Firm but Delicate

Customer service requires not only a swift, sharp attitude (dealing with all walks of life demands a certain acerbic wit -- if you don't have it, you might as well be floating in a donut in the middle of the ocean), but it also demands strong, firm hands. Apron-wearing, of course, is synonymous with manual labor. It is damn near impossible to not work with your hands.

Where strength is required, sometimes, in the most necessary of circumstances, delicacy is equally essential.

Back in my barista days (for the uninformed, "barista" is an Italian word that means "ass kisser") there was a lot of work to do. I worked for a large coffee chain, and we were always hopping. Lines out the door. I don't think there was a work day where I didn't break a sweat. By the end of a shift, my trusty apron looked like I'd been rolling in mud. It was honest work ("honest work" is what people say when they know their job reeks of humiliation but can't bring themselves to admit it -- sadly, I am often one of those people), but sometimes I would throw my hands to the Heavens and say, "Why? Why? It's because I gave that last idiot decaf when he wanted regular, isn't it?"

One day, while manning the register, I watched as an older gentleman swooped past the line and went straight for the restroom. This was not an odd occurrence. After a good ten minutes, the same older gentleman swooped past the line again, but instead of joining the caffeine deprived, he made a bee line for the door. Hmm? I shrugged and continued to take pretentiously-worded coffee orders.

Moments later a man came up to me. He direly motioned for my attention. "Um, there's a problem in the men's restroom," he said, eyes glazed over, face slack. I was worried he might have seen a dead body.

"Okay," I answered. "Is the toilet not flushing?"

"It's a little worse than that. You should take a look. But just so you know, it wasn't me."

There are moments in life when you know that what's about to happen is so awful you might need a psychiatrist. There are moments so unsettling that you wished you'd simply turned on heel and went the other direction. This was one of these moments.

I went to the men's restroom. I saw a man about to enter and, like a hero in a bad tv movie I said, "Don't go in there!" I had my arms cautiously outstretched and everything. Realizing my panic I said, "Someone put a latte in the toilet." The man, noticing my instability, slipped away.

I opened the restroom door and stood there. Now, the restrooms at this particular cafe were singular -- meaning they were built for one-person use. There were no urinals, no stalls, just a toilet, a sink, a trashcan, and a papertowel dispenser. Upon immediate examination of these items, including the floor, walls and ceiling (yes, the ceiling), I could think only one thing:

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

The older gentleman had, for some ungodly reason, spread feces all over the bathroom. Everywhere. It looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. This was something that took effort. There was no accident involved here. Perhaps disdain for the virus-like spreading of coffee chains across America? Maybe his caramel macchiato the day before had been luke-warm, and this was his revenge? Maybe he was a bit loopy and that day he hadn't taken his meds?

Whatever the case, yours truly was left to clean it up. My strong coffee-making hands were put to use scrubbing every nook and cranny of that shit-smeared bathroom. Do you think the manager might have called a bio-hazard company to come and take care of it, in the event that I might catch something and drop dead the next day? "I don't want something like that on my managerial record!" she said to me, holding out a mop and some disinfectant.

I have never, in my life, had to use an entire bottle of bleach for anything. Anything.

Thank God for plastic gloves.