She bumps me with her forearm. I look down. My vision is tunneled and the joint looks immense and terrifying. Reaching over to take it seems to take forever. The grabbing of the joint is a complicated sequence of finger dexterity that is almost beyond my capabilities. All my fingers are used in the exchange and my concentration is intense. Finally it’s in my possession and I’m not completely sure I should even attempt to hit it again. Would that be rude? Am I rude and only now realizing it?
“Hit it kid, before it goes out,” she says.
My lips are fat and sloth-like in forming my reply, “Yeah...no...problem.”
She’s giggling while she watches me awkwardly put the joint to my lips and take another drag. I hold out my hand and hope I’m not needed in the complicated movements that passing the joint entails. She deftly plucks it from my hand and I’m amazed at how sure and quick her movements are as she takes a drag. My head is spinning out of control. The floor is rising up and I think I might need to lie down.
Her hand grabs a hold of my upper arm tightly and she says, “Jason. Are you alright?”
I smile and think I tell her, “Yeah, no problem. No problem. Yeah, I’m fine. Wow, you’re beautiful.”
A smile breaks through the worried look on her face. Her eyes are very beautiful and full of mystery. Her nose is cute. She’s cute. She’s saying something to me and I cannot make it out. It sounds too low and slow. She’s handing me a cigarette and I try to tell her that I don’t want it, but she’s forcing it into my hand. I drop it on my stomach. When did I lie down? Can she hear that ringing too or is it just for me? I close my eyes and dream...
***
Waking up, my head is groggy but I don’t feel stoned anymore. My chest feels heavy. I look down and she’s lying next to me with her head on my chest and her arm across my torso. Did I pass out? I must have. I gently shake her awake. She comes to with a start and says, “Oh my god! You’re awake! Are you alright? How do you feel? You gave me such a scare! I thought I was going to have to take you to the hospital.”
“Whoa. Hold on, what happened?” I ask.
She sits up and says, “Your eyes rolled back into your head and then you were out, like a light! I was so scared! You started shaking and your heart was beating a million miles an hour, I didn’t know what to do! Then after a moment, you stopped shaking and your heart stopped beating so damned fast. I tried to wake you up but you wouldn’t even stir. So I lied down next to you. I must have fallen asleep. Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I think so. Wow, that was some potent bud huh?”
She laughs a little and says, “Yeah, I guess. I’ve never seen anyone react like that to marijuana. That was crazy.”
I get up out of the bed and look at my watch. Its 6:30p.m., I was out for about two hours. I realize that I’m not quite sober yet, but I’m not truly stoned either. “Hey, you still wanna get that beer? I could use something a little more familiar to stabilize me.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” she says.
“Cool, I’m just gonna splash some water on my face and we’ll go. Sound good?”
She smiles and says, “Cool.”
No, It’s Mine
I’ve been to my fair share of fast food restaurants and I can’t remember a time when I’ve seen a customer venture back behind the counter. I’ve asked a few employees manning the registers at Jack in the Box, McDonalds, and Burger King if they’ve ever had to direct a customer out of the backroom. The answer I always get is “no” in one form or another and it’s usually combined with a questioning look as if the idea of a customer trespassing into the employee section is simply ludicrous.
Many of my fellow baristas have speculated as to why the general public shies away from the employee-only area of their favorite fast food feasting locales. Some believe the design of their stores is more menacing than ours or that the backroom is not as accessible. Others have brought forth the idea that their uniforms are more authoritative. An especially philosophical barista once told me he believes there is a class separation between those that serve and those that purchase fast food and our store doesn’t register on the same plane in the brain as do fast food restaurants. This general attitude, according to him, causes our customer to believe we are closer to par with the customer’s social status and therefore our work area is accessible to the customer in their perspective.
While these ideas have merit, they cannot be the reasons why I am constantly extricating people from our back room. I once thought curiosity was the guiding force in delivering customers to our back room. Whereas this is sometimes the case, it isn’t often enough. My current and most accurate theory is that our customers believe they own our store. I cannot begin to remember the amount of times I’ve had customers tell me, “Well at my store they don’t charge me for extra caramel,” or “That’s not the way they make it at my store,” or “You know, I just came from my store and they didn’t have these cute little pink water bottles.”
I also cannot ever remember hearing someone say, “Well at my Burger King, they don’t charge me for a refill,” or “Well they do it for me at my Black Angus.” Our customers own the store in their minds and that includes the back room. Many times I’ve been washing dishes and turned to see a customer standing next to the back fridge as if it were the most natural place to stand. Little kids instinctively seem to know they aren’t allowed behind the counter in McDonald’s, but climbing the metro shelves in our back room is completely logical for them. This ownership idea was solidified for me today.
“I’ll have a grande non-fat no foam latte with two equals and a...a...banana walnut muffin.”
“Double tall wet cappuccino for Susan! Thank you!”
“Jason? Can I take my ten?” asks Jessica.
Jessica is a transfer from another store and has only been here about a week. I know the manager who hired her and he’s a complete pervert. He took one look at her skin-tight pants, low neckline, her pretty blue eyes the size of quarters and hired her on the spot. The rest of his staff probably threatened a mass walk-out if he didn’t get rid her. She’s a classic princess barista.
Jessica doesn’t clean bathrooms. Jessica doesn’t take out trash. Jessica doesn’t get on her knees, at least not to clean floor drains, and Jessica hates to do dishes. What Jessica does do is smile real big at the customers and lean forward when handing back change to men so that it ends up in the tip jar. Her personality seems somewhat stuck at five and fifteen years of age. She’s only been here for an hour and this is the third time she’s asked me for a break. I would relish ten minutes without her. “Yeah, do a lobby sweep first, will ya?”
Her little princess face scrunches up and she says to me, “Actually, the stuff the towels sit in makes the skin on my hands so dry, I’d rather not.”
“Can I get a water please?”
“Sure thing. Just a moment.”
“Is this mine?”
“And I’d rather be at the beach smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. Do you think you’re the only barista to get dry hands from the sanitizer solution? There’s medicated lotion in the back which you can apply after you do a lobby sweep.”
Undaunted by my reaction she says, “Yeah, but that stuff smells bad. Can’t someone else do it?”
She didn’t even miss a beat, and neither does Elena as she says, “No, we’re all busy here darling. Besides, everybody does a spin in the lobby before they take a break. Come to think of it, I got here before you and that means I’m entitled to my break first. Jason, can I take my break first if I do a lobby spin?” Her tone has a mockingly sweet lilt that says ‘you and me versus her’ and it causes my head to rise higher, my chest to swell and my mood to swing from annoyed to mischievously pacified.
“What did you get?”
“I want a caramel blended thingie with tons of whipped cream and the sauce, how much for extra sauce?”
“I got an Iced mocha.”
“Yeah...this is a grande hot chocolate...so...n
o, it’s not for you dear.”
“My deepest apologies Miss Elena, I hope you do not feel slighted, of course you may take your much deserved break before Jessica. Especially since you’ve been here since 5:30 in the morning and Jessica has only arrived but an hour ago.” A glance at Jessica tells me I could probably fit a tennis ball through the ‘O’ that is her mouth. She’s not used to not getting her way.
“I need seven drinks on four different orders and six pastries on three of those!”
Jessica’s face turns sour and the slits that have become her eyes are trying to burn a hole in my face. Luckily, I’m impervious to such attacks. I turn my focus back to the line of customers and ask the next lady in line, “Hello. How are you doing today?”
The young businesswoman replies, “Double short non-fat latte, extra hot and no foam.”
A sly smile twists my lips and I say, “Really? That’s how you’re doing, huh. I’m pretty iced grande 5 pump chai, 1 ½ pump vanilla, light ice no lid chai tea latte myself.”
“Hot chocolate? No, I had a mocha. On ice.”
“I know dear, this is a hot chocolate for someone else.”
“Oh, did you get my mocha?”
“I’m sorry. I’m on autopilot. I’m doing alright and you?” asks the young business lady. She says she’s all right, but the timbre of her voice is telling me the dark circles under her eyes think she’s in need of sleep. “Oh, I’m swell as can be, given the circumstances. Maybe a piece of crumble coffee cake will help perk you up?” She looks at me a little askance and says, “You know, I think that’s a good idea. I’ll eat half of it now and save the rest for later.” She smiles at me and tilts her head down while looking at me under her carefully arched eyebrows.
“Hey, is there a bathroom in here?”
“O.K. the last order is two black teas, iced. No sugar added and one with no water and a cinnamon roll and a toffee almond bar. Wow, we made it!”
Elena saunters over and says none too quietly, “Hey there bud, wanna quit flirting and slide for me so I can go on my break.”
The young businesswoman crooks her mouth into a very lascivious smile, looks from her to me, and says, “And here I thought you were just trying to up-sell me on some product.”
It starts in my neck and burns my cheeks. Elena is a ninja at embarrassing me, she strikes and then vanishes into the mist leaving me stranded with nothing but a tied up tongue to defend myself.
“Ah how cute, you’re blushing!” says the pretty little business lady.
Elena smirks at me from the condiment bar. I look aside and stammer, “Yeah, it’s a problem for me. So double short non-fat extra hot no foam latte, right? Can I get your name?”
“No, there’s a bathroom on the next level in the mall.”
“Well, after all that, your total is $37.45. Do you want me to put all these pastries in another bag?”
“You don’t have a bathroom back there?”
Tired-but-smiling business lady says, “Well I suppose, but only if you tell me yours first.”
Jessica is huffing and puffing and making little girl groans next to me on the register. My mind is sifting through potential problems with Jessica that I’ll need to address soon. I’m also thinking of Flower girl and our relationship. Do we have one? Are we dating? What does “dating” mean and does it allow me to date others? Am I a dog for thinking these thoughts or am I a pussy outdated in his thinking? Should I ask for this hot successful woman’s number? Would that be inappropriate because I’m working, because I’m kind of dating another or because this lady really just wants to get her coffee and get out?
My mouth is open and I’m trying to say something when the stealthy Elena slides up behind my customer and says, “His name is Jason. He’s a shy guy with a sly wit and he’d love to ask for your number but he’s too afraid of offending you. He’s not exactly the take-charge kind of guy. But he can be really sweet.” Then she’s twirling away leaving me in even more embarrassed straits than I was in before.
“Jennifer! You’re tall non-fat extra hot mocha is on the bar still! I’ve got a grande caramel blended coffee for Hailey, a grande steamed apple juice for Saidy, a triple grande breve two sweet and low no foam latte for Pam and a quad espresso for Mark! Thank you!”
“No we don’t have a bathroom back here. The mall restrooms aren’t far from here though.”
“She’s cute. My name is Rachael,” the lady says and digs in her purse and brings out a business card holder. “Can I use your pen?” I just stand there gaping and hand her a pen. She scribbles a number on the back, hands it to me and says, “Here, my cell’s on the back. Give me a call sometime. Maybe we can go out for coffee.”
I regain a little bit of my composure back and reply, “I’d rather not.” The look on her face is priceless. “Get coffee that is. I drink a lot of the stuff already, maybe a beer instead?” Her shock turns to delight and she laughs a little and says, “Yeah, I’d like that. I’d better let you get back to work. Don’t want to hold up the line you know. Give me a call.”
I’m smiling to myself and preparing to help an older lady with a very disapproving look on her face when I notice Jessica is looking at me oddly and Elena is nowhere about. I wonder about her at times and once more I wish she played on my team. If she did, I wouldn’t even have noticed the young business lady.
“Hello there. How are you this fine day?” I ask the elderly lady.
She’s ice and there’s no sign of thawing. “Coffee. Hot and black. Be quick about it now.”
“Let’s get one of those smoothie coffees. With hazelnut.”
“Not a problem. Would you like whip cream on top and what size would you like?”
I turn and take a step towards the coffee shuttles and ask the aged queen of ice, “What size would you like?”
Testily she replies, “Regular.”
Regular? Regular is having enough fiber in your diet. Regular is the average blasé type of emotion you’re feeling when nothing’s really going on. Regular in some food establishments is small, in others it’s a medium. Regular is a word that doesn’t convey a complete or precise quantitative amount of anything. It resides in the great gulf of the average and can vary tremendously. What’s regular to you? Whatever it is, it’s likely that it isn’t the same as mine. I know our names for the sizes aren’t the regular names.
Small, medium and large are general names, yet easily translatable into any size system for any food establishment. Regular, normal and two hands held apart horizontally anywhere from 8-14 inches do not adequately explain how much coffee somebody wants. “Is that small or medium?” I ask.
“I said regular. I want a regular cup of coffee” She informs grumpily. She reminds me of wine left out too long.
I refrain from sighing and say, “We a have a small size, a medium size and a large size. We do not have a regular size. Which size would you like?”
“Do you have light whip cream?”
“No, unfortunately we don’t.”
“Young man, you better stop being smart with me. Just give me a regular cup of coffee!” says the old crone.
I could let this continue by not budging on my point that she’s not clearly telling me what size she wants. I just have to assume responsibility for deciding how many ounces of our go-go juice she wants. I pick, oh let me see, grande. I step to the stack of cups next to the brewing machine and quickly grab a grande cup and ignore the biting remarks the sweet old lady keeps throwing my way and fill her cup up with decaf. With her failing eyesight and coke-bottle glasses her view of the urns is blocked by my turned back and speedy hands. I turn around and put her coffee down in front of her on the counter and with a plastic smile and tone that warrants no further conversation I say, “Here you go. Cream and sugar are located at the condiment bar. Your total is $1.65.”
She’s digging into her handbag and mutters, “I only pay $1.50 every time I come in here. $1.50 you hear me. All I want is a regular cup of coffee. You kids always ma
ke this difficult, always trying to take advantage of me.”
“Alright, well, okay, yeah I’ll take the whip cream.”
“Sure. What size again?”
“Tall.”
“Sally! Grande latte for Sally! Thank you!”
I should take her grande cup of decaf and give her a tall as I void out the grande on my register, but it’s just easier to give the grande for the tall price. “Sorry about that. Your total is $1.50.”
“That’s more like it. $1.65! Bad enough I have to pay $1.50. When I was your age I could’ve got a cup of coffee for less than a dime,” grumbles the old crone now holding up the line while she digs into her purse.
I’m looking about a little impatiently when I notice a guy in his thirties with black receding hair and a paunch gut protruding past his dull gray track jacket waltz on into the back room. This causes me to go to instant red alert, def-con 5. “Liz! Will you finish this transaction for me? Some guy just went in the back.”
Liz gives an emphatic nod and takes over on my register while I jet to the back. Right there reaching his hand into the back fridge is this fool of a man that thinks he can just come on back to the backroom like he owns the place.
“Excuse me, sir. Can I help you with something? You’re not supposed to be back here.”
“No worries. I’m just grabbing some half-and-half for my coffee. You’re all out at the condiment bar,” he replies nonchalantly.
“Well, you’re not supposed to do that.”
“Yeah, says who?”
“I do.”
Calm as a Buddhist monk he says, “Really? And just who are you anyway?” Then he walks out shaking his head and chortling a little.
I stand there in stunned silence and think to myself, “Right, just who the hell do I think I am? Oh nobody really, just an employee of this coffee shop.”
The Dark Roast Page 5