need you to be quiet while I talk to Jason over here. Then I’ll take your account of what happened.”
“I will not wait for you to talk to him! He’s broken my elbow! I have—”
Chris interrupts, “Ma’am! I told you to be quiet.”
Her face drops in shock and then snaps back into rage as she says, “Who do you think you are? You’re just a dumb rent-a-pig! You ain’t a real cop!”
She’s now just lost any chance of gaining the upper hand on anyone. One thing you do not do in the mall is reference the faux cop witticism to its security guards. That will negate whatever wrongdoings might have happened to you, because you’ve angered a power hungry minimum wage worker in the only place he has any real authority.
Chris’ face purses up in barely-stifled anger and he reaches for his walkie-talkie on his belt. His eyes never leave the woman’s as he says into the walkie-talkie, “All units to sector 8. I repeat all units to sector 8. We have a level 5 situation in the Coffee Shop.”
I look at the clock and see fortune has favored me; the almighty schedule says that my meal break is six minutes past due. I look over at the Cow and say, “I’m taking my lunch. Have fun.” And I walk away to the back. I glance over my shoulder to see the cavalry has arrived. Screaming is again taking place as the security squad, under Chris’ command, begins the daunting task of subduing an enraged, ignorant piece of trash.
Mealtime in the Mall
Indignant screams follow me through the double doors. Thirty minutes. That’s all I’ve got before the shackles are put back on. I’m hoofin’ it upstairs to the food court when the flower girl waves me down. I wish I could pretend I didn’t see her, but it’s obvious I have so now I get to waste a portion of my break passing pleasantries.
“Hey Jason! How’ya doin’!”
I’m surprised she knows my name as we never hang out, which is why I don’t remember her name. I’ve got over 300 hundred names of regulars already maxing out my capacity. This is why I always use generic words like “guy”, “chica”, “boss” or the ubiquitous “hey you!”.
“Not much, just on my lunch chica.”
She flashes me one of her smiles of value and I grin in return and she says, “Soooo. What time are you off today?”
This is new. She’s never asked me that before. I’m wondering if she’s trying to work the free latte angle or if she’s genuinely interested. Maybe I should be less paranoid.
“I’m out of here at 4:00 p.m.”
Her hands fold together in front of her as she leans forward putting her elbows on the counter of her stand. She looks down, allowing me a good look at her ample cleavage. She’s a seductress extraordinaire. Her movements are smooth and confidant, the sign of a predator. Many men would succumb to her power and I admit my knees go a little weak from being in her “interested” presence. Luckily for me, my cynical nature has provided me with the proper glasses to view this situation completely for what it is. What I want to do is leave and grab some food, but the carnal side of me has taken over and I decide that two can play at this game.
She flips her hair out of her face and again I can’t help but notice the smooth grace of the movement, but I’m still wary. Her eyes find mine and she says, “I’m off at a quarter past four. I’d ask if you’d want to go and get some coffee or something, but...” she trails her sentence off and giggles prettily at me.
“Yeah, I’m going to be pretty coffee’d out by then. But you know what happens five minutes after you get off right?”
A little look of surprise crosses her face before it’s quickly replaced by suspicion. I’ve thrown her off her game.
“I do, but I didn’t know you did.”
I laugh a little and reply, “Come on now, who in this mall doesn’t?”
She laughs and I see the suspicion lessen in her eyes. “Well, are you looking to buy some?”
“Oh no, I don’t usually buy it. I was just thinking that if you had any we could smoke, but if you want to grab a beer instead...”
Her face pouts and she says, “I’m not 21 yet. But yeah, I have some. I live right down the street, we could go there after we get off and smoke a few bowls.”
I smile warmly and say, “That’d be awesome. I’ll cruise on over when I’m done.”
I’m happy I’ve turned the tables when she pulls her trump card.
“Cool! Hey, you wanna bring me an Iced Mocha when you get off?” she asks with that cute little girl voice that makes me want to vomit all over her face.
I swallow my revulsion and reply, “I’ll think about it.”
Pottie Time
11:00 a.m. Post rush recovery. The flood of people has reduced to a light trickle. Baristas are taking well-deserved breaks and putting the store back in order for the next tidal wave due to crash during lunchtime. The Cow has disappeared like usual and her absence is missed only slightly and only with lament that she’s not one of our fellow competent baristas. The people we will deal with now are the dregs of downtown. We adjust our battle stances and prepare for the incidents that come out of a seemingly more relaxed environment.
The homeless have arrived with bags holding everything they own. They panhandle the morning away making more money than you’d believe. If only one in every ten people graces their upturned palms with a dollar, they’re doing great. I’ve sat and watched one bum beg thirty people in forty-five minutes time and come away with twelve bucks and some change. That’s more than I make in an hour, especially since my money gets taxed.
The haven of the coffee shop is the perfect spot for the homeless. $1.50 for a tall coffee rents them a table and chair for at least an hour. The coffee helps keep them awake, which is important when three baristas are just waiting for them to fall asleep. Sleeping is not allowed in the store. This is coffee after all. We’re the pushers of legal speed and sleep is the antithesis of what we offer.
Right now Stacy is in the back doing dishes like a fiend. Jeb is keeping his ever-wary eye on the three bums in the lobby while making whip creams. I’m cleaning and restocking the pastry case in between helping customers. Kisha can be seen chatting it up with the grungy newsstand guy through the window. From the way her eyes shift around nervously combined with her constant moving feet, I can tell she’s making a purchase most wouldn’t even know you could make at a newsstand. I smirk, thinking if I were her I’d need something to deaden reality too.
Jeb has been jabbering at me non-stop since the rush about his ill will for corporate America. I’ve heard this before and the only thing remotely interesting about it is he never really says anything new. He thinks he’s just sparked some creative platform the rest of the world is just waiting to jump from, re-wording the same dull concept over and over and over.
Jeb is the quintessential emo-kid-turned-hipster. He has black-dyed spiky hair of varying lengths, wears v-neck t-shirts and skinny jeans bought in the women's department and rides a fixed-geared bicycle known as a "fixie". He simply puts on his apron and he’s automatically transformed into your adorable clichéd coffee shop guru. He hates you for your liking of hamburgers, and thinks groups of sad people writing vapid songs and having extremely poor taste in clothes should be whoreshipped with all the grace and critical thinking skills of sheep.
Through seeking to be seen and felt as an individual
, he has latched onto a prepackaged self-inflatable image that was stamped out of the mold like any other group stereotype produced by commercial consumerism. Maintenance of such an image is of course costly and each merit badge is price-tagged and given relative importance in the hierarchy of the insipid flock that has fallen prey to exactly what they think they are opposed to. I must applaud the conglomerates of the world in their skill of force-feeding people blueprinted and acceptable personalities that can be purchased oh-so easily.
I’m usually very good at pretending to care when my co-workers are talking but today, I’m just not in the mood.
“Listen Jeb, your thoughts on the Suits taking over the world through manipulation of the popular culture via assassinating iconic hip-hop moguls is very interesting, but I’ve heard it before and your redundancy is becoming boring. Think of something different to talk about for a change. Damn.”
Jeb’s face drops into a half-lidded look of contempt, “You know what your problem is?”
“No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”
“You’re on the cusp of joining them.”
“Should’ve put money on it.”
“You are being brainwashed Jason. Brainwashed. And you don’t even know it. It’s sad man, very sad.”
I’m about to respond when the door swings open and in comes a troll from under the bridge, smelling to high heaven of filth, feces, vomit and the devil only knows what else. I look over at Jeb. Whatever differences we were just having evaporate before this new threat. Eye contact between us reestablishes our bond. It’s Us versus Them. And they’ve sent one of their worst.
Her voice sounds like gravel. Spit sprays as she rasps, “Bathroom.”
Jeb and I share another glance and I say, “Sorry Ma’am, we don’t have one. There’s one in the mall just up the stairs.”
The Dark Roast Page 2