And the Hits Keep Coming

As I have continued to work and put up with an abundance of customers, some of my coy one-liners have been honed and perfected, while others have had to be shelved for more appropriate times. Case and point: when a man bought into me telling him we had a $17 minimum on cards hook, line and sinker, I felt bad when his embarrassment was blatantly apparent due to a woman pissing her pants in merriment at his gullibility behind him. I tried to apologize and explain that I had an unfair advantage of a practiced delivery, but wasn't taken seriously while I too was laughing. I couldn't tell him it was because of the size of the woman's gap in her teeth behind him. Here are some new ones to watch out for though so you don't find yourself in the crossfire.

Customer: "What are those Morning Glory muffins made out of?"
Me: "Rays of sunshine."
Customer: (playing into the sarcasm) "Oh really?"
Me: "Yeah, they're fresh caught each morning and certified organic if you're into that sorta stuff."

I misjudged the thickness of one customer's skin with the cake jar lines and have since tried to tone down the punch line.
Customer: "What are those Cake Jar things?"
Me: "It's cake in a jar."
Customer: "Oh really? That's what I thought. (Sure you did) Well who makes them and how do they get the cake in the jars that way?"
Me: (Obviously not the baker and getting flustered that I just refrained from openly questioning their intelligence) "It's the same company that puts wooden ships in bottles, and I have no idea how they do it. Trade secret I suppose."

Boys Will be Boys

She was a tall jovial robust woman that laughed aloud with the raspiness of a former chain smoker. We got along immediately. She was accompanied by this curly headed squirt flailing his chubby little arms about at nothing while running in an occasional circle and dragging his slimy hands down the length of any clear window or exposed glass case. He was cute for an absolute heathen. I'm not good with numbers, but I'd say he was around 3-4, maybe even 6-7. I take that back. Five got left out and he was speaking in Ebonics to himself. We'll just say the kid was 3-5.



Anyways, the bugger had chocolate stains on his face and wore a shirt that read, "Dirt Magnet." His mother ordered him a glass of orange juice, and I politely asked if she'd like me to put that in a cup with a lid for him. She said, "Oh no, [casually flapping her hand down] he's a big boy. Just give him a regular cup." However, when I walked around the counter to hand the uncovered glass to the little terror, who was karate chopping with a stupid off beat kick up to me, he jerked the dickens out of it and splashed the OJ all over his magnetic shirt. Score.



To this bizarre bean, running un-supervised through my establishment, about to get beamed in the dome with a nerf ball by yours truly: you know who you are...

Smoke Breaks and Wooden Benches

I consider myself to be a decently healthy person with decently healthy tendencies; one of those being a regular morning BM. I know what you're thinking, "Okay, we're off to a good start." That's what I always say to myself too. During the week I work from 6am to the butt-crack of noon or so. Since I can't arrange my social life and sleep schedule around an appropriate bed time for this shift, my body's internal processes usually don't have a chance to catch up before I have to leave for work. Don't worry though, everything happens in due time.

Several hours into my shift the time always comes. I ask my manager if I may take a few minutes or so to go for a smoke break. They always say, "You smoke?" I reply, "No, it's a polite euphemism for taking care of bathroom business." Too much information? Too bad, I'm just getting the toilet seat warmed up for ya.

All of about three of us were sitting in the back room of a cafe spread out well enough, or so I thought. A large L-shaped wooden bench seat runs the length of the back wall. A young lady and I sat somewhere to the tune of ten feet apart. We were both working on our computers, respectively, when I felt an undeniable vibration. I looked for my phone. It was in my pocket, and had not rung. I looked down the line at the girl, still feverishly typing away, only to see her phone resting on the table, not the bench seat. Trying to further investigate the situation without causing a scene, I noticed the crumbly remnants of a muffin (banana nut) and Cholula sauce...? Hot sauce on a muffin, WTF mate?

My first inclination was to send a retaliation shot reverberating back at her; not having had my smoke break yet today though, considered this to be too risky of a move. Damnit! Instead, I sat vexed over the dangerous compromising situation she left me cornered in. To this bizarre bean ripping ass down the bench from me: 1. that's messed up, and 2. you know who you are...

Cookies Mean Different things to Different People

He came in lookin' all, whatever. "Give me a cup of coffee and a cookie," the guy says to me. Textbook squatter order at 10:30am. Knowing this guy would be lingering around for a while I charged him for a bottomless refill price. The total came out to $5.07.

-"Five dollars for coffee and a cookie!?"

-"Uh huh, yeah dats right sir."

-"How??"

-"It's $2.69 for the coffee and $1.99 for the cookie plus tax. Our prices are listed on the board."

Truly, that's not a bad deal considering we're a local shop that employs people to make and store our own coffee beans. Not to mention unlimited refills and a to-go cup for no additional charge if the customer asks. As for the cookie, well I don't buy many cookies, so I wouldn't know the market trends. He wanted chocolate chip. Already flustered, the man came back to announce he had gotten the wrong cookie. My bad homie. At a quick glance the oatmeal raisin looked like chocolate chip; honest. He explained that fortunately he had a keen eye for cookie ingredients, but had he bitten into the other cookie without catching the mistake it would have RUINED his day. Really? Ruined it? It was just a cookie man. I would've given him a free cookie no questions asked. Feel free to check my math, but that would've potentially made for a different cookie in each hand all before noon! That's the kind of awesome shit that MAKES most peoples days.

To this bizarre bean who obviously has bigger issues than cookies: you know who you are...

For the Love of June (part 2)

She was a middle aged woman who had come in before. Like June, she was reserved and slightly rude out of what seemed like a necessity for all of the people who had been unnecessarily mean to her, rather than the disposition she would've wished to have consistently carried herself with.

The woman approached my counter ignoring my pleasantries and skipping any of her own. She said, "This is going to be a difficult order. I don't care how it looks, just make it happen." With that I was completely determined to make whatever she asked for work in an effort to make her happy somehow some damn way.

I pushed buttons. I manually typed things in for her. In the end, she walked away only to turn back with a genuine smile and said the words to me, "Thanks, you guys are always so nice to me every time I come in here." I am not easily emotional, but those words nearly melted me. This woman looked ragged and beaten down by a malicious world; like she had been picked on unwarranted her entire life. Now, in this seemingly small act, my cafe had become somewhat of a safe haven. I treated her and everyone else who walks through our doors the same way because of the lessons I had learned inadvertently through June years before. This was the pinnacle of my coffee career. When I looked down she had tipped me $7.

To her, all of the Junes out there and anyone else out there desperately searching for someone to simply be nice to them: come on into my place of business. I'll serve you up a sincere smile too.

For the Love of June (part 1)

Her name was June; a summery sound to match the warm month. Her poise and mood, however, did not complement the title on the plastic badge attached to her blouse. She was an older woman who worked the cash register at the end of the lunch line I went through every day my sophomore year of high school. I smiled and said, "Have a great day." There was no response. I assumed she mistook the sincerity of my generosity for some punk kid messing with another lunch lady. Days, weeks, and months went by without any reciprocation of my kindness. There were no, "Thanks," "You too's," or even an "Okay." It wore on me wondering why she never returned a single word. June didn't seem to fit the part of a bitter elderly lady. I never stopped going through her line, and I never stopped smiling and telling her to have a great day.

Finally, mere days before school let out for Christmas break, she was waiting; even looking down the line past the other kids, with a smile she had stolen from me harping about the holidays and wishing me a lovely day. I was shocked. It was a complete transformation. The rest of the next semester I never saw June without her new signature grin. We would chat as long as possible, and she even spotted me some of her own spare change when I was short once.

That was the most pleasant lunch line I have ever gone through, and I'd like to say that she can say the same. I don't know what had beaten her down during the previous semester; maybe the loss of her longtime husband, an estranged relationship with one of her children, or economic troubles. What I do know now though is the power of a sincere smile, and what it did for June. I never saw her again after that year, and I don't know the extend to which it helped, but those few moments each day seeing that sweet old woman light up to reveal her true colors were pure gold. I've never forgotten that lesson, and June is the sole reason I smile like a big goofball to everyone who comes through my lines today; even if it's just for coffee.

To this bizarre bean hopefully still servin' up smiles somewhere: you know who you are...

Suits and Such

What was supposed to be a filler job for my real ambitions somehow turned into a sincere enjoyment and human observation project. I love all of the regulars that frequent our cafe, but occasionally we get a few, well, you fill in the blank as you wish.

There is a well dressed middle aged man that comes in the morning, usually with other well dressed middle aged early risers, and he always opens a tab for everyone. One morning he was accompanied by a younger man who didn't practice the same pleasantries; some entry level prick trying to make an impression on the boss man who had finally invited him for breakfast with the rest of the people on their floor. Mere blocks from the capitol, county courthouse and various big businesses, I tend to get these guys on occasion pushing condescending presences while barking demeaning orders at me. It doesn't bother me. I'd like to say that I could get a spot at the cubicle next them, dress like them, kiss lots of ass, begin to hate my life, and take it out on people who don't deserve it like them, but I don't. Behind the typical white v-neck t's, tipped newsie hat and jeans, I usually look back with the same condescension knowing that a diligence to my written work beyond the coffee counter will produce a life of meaning that will forever surpass any feeble corporate contribution they may make, but I do this with a smile.

He orders two breakfast tacos and tells me the boss will be picking up the tab because he makes more money; charming. Furthermore, we have a punch card that allows customers a free entree after the purchase of 11 others. He asked me to punch his card, to which I promptly told him that tacos did not constitute as an entree. He became upset, disregarding that he had pushed his $4 tacos on someone else and wanted me to count this as an entree for him after being rude the entire time. He said,

- "What do you mean it's not an entree?"

-"I mean, it's two tacos and doesn't include a side. It's not an entree sir."

-"Well who the hell made that rule!?"

-"The suits."

-"Suits? What does that mean? (as the boss he was trying to impress laughed aloud and tried to fill him in on the term) I know the owner! I'll tell him about this!"

(Tell him what? That I was doing my job correctly? Nice name drop douche.)

The next girl came in with a friendly smile, ordered the same thing, and I gladly punched them as an entree. To this bizarre bean who doesn't know his own label: you know who you are.