“Yes, but I didn’t want whipped cream....”
“I’m sorry about that, let me remake that for you.”
The customer laughs and says, “O.K. you better be ready!”
G.I. Joe drives out of view on the camera while another car comes into view. “Cool, I’ll take this next one,” I say.
“Do it. Be silly, it’s more fun that way,” says Frank/Fred.
The beep sounds and I hit the button and do my best Darth Vador breathing sound effect and say with a weak James Earl Jones’ Vador voice, “Welcome to our store, the Dark Side awaits your desire.”
The lady in the SUV replies, “What? What did you call me?”
I guess it’s hit or miss and I missed. Frank/Fred shrugs helplessly and signals that he’ll take over. “Umm, yeah I’m here man. I’m sorry, what can I get for you today? Maybe a little cup of heavenly joy in the form of a pumpkin spiced latte?”
“Huh? Listen, I want one of those chocolate drinks—” From the camera I can see her flailing her arm at her unruly kids in the back. Her SUV rocks back and forth from her swinging and the sound of the kids screaming blasts through our headsets.
Frank/Fred looks at me and says, “Don’t you love it when customers are so exact and detailed with their drink orders man.”
I hand a couple of drinks out the window to the driver and take his money when the lady at the order box turns and says, “Hello? Did you get that? A chocolate drink?”
“Well, we have several types of chocolate drinks. Did you know which one you want?” responds Frank/Fred.
“It’s that chocolate one with whipped cream.”
“Did you want a hot drink or a cold one?”
“I want the one with whipped cream!”
“Yeah, I got that part. But what drink do you want?”
“Jesus Christ, I already told you!” she screams into the speaker box.
Four of my fellow baristas are wearing headsets and can hear their lovely little conversation and are looking at each other and me with looks of concern mingled with outrage.
“So just the mocha then, can I get your name?”
“Hello. How are you today?”
Frank/Fred’s patience is ebbing away and his tone is no longer as polite as he says, “Yeah, you said you want a chocolate drink ma’am—“
“Stopping calling me man, do I look like a man to you?!”
“I’m sorry MA’AM but I’m trying to tell you that you are not ordering a drink by name. All of our drinks made with chocolate come with whipped cream, alright. And we have hot or iced mochas. We also have hot chocolates and cold chocolate milk. We got mocha blended coffee beverages which are blended with ice and also have whipped cream. So, out of all those different kinds of ‘chocolate drinks’ which one do you want?”
From the monitor I see her stick her head out of the window and yell, “You can’t talk to me that way! I want to speak to your supervisor!”
Her yelling has caused me and all the baristas wearing headsets to stop moving and pull the earpiece away from our ears.
“My name is Ted.”
“Thank you Ted. Your drink will come up over there by the bar in just a moment.”
I’m covering a shift for another Shift Supervisor today and both the Assistant Manager and the Store Manager are off today. So I’m the lucky one. “Ma’am, my name’s Jason. I’m the supervisor right now. How about you pull up to the window and we’ll figure out what drink you want.”
With her kids continuing to scream behind her, she puts her head in her hands before violently pulling them down, thrusting her chin up and screaming, “I just want a goddamn chocolate drink!”
Everyone stops what they’re doing. Customers in the lobby are looking at us weirdly, confused by our behavior since they can’t hear what’s going on. I repeat, “Why don’t you pull up to the window and we can figure out what drink you want.”
“I know what drink I want and I’ve already told you a hundred times! I’m starting to get pissed off!”
Starting to get pissed off? What a joke.
“I told you already! I want a chocolate drink with whipped cream!”
The rest of the drive crew is starting to laugh at this absurdity now. I’m stunned at this tirade. “Lady, listen to me very carefully. There are several chocolate drinks. How about I list each one off and you tell me whether or not it’s the one you want?”
Belligerent Idiot apparently loses it over my last comment. Her SUV is shaking because she has grabbed the steering wheel and is rocking back and forth quite violently. I’m muting myself over the speaker because now I’m laughing my ass off.
Spit is visibly flying from her mouth as she screams at the speaker box, “I JUST WANT A CHOCOLATE DRINK WITH WHIPPED CREAM!!”
“Ma’am yelling is not going to get us anywhere. I know you want a chocolate drink. What you are not understanding is that I need to know what kind of chocolate drink you want. If you look at the menu you will not find ‘chocolate drink’ anywhere on it.”
This seems as if it might have gotten through because the vehicle has stopped shaking. Belligerent Idiot, in a surprisingly calm voice says, “I want the one that is like a chocolate milkshake with whipped cream on top.”
Amazing! Why couldn’t she have said that in the beginning? We do not have a chocolate milkshake, but we do have blended coffee beverages and they have a similar enough consistency to a milkshake that I can easily determine that to be the drink she wants. “Okay, so those are blended coffee beverages and the one you want is a mocha blended coffee and I’ll make sure it has whipped cream on top. What size do you want?”
Belligerent Idiot sighs as if my question is unwarranted and replies, “I want the middle one.”
I don’t even bother telling her it’s called a grande. “No problem, we’ll have it right up for you at the window. Thank you.”
We’ve been dealing with her for so long at the speaker box that the rest of the customers have already paid, received their drinks and driven on. I look over to Frank/Fred and say, “Hey, I’m going to have you take the orders and I’ll slide to the Drive-Thru register to deal with this lady. Sound good?”
Frank/Fred moves out of the window and says, “Sounds awesome man. I want nothing to do with that kitty cat.”
Belligerent Idiot pulls up to the window. Her car is loaded with kids and they’re screaming and fighting each other in the back. I would’ve been sympathetic to her situation if she hadn’t used me for her personal punching bag. Her beady eyes set in deep and surrounded by purple bags are glaring at me.
“$4.30 please,” I tell her in a deadpan voice with an impassive face.
Belligerent Idiot hands me a five dollar bill and I quickly make her change and hand it back to her. Not surprisingly she doesn’t drop any in the tip jar. Her drink is finished and I grab it and hand it through the window. “Here you go. A grande mocha blended coffee with whip cream,” mockingly sweet I add, “Thank you and have a nice day.”
I lean back in from the window as she puts her straw in and takes a sip. Her reaction spells trouble for me I’m sure. Belligerent Idiot drops her head down and her shoulders start to move up and down as she sobs. I’m completely at a loss of what to do. She turns her tear-streaked face towards me and her eyes light up with rage as she yells, “I wanted the one with the chocolate chips in it! Why are you ruining my day? What did I do to deserve this?!”
Java. Chip. Blended coffee. Four words are all she would have needed to say to get her way. I open my mouth to tell her that we can make that really quick when she screams an unintelligible sound and then rears back and chucks her mocha blended coffee through the window. I only had a split-second to react and I failed. Twenty four ounces of sugar, coffee, mocha and chopped-up ice hit my left shoulder right by my neck. The drink was flung at high velocity and the lid explodes off the top. Ice cold thick milkshake-like liquid is all over my face, running down my shirt and all over the front of me. My mouth is hanging open. I have to keep my left
eye closed lest blended coffee find its way in. All things have come to a stop and the silence is deafening inside the store as I’ve become the center of attention.
Belligerent Idiot has lost her mind, she has the audacity to say, “I want my money back.”
My shock runs deeper and I look at her with blended coffee dripping off my face and say, “You can get the fuck out of my Drive-Thru and that’s all you can get! You can’t just throw shit at us! Do you realize you’ve assaulted me here? You’re not getting your money back and when you drive away I’m going to write down your license plate number and then call the police on your crazy ass! Do you realize this whole incident has been recorded on camera?”
Comprehension dawns visibly on her face and she reacts by quickly rolling her window up and punches the gas pedal. Her vehicle blasts out of the Drive-Thru and Frank/Fred asks, “Did you get her plate numbers?”
“No, I’m not going to waste my time calling the police. The sooner I never see her again the better. I’m taking a break. Fuck this shit man, fuck this shit.”
“Umm, well, what can I get for you today?”
“Yeah, that was crazy. Can I just get a small coffee?”
“No problem. Did you want space for cream?”
Don’t Go to Ecuador
“Dude, don’t go to Ecuador,” Jeb tells me.
I’m sitting in the back room counting the cash dropped from yesterday. It’s not the hardest thing to do in the world, but engaging in conversation isn’t recommended if you want to keep your count. Jeb could care less what you’re doing when he’s got it in his mind to spin a yarn, which I can tell is exactly what he intends to do. Luckily, his tales require very little talking on my part and only the semblance of listening, so I indulge him.
“Alright, I’ll bite. Why not?” I continue counting, not bothering to look at Jeb.
He pulls up a step stool to sit on and strikes his storyteller pose. “Well, my cousin Spence just graduated from UCLA a couple of months ago, right. And his girlfriend is all into biology and Darwin and whatnot, so she gets him on board to take a trip to Ecuador. Spence tells his mom and she’s like, ‘No. Out of the question. You are not going to Ecuador. You need to start looking for a job. Your student loans are going to be expecting monthly payments soon and you need to be prepared.’
“Spence pleads with her but she remains adamant. So then he gets sassy and tells her he’s a man now and he’ll do what he wants. You can imagine that went over fantastically. I mean, she’s always been pretty protective over him. And he’s always been a momma’s boy, so I was extremely shocked and surprised when he told me all about it—”
“Ecuador, Jeb, Ecuador,” I remind him while opening another drop bag.
Sighing a little to show his annoyance at being interrupted, he continues. “Whatever, he decides to go. Spence and his girlfriend, I forgot her name, get their affairs in order and very loosely plan this trip.
“They left three days ago. When the plane lands, they get their luggage and ask this security guard at the airport where the nearest hostel is. The guy tells them of a place not far from there and says he’ll even call up a cab for them. He gets on the phone and is all smiles when he walks them outside to wait with them so they get into the right cab.
“The cab pulls up in a couple of minutes and they get all their luggage in and take off. The driver seems real friendly and chats them up while they’re driving. Ten minutes later he takes them through an alley and stops and tells them to get out. When they do, there are seven guys with guns pointed at them.
“The driver gets out and starts unloading their luggage and handing it over to the dudes with guns. Two of them grab Spence and his girlfriend and take his wallet and her purse. She starts freaking out man. She’s screaming and becoming hysterical. The guys with guns do not like this and they start yelling at them and thrusting their guns at her. One of them tells Spence to shut her up or he’s going to shoot her.
“She really loses it at this and falls to the ground curled up in a ball screaming her head off. One dude yells again and points his gun at her head. Spence jumps on top of her and the guy shoots him.
“He shot him in the fucking arm. The bullet didn’t go through because it was only a .22 caliber. Instead, it traveled up into his neck! The guys with the guns panic and grab all the stuff and leave Spence and his girlfriend lying there in the middle of the street.
“There’s like ten people who saw all this go down and none of them do anything to help them. Nobody calls an ambulance or the police.
“Spence actually gets up and tries to calm his girlfriend and get them out of there. They find out where the nearest hospital is and he gets admitted. Dude, he’s totally fine, I mean for getting shot and all, and calls his mom. She flips out of course and tells him she’s getting the next available flight for him to come home. And Spence tells her that he doesn’t want to leave, he wants to go to the Galapagos Islands in a couple of days once he’s discharged from the hospital! Can you believe that shit?”
Unexpectedly, I lost count and became engrossed in Jeb’s story. Truly I’m shocked at this and my mind immediately starts churning this over and over. Every day I come to work hoping that the general public will be nice, courteous and treat me as an equal, a fellow human being. Every day my hopes are crushed as I interact with people who think it reasonable to pee on the floor, sink their nails in another customer’s face, spit on me, throw drinks in my face, steal the newspaper, finger paint in feces on the walls. My failed hopes turn into hatred for my job and for people in general. But when I think about somebody visiting another country and getting all their shit stolen and shot in the arm within the first thirty minutes of being there, that really puts things into perspective.
“Yeah, for sure. Note to self: don’t go to Ecuador.”
E Street
The cold, crisp air feels good on my sweating skin as I lock the door to my store. It’s only 9:00 p.m. Normally we close at 11:00 p.m. on weekdays and finish getting out about thirty minutes later. But we closed early today because we have a little problem with mice and cockroaches. The amount of time between when we normally close and when we reopen isn’t enough time for the chemicals used by the exterminator to dissipate to safe levels. If it wasn’t deadly, I doubt we’d have gotten that consideration.
“Man, it feels good to leave this early,” says Duncan.
“I wish we closed at 9:00 p.m. all the time,” adds Kisha.
I clip my keys to my belt loop and say, “Yeah, it’s nice right now. But I don’t mind closing so late. You get time to do something during the day. I barely did anything today before coming in.”
Duncan replies, “Not me. But hey, I’m not wasting another second here. See you fools later.”
We wave him goodbye and Kisha says, “You down to grab a drink?”
Before I can answer, the Flower Girl steps out from behind a pillar and says, “Sorry Kisha, but I’m going to steal him away.”
Surprised and smiling I say to Kisha, “Another time perhaps.” To the Flower Girl, “What a pleasant surprise, I thought you were busy tonight.”
“Alright, you two have a good night. See you later.”
“See you later,” replies the Flower Girl as she walks up to me and gives me a warm hug. “Soooo, what do you want to do?”
The smell of lavender hits my nose as stray strands of her hair brush my face. Her waist is small and alluring beneath my hands. Holding her at arm’s length, we shuffle step together a few feet. “Well, I’m starving and I need to shower.”
“A shower sounds fun,” she says with a wry smile.
My stomach makes a loud grumbling sound before I can say anything. She laughs and says, “But I guess we need to feed you first.”
Smiling, she moves to my side and wraps herself around my arm. Looking into the bag I’m holding she asks, “What’s in there?”
Holding it up for her to see in, I reply, “Leftover sandwiches.”
“Excellen
t! Let’s get back to my place, dig in and then get you clean.”
“Oh no, I’m not going to eat these,” I say.
Crinkling her nose she asks, “Then why do you have them?”
“Well, let’s head back towards my place and I’ll show you. Then, we’ll get some food at Pokéz.”
“Hmm, okay,” she says with obvious skepticism.
We start heading down E Street, a path I’ve taken at all times of the day. Crossing Fourth Avenue, we walk in comfortable silence taking in the night on the edge of the Gaslamp district. Outside the Star Club, a dive bar run by a lively group of Filipina women, stands the smoking regulars. Two men in their fifties, both with bulbous red alcoholic noses and splotchy cheeks above tar-stained mustaches argue about whether or not man has actually landed on the moon. They bicker back and forth in tones that let you know this isn’t the first time they’ve fought over the moon-landing.
“Fellas,” I say as we walk by.
“Hey there Jason, tell this fool he’s mad as cats!”
“Don’t listen to him Jay. Watch the video! That flag is wavering around and we all know their ain’t no goddamned wind in space.”
“Forget about the moon landing, what about Mars?” I ask as we walk away, knowing it’ll only stir the pot more. They start bickering about that as they flick their cigarettes into the street and head back into the bar.
“You know those two?” asks the Flower Girl.
“Just in passing, they’re there all the time. I see them at least once a day.”
Walking past The Tavern to cross Fifth Avenue, I wave at a couple of the bartenders inside and call out to one, “Glad to see you’re back Terry. I’ll stop by later to catch up.”
“Sounds great Jason, got a few funny tales about the trip.” He smiles and turns back to wiping the bar down.
“Do you know everybody around here?” the Flower Girl asks.
I laugh and reply, “Not everybody, but most. If I don’t walk by them every day, then I see them in the store.”
The Dark Roast Page 10