On Saturdays, Caribou was always the busiest store in Southdale. Every truly sophisticated Edina shopper needed a designer latte to sip whilst perusing through their beloved department stores. Naturally, the place was abuzz behind the counter. Steel on steel chimed and clanked as milk steamed and coffee brewed into huge metal carafes. Laughs sounded through the open kiosk and into the mall as eccentric Baristas attempted to create a lively workplace.
Then, suddenly and as if by instinct, every twenty-something worker-bee grew silent and looked to the floor. Patrick had arrived.
"Two large double-moosed iced lattes, no ice in the drink, ice to the side." And the order was up. He didn't need to say it; didn't need to add his pretentious stress on the second syllable of latte. They knew.
In her corporate-standardized polo shirt and ponytail, Sarah watched nervously as rich brown espresso poured down into little steel pitchers. They always seemed to take ages longer than necessary. Often, the shots were what slowed her down; what kept the suburbanite customers anxious to get back to their endless shopping; what made them judgemental of her character. Fuck! They don't get it. I can't make this many drinks with two machines, she often thought to herself, wondering how it could be that one of their three glorious machines was perpetually broken. The order screen flashed bright green as Sarah attempted to speed up Caribou's sub-par, barely-functioning "super-automatic!" espresso-creators through telekinesis. This was not an artful career. To give this job the title of "Barista", Sarah thought to herself as she grew more and more impatient with each of the machines, was, by far, an unjustifiable glorification. Twelve shots - push the button six times. Pour milk. Espresso. Cap drink. This was a wage-slave's life.
"Make sure to add the milk first. I don't want a melted cup." Patrick snapped with a tone of authority.
"Mhm!" Sarah replied, forcing a smile as she turned to stare at the middle-aged regular. Even with all the required smiles, she knew he would never forgive her for her first shot at those damned lattes over a year ago.
Long ago, Sarah dreamed of a life far more successful than this. Scholar. Artist. English major. Ivy Leagues. Now, at 22, she was struggling to finish her generals in community college without help or sympathy from loved ones.
Most days, she made her job mindless and shut herself off from the terrible corporate-ness of the job. She arrived, tied on her apron, punched in and started timing the shots. She had become super-automatic herself. She did what she was programmed to do, went home, abandoned study, drank herself to sleep and started the cycle over once more in the morning. At this point, Sarah no longer cared about the pursuit of happiness. Now, those sluggish espresso shots seemed to stand in her way more than anything else.
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Oh boy. Sometimes our suffering serves some greater purpose, in this case to make for a vivid entry. Loved this part: "Steel on steel chimed and clanked as milk steamed and coffee brewed into huge metal carafes. Laughs sounded through the open kiosk and into the mall as eccentric Baristas attempted to create a lively workplace." Presenting a character's work life is one important component of fiction. Well done.
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