Hannah is sour. Her 5'3" frame is compact with a low center of gravity. She forces the “Employees Only” door open, throws on her burnt orange uniform polo, and punches her name into the shift reader. She doesn’t say hi.

“You gonna get in my way today?” It’s always to the point with her. No time wasted. I laugh awkwardly, maybe if I play it off she’ll ignore me. “I’ll take that as a no. Am I gonna have to show you how to work the coffee line again?”

The coffee line at Dunkin (or DunDon) is a work of assembly line efficiency. You start with an unassuming styrafoam cup, the chalice of brownish black gold. Once a customer places an order, you take the cup to the cream, sugar, and flavoring dispensers. Each of these machines is plated in stainless steel, with colorful buttons on the front, allowing you to put precisely portioned amounts of whatever additives the customer wants. For example, if a customer orders a “large hazelnut coffee regular,” I take a large cup, hit the “large” button on the cream and sugar dispensers (giving three creams and three sugars), hit the “hazelnut” button on the flavor dispenser. Then I pour the “fresh-brewed every 15 minutes” coffee in the cup, throw a lid on, and give it to the person working the register. I’m clearly an expert. I do not need another tutorial on the coffee line.

“I think I got it. Thanks though.” That wasn’t the right thing to say to Hannah. I see her get that pissed off look that teachers get when they find out they have “that student” for another class. Dunkin Donuts me has a lot to learn about tact and working with sharp personalities.

It is 5:30am and the rush is about to begin.