Thank Goodness it was Me

For a few weeks I've been staying with a friend in a neighboring city, helping her on the property where she lives. Another guy and I have been cutting down trees, trimming this and that, clearing out brush and what not. Definitely far from my normal apron-wearing duties, but it's good to step out of the box sometimes.

With intense work under the sun comes hunger. Generally we slap together some sandwiches, but sometimes we'll make the long trek into town (yes, it's a long trek, the kind of distance where you hope not to have forgotten anything at the grocery store) and pick up burritos or whatever. This time around we hit a Subway (can't beat a $5 footlong).

Having been a Sandwich Artist for a number of years in a similarly set up deli, I'm usually much more polite and empathetic to the woes of Subway workers. First of all, they always look miserable. If you notice, when you walk in the door the employees are obligated to welcome you. It's never jovial. It's always a bland, boring, instinctive, "Welcome to Subway." It sounds like someone let the air out of their personalities.

My coworker and I enter. I notice immediately there are only two other people in the shop, eating at a table in the corner. There's a heavy-set gal with bug eyes behind the counter doing some menial task. "Welcome to Subway," she croaks.

"Hello," I say.

A second girl emerges from the back. She's equally-sized as Bug Eyes but has platinum blonde hair, definitely not from Mother Nature. "Hello," she says mechanically.

My coworker proceeds to order, as do I. Within 30 seconds the girls are bustling about, smiling, seemingly enjoying themselves. My coworker and I are joking with them, trying to be lighthearted about everything. It was a good two-minute process. A third girl emerges from the back, looking serious and firm, quite managerial. She couldn't have been older than 22. A few exchanges between the girls are made, but nothing out of the ordinary.

The couple sitting in the corner of the restaurant get up and leave behind us. When they are out the door, Serious says, "And goodbye to you, motherfuckers."

Dead silence.

It was like someone had said the President had been killed. It was eerie. Blondie and Bug Eyes, in usinon, say, "Serious!" trying not to laugh, and clearly embarrassed.

Serious puts her hands to her mouth in shock, as if the word 'motherfucker' just slipped out. I can guarantee you this: she knew exactly what she was saying and knew very well my coworker and I were standing right there. There was no missing us; we were two feet away. I'm not guessing -- I know this from experience. I, too, have insulted customers within earshot of other customers. It's our way of saying, "Watch it, or we'll talk about you behind your back, too."

"I didn't mean you guys!" Serious says to me and my coworker.

I shrugged it off. "Oh jeez, we don't care," I reassure her. "We'd only hope you'd have the decency to wait until we left before you call us that." I chuckled to make light of it. It was pretty funny, but she was lucky it was me as the customer, and not someone ready to pick up a phone and call Subway Corporate Headquarters to gripe and groan about the foul language.

"Are those people assholes or something?" I ask, referring to the motherfuckers.

Blondie, wrapping my sub, says, "Nah, they're just here every day. They always want the same thing. They always want us to turn down the music, make a fresh pot of coffee. They want a fresh pot every time."

"And they never say thank you," Serious adds.

"Well I worked for Substandard for fifteen years, so I sympathize."

"Oh my God," Bug Eyes says, genuinely shocked. "Fifteen years?"

"Yep," I say.

"I hope you were at least a manager," Serious says.

"Sort of. Whatever the case, I'm not there now, but I totally understand how you feel about customers like that. My store had one lady who always complained it was too cold. 'Can you turn off the air conditioner?' she'd ask us. My response was always the same: 'Lady, we're working hard back here, that's why the AC is on. I'm not going to sweat through my pants just because you're too cold.'"

This sent the Subway girls into a tiny fit of laughter. Obviously they needed to get that kind of tension out of their systems. I know the feeling. It's nice when someone comes into your place of employment and they know how it is. We shouldn't have to be serious all the time.

There isn't enough money in the world that should force someone to fake a smile 8 hours a day. It's unnatural. I mean, think about it: Do you think you could cry for 8 hours a day if you were paid enough? I don't think so.

It's Not the End of the World

During my coffee-making days, I met a lot of uptight people. A lot. More than my fair share. Granted, I met uptight people during all of my jobs, but the coffee house industry sees more than it needs to.

Think of it this way: caffeine is a highly addictive drug and, like crack or meth, people need their fix. People become skittish, antsy, trying to quell the urge for something that will calm their nerves.

During my tenure at The Grind, I dealt with far too many people like this. I was a crack dealer, essentially. A legally employed crack dealer.

The line at The Grind, as I'm sure you can imagine, was longest and steadiest during the morning hours. We're talking the wee morning hours, too. I'd pull into the parking lot at 4:30 in the morning just to get things started (we opened at 5 a.m., an ungodly hour, a I-can-still-see-the-moon-and-stars hour), and there they were, the four cars I could count on to wait for me to unlock the doors at 5.

The procession would start, customers trailing in to order their stiff coffee drinks and flaky pastries. Most of them were zombies. Things ran pretty smoothly until around 7 a.m., when the coffee tweakers were at their most incessantly needy. You could pick them out in line; impatiently tapping a foot, or glancing at a wrist-watch again and again. If you paid close enough attention, you could see them mouth the words Come on, already. As if this were going to make me or my co-workers move any faster (in fact, we all took a morbid kind of glee in making them wait).

Customer, looking well-coiffed and Ready for the Day, but clearly trying to hide her desperation for coffee, says, "I'll have a grande, non-fat, extra-hot, upside-down, no-whip, no foam, extra, extra caramel, caramel macchiatto." For those of you not versed in Coffee, that's a caramel macchiatto, but with all the bells and whistles.

Awesome. Cool. Customer orders a pastry, and I'm left to make this lofty drink at the esspresso bar. Steadily I make it, place it on the counter to my left (where customers pick up their delicious drinks), and I call it out: "I have a grande, non-fat, extra-hot, upside-down, no-whip, with foam, extra, extra caramel, caramel macchiatto on the bar!"

The first thing Customer does is lift the lid to her drink. No "thank you" or "have a nice day." No, instead she inspects her drink as if maybe I'd spit in it. "There's foam on here," Customer snaps, "I didn't want foam."

"Oh," I said, "I apologize. I can make you another one."

She scowls at me with such eyes, I thought maybe I might disintegrate into dust. "I don't have time," she nearly howls. "I have to get to work!"

"Miss, it's an easily fixable mistake."

"My God," she starts, "I can't even drink this. I can't even drink this now that it has foam on it."

I sigh. "Look, it's written on the cup you wanted no whip cream. I apologize. I just assumed..."

"I've been coming in here long enough," Customer gripes. "You think you'd know my drink by now."

Well, frankly, you're one of about a thousand people I see a week, so don't flatter yourself. I want to say this, but I don't. Instead I grab the steamed milk spoon, lean over, scoop the foam off her drink, top it off with more steamed milk, and say, "See, it's not the end of the world."

Even though I've fixed what was apparently a life-altering mistake, Customer says, "That was a smart-ass thing to do and I don't appreciate it. Who's your manager."

With a smile that screams warmth I say, "You're looking at him."

Customer rolls her eyes, grabs her drink, slips her sunglasses back on, and turns on heel to leave.

"Have a great day!" I yell after her.