Starschmuck’s
There’s a certain coffee establishment that’s nestled in a nearby grocery store. Apparently, it’s part of the franchise, but not exactly; it is ruled by the governing board of this world power, but it is employed by the “Employee of the Month” types at the grocery store. It’s considered a privelege to work the counter here; once you’re a barista, the doors to a successful future are suddenly unlocked and wealth & riches are within your grasp…
Okay, so that’s a stretch, but the guy who works the counter acts like he’s sitting on the right hand of God, so I figured running the cash register at the coffee stand MUST be pretty important. Being an ex-waitress, I am ALWAYS cordial to ANYONE who handles my food or drinks. (Remember the first cardinal rule of the service industry; don’t #*#* with the person who brings your food!) But this guy is enough to even ruffle MY feathers. I used to let his condescending tone roll off, ignoring the obvious sarcastic remarks. After all, it’s expected that the coffee barista be slightly better than you; they actually UNDERSTAND all that fancy lingo for small, medium & large. But lately, Coffee Boy had more tone than I am accustomed to. I didn’t notice right away, until my co-worker made the comment, “God, I hate that dill-hole.”
I paused momentarily; had I missed something? I replayed the conversation in my mind:
“Cafe mocha, please, non-fat, no whipped cream.” In an effort to make his job easier, I placed my debit card on the counter.
“$3.15.” No please, no ma’am, no big deal. I pointed to the debit card. He pointed to the card reader. Me, feeling like an idiot, smiled sheepishly & slid my card before returning to my conversation with my co-worker.
“He’s such a prick. It’s like he’s got a venti stuck up his ass,” my co-worker continued. I paused again, and started to watch Coffee Boy closely, looking for signs of caffeinated elitism. Sure enough, they were there. He talked down to every single customer in line, and God help you if he was out of something.
“I don’t have that. It’s on the 86 board,” he would point behind the register, assuming the poor civilian would understand the large chalkboard with pastel “86″ taunting him. No caffinated slice of heaven for you today, sir. With a “You’re So Stupid” sigh, Coffee Boy would then tilt his head to the side and start tapping his foot, the impatience dripping from demeanor while the poor, disoriented customer would frantically try to decipher the ancient coffee language. As he floundered helplessly, Coffee Boy caught a glimpse of an older gentleman outside, and deliberately emptied the coffee machine.
“SORR-REEE, I have to clean the machine.”
“I’ll wait,” the customer shot back. Obviously he had been here before.
“Well, that’ll take about thirty minutes,” Coffee Boy returned with spiteful glee. Little bastard. I started to get genuinely upset for the customers in line. All they wanted was a $5 cup of coffee, not to be berated by some little coffee punk on a power trip. In a rare show of catiness, I lifted the Café Mocha and made the utterly bitchy comment:
“Well, maybe someday WE’LL be important enough to have a job like this.”
Karma will get me, but sometimes, it’s worth it. I’m sure they’ll be extra cream tomorrow, assuming that the machine isn’t being cleaned.