by Vin Baker
“It’s been seven years since we’ve been together,” she said. “A lot has happened. What if it doesn’t work? We aren’t kids anymore.”
“I know that,” I said. “But we’re here now, in this situation, and this makes all the sense in the world. And I love you.”
I wanted to be with her despite all the craziness in our lives. I was in love not just with Shawnee, but with our whole family and what it represented. I grew up in a family with both parents, and my parents are a big part of my life to this day. They’re everything to me. I wanted my boys to have that as well.
Eventually, over the course of several weeks and many long conversations, we came to an agreement. We would get married. For the first time, we would be a legitimate family. This did not please everyone in my circle, especially some people at Abyssinian. But to me the moral transgression (if you want to call it that) was in fact a blessing. I don’t play God. I know the rules, and I know what’s spoken about in the Bible, but Shawnee’s pregnancy was one of the best things that ever happened to me.
17
Starbucks and Second Chances
I left Abyssinian as an ordained, licensed minister, and with a greater understanding not only of my spirituality, but also what it means to be an evangelist. My wife had a good job as a school counselor. To help make ends meet, I was able to negotiate a settlement with my former financial adviser that provided bridge funds for a period of time. Still, money remained tight—so tight that I even joined Dennis Rodman on his infamous trip to North Korea. That was sad and surreal (I saw in Dennis the same issues with alcohol that once plagued me, and in the North Korean leader Kim Jong-un I saw, and met, a dictator whose repugnant record of human rights violations speaks for itself), and I regret having done it. But I needed the paycheck, so I held my nose and got on the plane, justifying my role as a global spokesperson for the sport of basketball. No harm, no foul, I figured.
Eventually, in the spring of 2015, Howard Schultz came to the rescue with yet another dose of tough love. At the time, I was basically a full-time stay-at-home dad, driving the kids around, making meals, cleaning the house, and coaching the basketball team at Cutler Middle School, where my son Kameron was a student-athlete. I loved being around the kids (especially my son) and teaching basketball to youngsters who played purely for the love of the game. Unfortunately, coaching middle school basketball did not pay the bills. One day I got an e-mail from Dan Pitasky, a human resources executive at Starbucks.
Dan’s message came completely out of the blue. Several months had passed since I had parted ways with Abyssinian. Since I left a few credits shy of a degree, I didn’t know whether Howard was disappointed in me. I certainly didn’t expect him or anyone from Starbucks to reach out. The e-mail was somewhat cryptic, though casual and friendly. Dan wanted to know how I was doing and whether I would be interested in discussing some possible opportunities within the organization.
“Have you ever thought about retail?” Dan asked.
I didn’t hesitate. I also did not lie. “Honestly, no,” I said. “What do you have in mind?”
“We’re wondering if you might consider working for the retail division of Starbucks. Management trainee.”
I was so excited about the opportunity that I didn’t even think about the reality of the offer—what it was going to be like to walk into a store and pour coffee for strangers all day long. I was just happy that Howard hadn’t dumped me and left me for dead. In essence, this call represented Howard saying, “Let’s give him another shot.”
“Dan, I will do anything,” I said. “Just tell me what you want.”
Shortly after Memorial Day, I met with Peter, a regional manager, and Beth, a store manager, at a Starbucks in North Kingstown, Rhode Island. Since this was where I would be working, we had the meeting in the store. It was not what I expected. We went over my schedule, talked about what the job would be like, and then we embarked on a lavish tasting session. This was the essence of the Starbucks experience, they explained—developing an appreciation of the product by identifying and understanding the nuances of Starbucks coffee. There was just one little problem:
I was not a coffee drinker.
That’s right. Through all the years of alcoholism and drug addiction, I had somehow managed to avoid developing a caffeine habit. It wasn’t that I disliked coffee; it had simply never become a part of my daily routine. I didn’t know good coffee from bad coffee, Sumatra from Sanka. It was all the same to me: a strange and bitter brew whose appeal completely escaped me. I was way out of my element when we sat around a table and began sampling various strains of coffee. This was an exercise in which all new Starbucks employees were expected to participate. Since most of the staff are experienced coffee drinkers, they enjoy the process. For me it was weird and awkward. Small cups of coffee were distributed. I watched as Beth and Peter swirled their cups gently, and then sniffed the aroma with their eyes closed, in exactly the manner of a wine tasting. I did the same, despite feeling rather silly.
“Put a small amount under your tongue,” Peter said. I did as instructed. “Now hold it there for a second. Let it breathe. Good, right? You get that faint taste of citrus?”
I swallowed hard, coughed a little, and then nodded. “I think so.”
Peter and Beth laughed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not much of a coffee drinker.”
“That’s okay. You’ll learn.”
I sure did. It’s not possible to work at Starbucks and remain neutral or ignorant on the subject of coffee; nor is it possible to work there without embracing the company culture. One of the questions I was asked during the hiring process was this: “Why do you want to work at Starbucks?”
Although I was an addict for many years, and had acquired many of the unflattering traits that come with that designation—such as an ability to lie and deceive others, as well as myself—I am an inherently honest and candid person. The first thought that went through my head when presented with this query was, Are you serious? I want to work at Starbucks because Howard Schultz is my friend and former boss and he’s trying to help me out. I need a job.
That would not have been the right response. My interviewers wanted to know what drew me to the company from a philosophical standpoint. In many cases, the people who are hired by Starbucks are longtime customers who not only need a job but also have a legitimate fondness for the brand based on years of being loyal customers. They know how to answer this question. I did not. But I gave it my best shot.
“Starbucks is a great company, and I’d like to be part of it.”
There is a culture of commitment and customer service at Starbucks that from the outside may seem a bit too precious, but it’s nonetheless genuine. Believe me, you have no idea how much thought and effort go into that venti dark roast you order every morning—from the beans that are harvested in Africa all the way to the preparation at your local store. It’s serious business. I found it rather intimidating at first, but once I bought into it, a career in coffee was born.
As with Abyssinian, it was a heavy dose of immersion therapy. There was no tiptoeing into the water. One day I was home in Connecticut, coaching basketball, the next day I was taking meetings in the Starbucks offices, and then I was behind the counter, wearing an apron and waiting on customers, with virtually no idea what I was doing. I learned quickly, simply because there was no other choice.
I became a management trainee at the North Kingstown Starbucks. Beth went easy on me the first day, and gave me an 8:30 a.m.–to–4:30 p.m. shift. Mornings are treacherous at Starbucks. Most stores open as the sun comes up to prepare for the prework rush, and traffic is relentless for several hours. By 8:30, things have settled down. Business escalates again in the evening. I missed the heaviest congestion that first day, which was a blessing not just for me but for the customers as well.
To say I was clueless would be an understatement. I did not know a macchiato from a mocha. I didn’t know how to run the reg
ister. All I could do was help out behind the counter by filling cups with ice or by cleaning up and organizing supplies. I spent a lot of time just watching and trying to learn. When the shift ended, I was exhausted, both mentally and physically.
And that was on a slow day.
After a week or so things got much more intense. I had to learn how to take orders and run the register. There was a very specific protocol for everything. I had to learn how to work the drive-through window, which is probably the most daunting job at Starbucks. Roughly 75 percent of the drink orders at Starbucks are customized—“skinny,” “half-caffeine,” “no whipped cream,” and so forth. At the drive-through window, these orders come fast and furious. It’s almost like speaking a foreign language. I had to get every word exactly right, or face the unblinking stare of an irate customer. And I had to do it with a smile and a script.
“Welcome to Starbucks, can I take your order?” I said when I first got behind the drive-through microphone.
One of my coworkers, who was tutoring me that day, waved his hands in admonishment.
“Bro, that’s not even close.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry.”
“Repeat after me: ‘Good morning. Thank you for choosing Starbucks. What can I get for you today?’”
I wrote it down on a piece of paper, just to make sure I wouldn’t forget. But after a few customers, it became automatic. Getting orders right was a bit more problematic. One of my first customers at the drive-through peppered me with a complicated order. Several different drinks, all different sizes and customizations. I stood there at the console, staring at what seemed like a thousand buttons, each denoting a different variation, and tried to hit the right ones. Sweat began to bead on my forehead as the customer kept firing away. It was like she was trying to mess me up. I felt like I was on the free throw line at the end of a close game, with the opposing fans waving crazily behind the basket.
“You got all that?” she asked impatiently, her disembodied voice high and anxious.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I did not have it all. Not even close. As she rattled off her order I had tapped away at the buttons in a blind fury, hoping for the best. When she pulled around to the drive-through window, I felt a surge of nervousness, for I knew the order was wrong and that the customer would be understandably upset. As the car approached, I looked into the driver’s window. There, behind the wheel, smiling broadly, was Beth, my manager.
“Gotcha!” she shouted.
I let out a sigh of relief and laughed. “I’m sorry, Beth.”
“That’s okay. It gets easier. Trust me.”
One of the things that I loved about my experience at Starbucks, especially in North Kingstown, was that I had to depend on so many people. It was truly a community workplace. Being a comanager with virtually no experience, I had to depend on every employee simply to get through the day. It was a reversal of the usual arrangement. Subordinates did not kiss up to me, I kissed up to them. But my affection for them, and my need for their assistance, was real. My humility was real.
Despite the fact that I was a manger—a boss—I had no idea what I was doing. I hadn’t come up through the ranks; instead, I had been placed in a position of power and superiority based on my friendship with Howard. I had to be very careful about how that would play out on a daily basis, within the cramped and pressure-packed confines of a busy retail operation. I was smart enough to realize I needed help. And I didn’t mind asking for it. I deferred to the greater experience and knowledge of my coworkers, and they responded in kind. As a result, we developed incredibly strong relationships within the store.
“Look, I know I’m supposed to be your boss,” I would say. “But I realize you know more about this place than I do. Let’s just help each other out and work together.”
It was so simple and so true.
I did my job from a place of humility. I didn’t walk or talk like an NBA all-star. If someone—a customer or coworker—asked me, I was more than happy to chat about hoops. But this was not a time or place for arrogance. Let’s be serious: I was far removed from sharing a court with Michael Jordan. There were times when one of my coworkers would ask me about my playing days, and I’d say, “I’d like to share a story, but I’ve got to get these teas done in the next five minutes.” That was the reality of my situation. The past didn’t matter. Only the work that was in front of me mattered.
In every way possible, I was humbled by the job. That’s not the same as being embarrassed. The only time I felt a twinge of shame was the day Shawnee brought my two sons into the store, without telling me ahead of time. Vin Jr. was fifteen years old. He knew of my fall, of course, but only in the abstract. To him, I was still an NBA all-star; I was his hero. We shared the same name, the same passion for basketball. And though he had no obvious reaction to seeing me that day behind the counter, wearing an apron, I felt bad. But this was my life, and maybe it was good for him to see it up close. I wanted him to understand that I was working hard to remake my life, that I was out there grinding, day after day, trying to support my family and atone for the mistakes I had made, many of which had affected him and his siblings profoundly.
Still, there is no denying the truth: it hurt.
Some customers feigned indifference. Others would cast me a quizzical or pitying look. Quite a few would smile and shake my hand and ask me how I was doing. One gentleman even thought my presence behind the counter was some sort of elaborate stunt. He stared at me for the longest time before placing his order. He fidgeted nervously while looking around the store.
“Where’s the camera?” he finally said.
“Excuse me?”
“The hidden camera. Where is it?”
“There’s no hidden camera, sir. I can assure you of that.”
“Come on,” he said. “You’re Vin Baker, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then this must be a prank—one of those celebrity video things. No way Vin Baker is making my coffee.”
A full ten minutes passed before I was able to convince him that he wasn’t on camera. I was just a guy doing my job.
Eventually my presence at the North Kingstown Starbucks ignited a flurry of publicity. There were newspaper and magazines stories, followed by a predictable deconstructing on social media. The response was overwhelmingly positive, and I was grateful for the support. I was humbled to an extent that most people can’t imagine. I saw no shame in working at a coffee shop. And that’s the message I wanted to convey. I wanted people to look at me and say, “Wow, this guy got kicked in the ass, but he’s not bitter, he’s getting on with life. Good for him.”
I put everything I had into working as a retail trainee at Starbucks. I had to do it right. I couldn’t let down my family. It wasn’t about becoming a millionaire again. It was about getting a steady job and a steady income. And there was potential for it to be more, in so many ways. I just had to do it well.
From the very beginning Dan was clear that I had an escape clause.
“Look, Vin, if there comes a time you don’t want to do this anymore, let us know and we’ll figure it out.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “I can handle it.”
“Well, there might be some media issues that could be challenging.”
“The media?” I said. “I’m old news. They won’t care.”
The media cared a lot, but in a far more compassionate manner than I had anticipated.
I suppose it would not be a surprise to learn that the first few months on the job nearly killed me. Certainly it wouldn’t surprise anyone who has worked in retail. I had no idea what I was doing: how to make the drinks, prep the station, clean up, run the register. Nothing. I was a blank slate. Frankly, it was nerve-racking. But after a while it became second nature. Each day passed by in a blur of activity (a caffeine-fueled blur, I should add; after a while I fell in love with espresso, which helped me get through some of those twelve-hour shifts), at the end of which I would drive ho
me, exhausted but filled with hope and satisfaction.
One of our semiregular customers was a gentleman in his sixties who was a major shareholder in the Starbucks Corporation. He was always dressed impeccably, and whenever he came into the store the staff would get excited and fawn over him like a celebrity. He was quiet and polite, and usually sat at the same table, where he would slowly sip his coffee while reading a newspaper. One day, shortly after a long and thoughtful story about me had appeared in the Providence Journal, he waved me over to his table.
“Sit down, Vin,” he said.
I pulled up a chair and waited for him to speak. He was the type of man who provoked respect not simply because of his wealth, but because of the way he carried himself. He was dignified and self-assured, but in a quiet way.
“You have a wonderful story,” he began. “I think you’re going to do amazing things for this company. But I want you to embrace the job. I want you to embrace what you’re doing.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I’m serious,” he added. “I know that Howard has something special planned for you. But I don’t want you to get caught up in the story of it, because it won’t allow you to live in the moment.”
I tried very hard to live in the moment, but I never knew who was going to walk through that door and cause the present to collide with the past. One late-summer afternoon, a man walked in and smiled at me as I prepared to take his order.
“Do you remember me?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t.” This was true. I did not recognize the man, or the pleasant-looking woman on his arm.
“Long time ago we got into it. Me and some of your boys. I tried to sue you.”
I stared at him, and finally his features came into focus. It was the man with whom I had tussled many years before at my charity softball tournament in Connecticut. He looked somehow younger now, more than a decade later. He looked healthier. I knew this phenomenon because I’d seen it in the mirror. It happens when you stop drinking. Years of self-abuse melt away and the body comes back. Like Benjamin Button, you can almost feel the aging process kick into reverse.