In addition, being a barista is a cool job! When I was in high school, I thought that the apex of cool was hanging out in a coffee shop. So logically then, the only thing cooler than hanging out in a coffee shop was working in a coffee shop.
My dream came true about two years ago.
This is SPoT Coffee, just about the coolest coffee place you could possibly hang out at in Buffalo for all of my high school years. When they hired me, it was the greatest achievement of my life for a brief, shining moment. Because right when I showed up for me first shift, my illusions of coffee shop grandeur were shattered in an explosion whose likes are rarely seen outside of James Bond films.
It took me about five minutes into my first shift to realize “working in a coffee” shop in no way meant “barista.” It actually meant “scapegoat for angry customers.” Seriously, why do people get so upset about coffee? You can’t make the venti -sized (that would be “large” for those of us who do not speak coffee shop) whipped cream covered caramel macchiato with chocolate swirls have any less than 1,000 calories. It’s just not possible. It’s not possible in the way that neon rainbow flying unicorns are not possible.
And for those of you who try to get below the 1,000 calories mark by substituting soy milk, Spenda, and no whip cream, are you really surprised it tastes terrible?!
After a few weeks of being abused by fierce dieters and other sorts, I was promoted from “scapegoat for angry customers” to “person who works in the kitchen.” Normally, you would call this being a “chef,” but because SPoT can’t make anything that can’t be made in a toaster or panini press, I feel that “person who works in the kitchen” is a more appropriate job title.
Sadly, I never achieved any higher rank than “person who works in the kitchen” at SPoT due to a series of unfortunate events, some of which were entirely my fault, and some of which were fate.
But it all started going downhill after prom.
In addition to getting a job at SPoT that summer, I had somehow managed by some miracle of God to get my driver’s license with about ten hours worth of driving experience. Everyone was surprised I had passed, but no one was as surprised as me. This unexpected development meant that I could drive myself and my date to prom. I was already out of high school- I would be damned if my parents drove me to prom at that point. The shame would most likely be lethal.
I did fine, until I was driving home from the after-prom bowling festivities and ran a red light. A cop appeared behind me, for the first, but certainly not last, time in my driving career.
The officer asked me if I knew why he had pulled me over. I said I was lost and didn’t know what I was doing. He nodded agreeably, and asked me where I had been.
“The bowling alley!” I replied brightly, in an attempt to pretend that yes, everything as perfectly fine and people were pulled over by cops everyday and ohmygodaremyparentsgoingtofindoutaboutthis?!
My effort to remain inconspicuous utterly failed because I had forgotten that I was wearing a gown with a skirt that could rival any of Marie Antoinette’s, and a corsage roughly the size of half of my forearm. Did people who dress like me hang out in bowling alleys? No. To make matters worse, neither my date, nor the sleeping freshman girl in the backseat, were dressed in formal wear. Did I look crazy? Yes. Did I look like I had just stolen younger children from the lobby of a hotel to sell into slavery? Yes.
But luckily, the cop sent me on my way, with a warning that I should probably try not to run anymore red lights.
Though I had escaped unscathed, my heart pounded like a gazelle’s trying to outrun a cheetah. My hands were cold and clammy. I gripped the steering wheel like it was my only anchor to God’s green earth and stared determinably at the road, utterly convinced that I was being followed by police forces everywhere.
It was only after I dropped my friend and my date off that I realized I was locked out of my house, and that I had to work at SPoT in approximately five hours.
I stared up at the silent windows of my house, in my updoed , three inch heeled splendor. Using the ladder to break into my bedroom was out of the question in this outfit. I briefly contemplated taking off my dress and heels and just doing it in my underwear, then thought of how I would look if the neighbours noticed and called the police on me, and realized that it was a terrible idea.
The easiest option was obviously to call my parents or brother and have them let me in. But I felt as thought this was my punishment for going to prom as a college student, and for being a horrible driver. My own shame locked my out of the house, so I went to the only person who would not judge me for my sins.
I drove down to my best friend’s house.
I got out of car, and crept towards the light streaming from the window of her bedroom.
“Jess,” I whispered, clutching at the frame with my manicured fingers and trying to topple from the stairs into the mud below. “JESS!”
There was silence from within, the sort of horrified silence that can only mean a serial killer is coming to kill you and make a suit out of your skin.
“Fiona?!”
“I’m locked out of my house,” I whispered mournfully. “I have to be at work in five hours.”
“Come inside!”
She let me in through the side door, and I met her boyfriend for the first time.
Now, imagine for a second that this is the first time you’ve ever been to your girlfriend’s house, much less met her best friend. Imagine it’s about two in the morning, and someone has just crawled up to her window and asked to be let inside, ruining your post-coital bliss for good. Imagine it’s a girl totally decked out in prom wear, weeping streams of mascara down her face (it was raining). Is this how you want to be remember by someone?!
Jess was surprisingly understanding. By “surprisingly understanding,” I mean she was laughing so hard she almost woke up everyone else in the house. She wanted in on the shenanigans. And that meant I had a place to sleep for four hours.
But first, we drove up to my house and taped a note outside my parents’ kitchen window that said something like “if you want to know where Fiona is, call Jess.” I think this note caused more panic that reassurance.
I slept for about three hours before I had to go work at SPoT. I had to borrow Jess’ clothes for my shift. If I had managed to look like an insane, escaped member of a black bridal party all night, it was nothing compared to how I looked that morning.
I wore one of those polyester dresses three sizes too big, converse sneakers at least three sizes too big, a sweater than dropped to my knees, and a scarf around my head. To top things off, I was still wearing all the far-too-fancy lingerie things ladies need to wear for complicated dresses underneath the entire ensemble, because they were the only undergarments I had left.
I was destined for a day of ridicule and horrible chafing in unspeakable places.
My managers were less than pleased with my appearance. After all, I looked like someone’s homeless, pot growing grandma who make a little extra cash turning tricks in the night. Not the sort of person you want inside any building that happens to be yours, much less making food for all your customers.
My parents came to find me later than morning. I shuffled out to great them, careful not to step out of my huge shoes or drool.
“Why didn’t you call?” My mother asked, looking sad that her daughter had fallen so low.
“You would’ve been mad at me,” I countered.
She sighed. “Oh, Fiona. If you were going to spend the night in a hotel room with your boyfriend, you should’ve just said something.”
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