Waking up at 3am is made only worse by walking to your car in the bad part of a Long Beach neighborhood to go to work an eight hour shift. Everyone thinks working in coffee must make it easier to wake up, but you would be surprised at how hard it can be to drag yourself out of bed to go a job you know is temporary. Although I am a full time student, graduation seems farther and farther away every time I step into the store. Coffee beans smell perfect before they are brewed. The scent hangs in the air in a way that I will always cherish.
When I brew coffee it seeps into my clothes, into my skin, into my day. The stale milk, sweat, and brewed coffee infiltrate all aspects of my identity. No time to change before I shift into my student role. In class I smell like a barista as I struggle to stay awake. Eight shots of espresso and I can barely keep my eyes open. My instructors point out the irony to my classmates. Everyone is amused. I had heard people becoming their jobs, but I am only twenty three. My friends from high school have all received their bachelor’s degrees, or they are in med school or law school. I am a barista.
Thank you for choosing the Starbucks Drive Thru. My name is Alyssa. What can I start for you today?
My sentences on repeat during the morning rush hour. I take order after order. I stop looking in the customers eyes. I imagine the ding-ding-ding of the drive thru pull up order is a song that I actually like to hear. The lull of handing drinks into car doors. The whir of steam as it heats milk. The drip of coffee as it brews. Six days a week. The same nameless faces pass through gaze. Empty smiles. They know nothing about me except that I am the blonde barista. We know simple identifiers.
Ed like to get a Venti, Double Cupped, No Foam, Extra Hot, Skim Latte, with 2 Splenda.Joe likes to order a Tall Doppio Espresso. Jean gets a Grande Café Vanilla Frappucino with Extra Caramel Sauce and espresso beans blended into the drink. No Whip. I know everything about this ritual in their day. I know nothing real. Sometimes Ed brings his daughter. She drinks soy. Sometimes Joe drives the convertible. Sometimes Jean brings her softball team. Vivannos for the crew.
If I were to see these people outside of the comfort of my work, I would not know them. We would have no shared interests or language. I am just their purveyor of finely brewed coffee. When my aunt died, I went to work with a smile on my face. When I had walking pneumonia I went to work with a smile on my face. When I showed up with bruises from my partner, I put a smile on my face.
Every vulnerable part of myself hidden, yet simultaneously exposed as I dredge through life in non-slip shoes. I miss color. I miss leisure time. I miss ordering a caramel macciato without knowing that it is an Italian word that means “marked”. I am marked by this job.
A couple of weeks ago I saw a familiar face in the drive thru. She’s one of my classmates. The type of girl that wears designer hand bags and knock off sunglasses. I would often feel her eyes roll as I would make my standpoint as a lesbian as I commented on class reading. She could not find her wallet. I noticed she had been crying. She looked horrified to see me at the window. I did not know how to approach someone so on the fringe of my life. I did what made sense and marked out the drink as my own as I let her through. She has yet to acknowledge the gesture. She still refuses to see me. I have asked her about assignments. I can’t seem to muster anything more.
How do I tell her that I slept in my car because I could not sleep in my apartment with my partner I drove straight to work. I was worn down but hidden behind a superficial mask of coffee orders. Our days seemed linked. As if the pain in her eyes could tell me more than she ever could. How can I even mention she saved me, even but for one minute from a job that has eroded my sense of self. I learned about myself in a moment from a glance than from years in college prior.
I have grown weary of coffee business. Long I have prayed for something more substantial. I have lived in want. I guess even fair trade comes at a price.
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