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Again, I’m left to wonder what the hell is wrong with the world today. It’s coffee! Just coffee! Get a hold of yourselves! The Way I See It By Amberine Wilson I use to work for a large coffee company that shall remain nameless so Starbucks’ doesn’t sue me. As an employee of the above unsaid company, I was treated very well. In exchange for just twenty hours a week of micromanaged sweat and tears, I received full dental, visual and medical coverage. As a worker of various part time jobs, I can assure you that this is a fantastic perk. In fact, a plethora of people with resumes in their hands are drawn to the open doors of these beneficial institutions. There are many artists and musicians there; others, like me, have liberal arts degrees. Working for the insurance while going to school or selling art or playing at local bars is a good gig. Work full time and you get everything, plus stock! Yes indeed, this coffee company treats its employees very well, but it coddles its customers. I have never in my life encountered such a brood of over indulged "adults.” These spawn seem to be drawn, as if by a mother’s soothing song, to the comfy couches of these particular cafés. That obnoxious little blonde girl who got sucked in with the bad eggs at Willy Wonka’s factory drinks a single tall cinnamon dolce latte with half a Splenda and stamps her foot if there is even one person in line before her. Don’t get me wrong, there are some that I loved, some I called Sunshine because their sweet personalities were like rays of hope to all of us. Yes we love you venti, extra sugar-free vanilla latte lady and iced venti, extra ice, 2 Splenda passion tea lady and doppio espresso macchiato for here man. I’m not talking about them. They are outnumbered. It’s the little monsters that are in high concentration at the coffee shops I no longer have to open at four in the morning. You see, we are the only ones that will accept them for the picky little brats they are. We welcome them with open arms. Where else can you order a triple tall, 3 pump, sugar-free vanilla, two percent, upside-down caramel macchiato and actually have someone make it for you? I mean, with a smile on her face. Go down to the charming local coffee shop that features live music at night and smells of incense twenty-four hours a day, the one run by a bunch of fun loving dreadlock wearing folks, and just try to order that drink. You know what they do? They smirk in your face and point across the street … to the café where I use to work. Whose bright idea was it to give a bunch of lost souls, looking for a way to distinguish themselves from the rest of the herd they commute with, a little booklet that suggests all the different ways they can order their coffee? “Have no options or control in your life,” the little booklet prods. “No problem,” it consoles, “come down to this fantastic coffee shop and order whatever you want.” Now if someone comes in and desires a ristretto americano I understand that they want to taste only the sweet flavor in the first few seconds of an espresso shot. Ok fine, you’re a Coffee Connoisseur. But if someone orders a ristretto mocha, I think, what the fuck is wrong with people in the world today? How the hell can you taste a ristretto shot if it’s covered in mocha syrup? I swear, these are the same people who go to a bar on Tuesday night for a business meeting and order Grey Goose vodka only to mix it with Red Bull. I can just hear these people smirking, “Look at me, look at me; I know the word ristretto and I can afford premium vodka.” I’ve come to the conclusion that people just like to be difficult because it makes them feel more important or maybe even more secure. “But I can tell the difference,” they whine. Really? Did you know that for the last month the baristas have been serving you single grande mochas instead of grande ristretto mochas? Oh yes, and you’ve said nothing. But you are really not so bad, you who want to distinguish yourself. I understand your hopeless struggle against monotony. It’s those wretched descendants of disdain who made me quit my job. Those who are so used to getting their way that if during a crazy rush, a barista with a burnt hand accidentally puts whole milk in an half calf, triple grande, 8 pump hazelnut, nonfat, 180 degree, with whip cream latte, they instantly turn on her as if she were responsible for every misery in their lives. They don’t care that the young woman arrived at work before four in the morning so people could have their coffee before four-thirty or that after spilling brewed coffee on her hand, she had to pour someone’s 20 ounces of half and half mixed with espresso down the drain because some idiot wanted their breve cut with whole milk. Yes, it’s you people who lack compassion and restraint that we can’t stand. You, who would back up your car, slam the door, stomp back into the café and turn blue in the face with a gigantic temper tantrum over a hot beverage. Of course at the café where I used to work, this behavior is still promptly rewarded with a free drink coupon, a smile and an apology. Again, I’m left to wonder what the hell is wrong with the world today. It’s coffee! Just coffee! Get a hold of yourselves! Who are these ridiculous inhabitants of those nameless coffee shops? What makes them treat every barista as if they live and breathe to serve them brewed beans? Did they never see their second grade teacher at the grocery store? Did they miss the revelation that no one’s world is an oyster? Has their botox snapped? Has their wife left them for their best friend? Are their kids driving them crazy? Have they even considered that their poor little boy wouldn’t have ADD if they stopped giving him raspberry mochas? Are they taken for granted paralegals? Does the color green make them angry? Did they not get the promotion? Are they simply passing the buck or do they think it gets them something? It gets them decaf coffee and insincere smiles. Do you remember that day? You came in and rolled your eyes when I asked you to repeat your ridiculous drink that you merely mumbled to me. Then you repeated it slowly, with exaggerated condescension dripping from your lips, before snorting and returning to your cell phone conversation. Decaf. And you who loudly whispered something under your breath about why stupid baristas get paid so little. Decaf. And woman, yes you, who screamed at me, with your child in your arms, about your nonfat milk. Decaf. Do you know why all of you were a little tired that day? Why you had to drink the crappy coffee with powdered milk that your company’s employee lounge serves? Decaf. And don’t think that since I am gone you retched people will escape justice. There are many baristas who continue to use the Decaf Defense against your belligerency. No one wants the likes of you caffeinated. Oh yes, those “stupid” baristas hold the power in their hands. They supply the public with one of the most highly used legal drugs and then watch as your tolerance builds up and you complain of headaches and you come back for more. So be nice to your drug dealers, my friends, or they will cut you off with smiles on their faces and a free decaf drink coupon in their hands. © Copyright, Amberine Wilson Click here to read Amberine’s Brief and Bizarre Bio.
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