day job
I'm having one of those fucking days at work where I need to snarl at every customer. And they look at me like I am an absolute troll because they have asked me for coffee and instead of smiling and bouncing over to the machine I instead ignore them for 10-20 seconds, look at them like they are deeply inconveniencing me (hello, I'm searching slutty tops on ebay), ignore their requests for decaf, skim, soy, vanilla, splenda, or whatever bullshit they want to ruin their coffee with, and make their drinks with a look of total disgust/boredom/homicidal rage on my face. I'm lucky enough to work at a place where this actually passes for great customer service.
And the customers look at me with a mixture of fear (mission accomplished!) and bewilderment. Do I not know that it is my duty to serve them coffee and baked goods with an assholey smile on my face? Did I not realize when I woke up this morning that my only important task this day would be to make them their fucking half-caf three shot skim iced latte, just fill the cup 1/3 of the way with ice please because otherwise it, like, melts and my drink ends up all watery, you know?
Hey lady, you're drinking 16 ounces of skim milk. Your drink is going to taste like water no matter how much ice I put in it, YOU KNOW?
Today, as has been the case many times for the last few months, all I want to do is grab these customers and scream at them "THIS IS NOT WHAT I DO!" I will reach across the counter and grab them by the collar, pulling their face close to mine, "THIS IS NOT WHAT I AM!"
They will stammer and stutter, terrified of the sociopath behind the counter with butter knives a mere arms length away. They will atttempt to reason with me, "But you're the barista. This is your job. To make the coffee."
I roar. Possibly my face turns entirely red, my mouth opens to three times its normal size andn my eyeballs spin (we watched Evil Dead 2 last night). "I AM NOT A FUCKING BARISTA. I AM A WRITER. I DIRECT PLAYS. I MAKE THEATER. I HAVE IDEAS. I HAVE AN EDUCATION."
They are shaking, wishing they hadn't stepped out for their coffee break, wishing they had indulged in a machine-made hot chocolate in the break room of the company where they do tech support. Or develop websites. Or micro-manage other people who do those things. And I see their fear and their ultimate dissatisfaction with the lives they chose, and I set them down gently. I release their collar. I pour their coffee. They stare at me warily. As I hand it to them I say,
"You don't know me. You don't know what I can do. You don't know how talented I am. I am not just someone who makes coffee so do not look so surprised that I am fucking miserable to be standing behind this counter. This is six hours out of my day that I cannot be doing what I love, what I am good at, that I cannot contribute to society in the way I am supposed to. Do not look at me with the expectation that simply because I stand here and you stand there, I am a servant with a servant's mentality."
They are looking at their feet. They are a bit ashamed. Other people in the cafe are staring. So I smile at them, the big smile, the REAL smile, the smile that breaks across my face the minute I walk through this door out onto the street, away from the necessity of working for hourly pocket change, and I ask them, "Did you want anything else today?"
6/22/07
I need to make a slight ammendment to the above post. I must mention that I have many a regular customer whom I truly adore. There are customers who brighten my day every time they come in. A short list of them would be Rex, Frank, Bill, Curtis, Strummer Joe, The King of Spain and his wife, Food Dude, Jesse, Gerry, Erik, and a whole bunch more whose names I don't know. It's just that for every great customer who really takes an interest, there is one who treats me like dirt. Similar to bartenders, for every amazingly interesting drunk who is full of wonderful stories, humor, and compassion, there is a bachelorette party from Long Island demanding that you make blow job shots and dance on the bar.
And the customers look at me with a mixture of fear (mission accomplished!) and bewilderment. Do I not know that it is my duty to serve them coffee and baked goods with an assholey smile on my face? Did I not realize when I woke up this morning that my only important task this day would be to make them their fucking half-caf three shot skim iced latte, just fill the cup 1/3 of the way with ice please because otherwise it, like, melts and my drink ends up all watery, you know?
Hey lady, you're drinking 16 ounces of skim milk. Your drink is going to taste like water no matter how much ice I put in it, YOU KNOW?
Today, as has been the case many times for the last few months, all I want to do is grab these customers and scream at them "THIS IS NOT WHAT I DO!" I will reach across the counter and grab them by the collar, pulling their face close to mine, "THIS IS NOT WHAT I AM!"
They will stammer and stutter, terrified of the sociopath behind the counter with butter knives a mere arms length away. They will atttempt to reason with me, "But you're the barista. This is your job. To make the coffee."
I roar. Possibly my face turns entirely red, my mouth opens to three times its normal size andn my eyeballs spin (we watched Evil Dead 2 last night). "I AM NOT A FUCKING BARISTA. I AM A WRITER. I DIRECT PLAYS. I MAKE THEATER. I HAVE IDEAS. I HAVE AN EDUCATION."
They are shaking, wishing they hadn't stepped out for their coffee break, wishing they had indulged in a machine-made hot chocolate in the break room of the company where they do tech support. Or develop websites. Or micro-manage other people who do those things. And I see their fear and their ultimate dissatisfaction with the lives they chose, and I set them down gently. I release their collar. I pour their coffee. They stare at me warily. As I hand it to them I say,
"You don't know me. You don't know what I can do. You don't know how talented I am. I am not just someone who makes coffee so do not look so surprised that I am fucking miserable to be standing behind this counter. This is six hours out of my day that I cannot be doing what I love, what I am good at, that I cannot contribute to society in the way I am supposed to. Do not look at me with the expectation that simply because I stand here and you stand there, I am a servant with a servant's mentality."
They are looking at their feet. They are a bit ashamed. Other people in the cafe are staring. So I smile at them, the big smile, the REAL smile, the smile that breaks across my face the minute I walk through this door out onto the street, away from the necessity of working for hourly pocket change, and I ask them, "Did you want anything else today?"
6/22/07
I need to make a slight ammendment to the above post. I must mention that I have many a regular customer whom I truly adore. There are customers who brighten my day every time they come in. A short list of them would be Rex, Frank, Bill, Curtis, Strummer Joe, The King of Spain and his wife, Food Dude, Jesse, Gerry, Erik, and a whole bunch more whose names I don't know. It's just that for every great customer who really takes an interest, there is one who treats me like dirt. Similar to bartenders, for every amazingly interesting drunk who is full of wonderful stories, humor, and compassion, there is a bachelorette party from Long Island demanding that you make blow job shots and dance on the bar.
Labels: artsy angst
posted by SWC at 8:25 AM
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