Creole Ned
04-07-2006, 07:30 PM
Back in the old days (and by that I mean the 1980s) I had a blog that I updated a lot more often than the one I currently have. I blame the Internet for making it so easy that I just skip right over the whole damn thing.
I never kept a diary but I did keep a journal. The difference is the truly embarrassing stuff remains locked in my head. By 1996 I had progressed to a 33.6 modem and using Word to record my journal. Here's part of an entry from March 4, 1996, a slice of my life from 10 years ago. I was 31 and the weight of the world had only partly crushed my spirit. This particular snippet is from the time I spent working at Starbucks:
The best part about working there is getting paid. The worst part is pretty much everything else. In the future, I will insert witty anecdotes about working in this lovely little java emporium. For now, chew on this:
A fellow Starbucker, Karl Jeffrey, an alleged adult human male of 23 years, claims to be from South Wales, but his behavior suggests the eventual arrival of a mothership and his subsequent return to the home world. His vocabulary consists primarily of short phrases delivered like the loud report of machine gun fire: “ISN’T THAT GREAT?!” “THIS DRINK’S GOING TO TASTE GORGEOUS!” “WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” “WHAT DO YOU DO?!” “WOW!” Especially “WOW!” There are times (rare, true enough) when Karl will be standing in a silent, almost thoughtful pose. Then his lips part and out comes the “WOW!” with no rhyme or reason, as if it’s just his way of belching. I thought, in time, that I would grow accustomed to this. It hasn’t happened. Oh, I’ve built up a certain amount of resistance, much like one would to certain strains of the flu, but each day, the “WOWS!” begin their assault on my defenses, chipping them away as the hours go by. Sometimes I am finished my shift before the wall has been completely torn down, other times, the “WOWS!” march triumphantly over the crumbled brick and mortar and work their way straight into my head. It is something like having a 747 try to land on your brain. It, in a word, hurts.
Still, his puppy-like enthusiasm has a certain charm. You know, like those two headed fish they find swimming around Chernobyl.
As for the work itself, it consists of the usual drudgery one associates with a mass-produced product that follows a strict recipe with no room for variation. You are on bar. A drink is called. You call back the order. You make the drink, following the aforementioned strict recipe. You serve the drink, smile and acknowledge the customer. Then you do the same thing about a million times over, until your shift has ended. A transcript of what would be said between cashier, customer and barista (fancy pants name for those who make the drinks) might go as follows:
CUSTOMER: I’d like a tall, skinny cap.
CASHIER: WHAT’S YOUR NAME?!
CUSTOMER: What?
CASHIER: I said, WHAT’S YOUR NAME?!
CUSTOMER: Why?
CASHIER: OH, I JUST WANT TO KNOW WHAT YOUR NAME IS SO I CAN CALL YOU BY YOUR NAME NEXT TIME AND MAKE EVERYTHING SEEM FRIENDLIER, YOU KNOW!
Sorry, I can’t do this using Karl. I’ll continue with a composite character serving as the cashier.
CASHIER: You’d like a tall, non-fat cappuccino?
CUSTOMER (gritting teeth over being corrected for ordering her drink “cutesy” style): Yes.
CASHIER (to barista): Tall, non-fat cappuccino.
BARISTA: Tall, non-fat cappuccino.
CUSTOMER (approaches bar, watches barista as a vulture watches a man taking his last breath on the scorched sands of the desert): I don’t want too much foam.
BARISTA: Okay.
CUSTOMER: Can you make it extra hot?
BARISTA: Sure.
CUSTOMER: Oh, and can you double cup it? I have to walk back to the office.
BARISTA (mumbles something unintelligible, but probably affirmative): Erm.
CUSTOMER: Is that milk hot enough?
BARISTA (mumbles something unintelligible, but probably obscene): Frckn bth.
CUSTOMER: Oh, that’s too much foam. I wanted a wet cappuccino.
BARISTA: Excuse me, ma’am, but you are going to have to be locked in a small room with Karl. You will be kept there until you have collapsed onto the floor into a fetal position and can no longer remember your own name. Or you can take your drink, which I can prove to you is indeed “wet” by splashing it in your face, at which point you will also see that it is extra hot.
CUSTOMER: Well, what nerve you have! I’m going to speak to your manager!
BARISTA (pressing button that opens trap door beneath customer): Send my regards. Karl, would you take over bar? I’m going on my fifteen.
KARL: WOW! (To next customer) YOUR DRINK’S GOING TO TASTE GORGEOUS! ISN’T THAT GREAT?! WOW!
And that’s just the way it happens.
I worked at Starbucks for three years. Out of the various retail/service industry jobs I've had, it was easily the best.
I never kept a diary but I did keep a journal. The difference is the truly embarrassing stuff remains locked in my head. By 1996 I had progressed to a 33.6 modem and using Word to record my journal. Here's part of an entry from March 4, 1996, a slice of my life from 10 years ago. I was 31 and the weight of the world had only partly crushed my spirit. This particular snippet is from the time I spent working at Starbucks:
The best part about working there is getting paid. The worst part is pretty much everything else. In the future, I will insert witty anecdotes about working in this lovely little java emporium. For now, chew on this:
A fellow Starbucker, Karl Jeffrey, an alleged adult human male of 23 years, claims to be from South Wales, but his behavior suggests the eventual arrival of a mothership and his subsequent return to the home world. His vocabulary consists primarily of short phrases delivered like the loud report of machine gun fire: “ISN’T THAT GREAT?!” “THIS DRINK’S GOING TO TASTE GORGEOUS!” “WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” “WHAT DO YOU DO?!” “WOW!” Especially “WOW!” There are times (rare, true enough) when Karl will be standing in a silent, almost thoughtful pose. Then his lips part and out comes the “WOW!” with no rhyme or reason, as if it’s just his way of belching. I thought, in time, that I would grow accustomed to this. It hasn’t happened. Oh, I’ve built up a certain amount of resistance, much like one would to certain strains of the flu, but each day, the “WOWS!” begin their assault on my defenses, chipping them away as the hours go by. Sometimes I am finished my shift before the wall has been completely torn down, other times, the “WOWS!” march triumphantly over the crumbled brick and mortar and work their way straight into my head. It is something like having a 747 try to land on your brain. It, in a word, hurts.
Still, his puppy-like enthusiasm has a certain charm. You know, like those two headed fish they find swimming around Chernobyl.
As for the work itself, it consists of the usual drudgery one associates with a mass-produced product that follows a strict recipe with no room for variation. You are on bar. A drink is called. You call back the order. You make the drink, following the aforementioned strict recipe. You serve the drink, smile and acknowledge the customer. Then you do the same thing about a million times over, until your shift has ended. A transcript of what would be said between cashier, customer and barista (fancy pants name for those who make the drinks) might go as follows:
CUSTOMER: I’d like a tall, skinny cap.
CASHIER: WHAT’S YOUR NAME?!
CUSTOMER: What?
CASHIER: I said, WHAT’S YOUR NAME?!
CUSTOMER: Why?
CASHIER: OH, I JUST WANT TO KNOW WHAT YOUR NAME IS SO I CAN CALL YOU BY YOUR NAME NEXT TIME AND MAKE EVERYTHING SEEM FRIENDLIER, YOU KNOW!
Sorry, I can’t do this using Karl. I’ll continue with a composite character serving as the cashier.
CASHIER: You’d like a tall, non-fat cappuccino?
CUSTOMER (gritting teeth over being corrected for ordering her drink “cutesy” style): Yes.
CASHIER (to barista): Tall, non-fat cappuccino.
BARISTA: Tall, non-fat cappuccino.
CUSTOMER (approaches bar, watches barista as a vulture watches a man taking his last breath on the scorched sands of the desert): I don’t want too much foam.
BARISTA: Okay.
CUSTOMER: Can you make it extra hot?
BARISTA: Sure.
CUSTOMER: Oh, and can you double cup it? I have to walk back to the office.
BARISTA (mumbles something unintelligible, but probably affirmative): Erm.
CUSTOMER: Is that milk hot enough?
BARISTA (mumbles something unintelligible, but probably obscene): Frckn bth.
CUSTOMER: Oh, that’s too much foam. I wanted a wet cappuccino.
BARISTA: Excuse me, ma’am, but you are going to have to be locked in a small room with Karl. You will be kept there until you have collapsed onto the floor into a fetal position and can no longer remember your own name. Or you can take your drink, which I can prove to you is indeed “wet” by splashing it in your face, at which point you will also see that it is extra hot.
CUSTOMER: Well, what nerve you have! I’m going to speak to your manager!
BARISTA (pressing button that opens trap door beneath customer): Send my regards. Karl, would you take over bar? I’m going on my fifteen.
KARL: WOW! (To next customer) YOUR DRINK’S GOING TO TASTE GORGEOUS! ISN’T THAT GREAT?! WOW!
And that’s just the way it happens.
I worked at Starbucks for three years. Out of the various retail/service industry jobs I've had, it was easily the best.