Wednesday Was Your Last Day
After college I worked at a coffee shop.
It was charmingly understaffed with only one barista per shift which meant I didn’t have to split tips, but if some kid took a dump on the patio, it was my job to clean it up.
Every coffee shop has regulars.
You get to know and love them, if not by name then by their character: the gentleman in the cycling gear who brings his newspaper, the grumpy lady who likes her Americano in her own mug, the bright-eyed teenagers who will sit in the reading nook and take photos of each other for hours…
Some folks just always seem to be there and you can’t remember when they last ordered a drink.
He was one of those folks. In and out. Loafing around. Sometimes alone, sometimes with other regulars. Sometimes he stepped behind the counter to help himself to a cup of water, which felt like an intrusion. Sometimes he refused to leave when I was trying to close up the shop alone, which made my skin crawl.
One Wednesday night there was a rush of people with complicated orders. I messed up the calibration on the espresso grinder. I noticed the shots were pulling a little slow, but I kept working my way through the line.
Funny thing about coffee: you can hide a pair of bad shots in a frozen-blended somethin’-or-another because they’re mostly sugar and cornstarch. You might be able to hide a bad shot in a latte — especially if the customer is going to head straight to the counter, dump in three Splenda, and stir until the Rosetta melts away before tasting the drink. But, there are at least a few things on the menu where you really can’t get away with that nonsense –
“Double shot to-go.” He wiped his dirty hands on his white t-shirt where it clung to his gut and took some crumbled dollars from his jean pockets to leave on the counter.
I took his money and pulled a pair of shots. Inside the waxy paper cup the espresso looked thick and black with only the thinnest golden lace around the top. It smelled bitter. I served it to him anyway.
A few minutes later when I had two drinks in blenders behind me and a steam wand in a whirling pitcher of milk, he was belly-up to the counter again.
“There’s something wrong with this. It tastes funny.”
Just then the blenders stopped pulsing, the whirling milk calmed, the playlist stopped between songs, conversation lulled, and I interrupted an eerie silence when I sassed back:
“Well, you can either grow a pair of balls and drink it, or wait here and I’ll make you another one.”
A woman with cat-eyed readers raised her eyebrows and walked away with her soy chai. He, looking indignant, disappeared to the patio without an argument.
—
On Thursday I covered a shift for a friend. On Friday I was on my way to the shop to relieve the morning crew when my boss called.
“Just calling to let you know that Wednesday was your last day.”
“Okay.” Actually, I was there yesterday. But, “Okay.”
“We had a complaint about your customer service.”
My eyes welled up hot. My throat felt like it was full of cotton.
That was the first time I got fired, and in hindsight one of the best things that ever happened to me.
