Joining the Work Force

I attended the University of Mary Washington for a semester and it was a picturesque little school where students would walk through downtown Fredericksburg, a beautiful place with brick sidewalks and several little shops (seventy five percent of which sold antiques).

Then there was a train tracks (literally) that if crossed would take you to a dark. Scary side of town. It was less friendly, less cute, and there were hardly any shops run by little old ladies who sold century old spoons.

This is where I found my first job.

I wandered across the tracks holding a pink post-it with an address on it. The ad read something like “Barista, no exp nec, will train right people” which sounded perfect because I had absolutely no experience doing anything except ridiculing people under my breath. I had a skip in my step, excited to join the workforce, get paychecks, complain about how much taxes they took out, all of it seemed new and shiny to me and it drew me forward.

It was a plain white building with two large windows on either side of a green door. I checked the address a couple of times and checked to make sure my button down shirt was tucked in right before I walked in, where I was frightened by a stout figure (woman, perhaps?) with frosted hair and a face mask. She started to hand me a face mask, then sharply asked, “Are you here about the job?” I affirmed and she allowed me a face mask, necessary because men were sawing and sanding and such. There were three other people there gathered around a television sitting on a milk crate. One was a twenty something with no eyebrows or eyelashes, merely a wig that was slightly askew and gathering sawdust, another girl with large, round eyeglasses and a slouch, and the last a grandma who did not look sweet, but instead rough and haggard. She knew how to kill me, cook me, and eat me, I could tell.

I uncomfortably filled out my application and watched a movie about coffee drinks, unsure if I was to take notes or merely absorb what I could. I resolved to just watch and commit these Italian drinks to memory. Halfway through the macchiato the employer called me over to ask me some basic questions. I made a move to take off my facemask but she put her hand over my mouth and shook her head. “Why do you want to work here?” I love Grey’s Anatomy and want to pretend I’m a surgeon while serving coffee. “I love coffee.” “What’s your favorite drink?” I hate coffee. “Latte? Soy latte. With… pumpkin.”

Somehow I landed the job. I reported to work to learn how to make espressos, which ended in the needless death of thousands of innocent espresso beans before I got the knack of it. The owner told me to taste each shot I pulled and since I loathed the taste from the center of my being, all I could muster was, “Eh.” But I managed to recognize what it should look like. Then came the opening.

Now, being very close to the train we knew that would be our target audience. The train. Which started making trips to Washington DC about four in the morning. So every morning I would wake up at three, get myself presentable, and walk half an hour from the campus to the coffee shop, the shortest way taking me through a confederate cemetery. It was worst when there was no moon because I would be walking through there smoking a cigarette, then about halfway I would hear a disturbance of gravel, and instead of assuming it was a squirrel and continuing to walk, I realized it was a confederate zombie and started hauling ass, cigarette dangling out of my mouth and ashes flying in my eyes, until I reached the safety of the street, tears streaming down my face and a heart attack brewing.

Finally I got to the coffee shop where I met up with the owner, Grandma Haggard, and the Eyelash-less Lassie. We got everything ready, and then we waited. Each morning I would have to make the owner a chocolate coffee concoction and of course she insisted I make my favorite drink as well. I would have to sip on that soy latte pumpkin drink from hell until the hawk went to the bathroom and I could spill the swill down the sink.

There were a few things that really gave me an edge in this job: I was that I was the only guy, I had eyelashes, and the owner’s fifteen year old daughter had a crush on me. Since I worked from four to nine in the morning, her daughter was there for a good part of the morning helping out and I found out what all people learn about Christian school folk: she was a blaspheming riot! She was funny as hell and we got along famously most notably bonding over making fun of each customer that walked in.

Now, as you can imagine, waking up at three, going to work, going to class, and smoking pot is bound to catch up with you. It became clear to me something had to go. So it was with a heavy heart that I informed my employer it was time for me to guzzle my filthy latte one last time and seek greener pasture elsewhere.

It was amazing the transformation that place had on me. I walked in with my bright eyes and bushy tail, ready to change the world via coffee grounds and by the end of my stint I was defeated, conquered by the system. I walked by recently, and was surprised to see them still open. The owner offered me a free drink, a soy pumpkin latte from the old days. I grimaced, accepted, and walked away.