Frappuccinos can be frustrating
In which we meet the manager.
I could feel it pulsing between my eyes, the slow, mounting pain of a migraine. My manager was in the coffee shop, her presence slowing everything down as we took meticulous time preparing Americanos that would normally take us 60 seconds.
Her shrewd look reminded me of a blackbird perched on a scarecrow, as if watching the corn would make it grow any faster before her beak completely shredded it. Mindy’s straight charcoal hair only made the image more pronounced in my head, and to keep me from going completely insane I pictured her in overalls and a straw hat instead of midnight wings and beady eyes.
Andre didn’t mind. Typical. He was relaxed enough when he came in; an earthquake couldn’t jostle him out of his easy tranquility. I knew it was herb-induced, so I stressed out enough for the both of us.
Three days had passed since I received a story from my editor. That’s what makes my manager’s appearance even worse: the idea that I might actually be stuck here for an extended period of time.
It’s not like I hadn’t been through a drought before. Once my inbox went empty for five days before I had a solid assignment. But that was in the beginning. I had been doing this long enough to count on the daily email alerting me to stories that were up for grabs.
“Spots! Too many spots on the counter,” Mindy cried, surprising me enough to spill espresso all over the machine.
Damnit. Two more hours. I can do this.
I picked up a cloth and made the counter sparkle. I smiled at her with feigned resignation as the pounding in my head reached an almost unbearable level.
Mindy is the manager no one wants to have. I’m not sure what it is about coffee, but she acts like running this place is akin to managing the White House. I think she uses too much of her own product. There is such a thing as being too caffinated. She has a few others stores she shares time between, and ours is closest to her ex-husband, so she tries to avoid it. Much to my benefit, of course.
I really shouldn’t be that hard on her. Being a single mother to two under four and waking up with the sun to manage unruly baristas can’t be what her life plan amounted to. But really, did she have to be such a bitch?
My shift ended and I snuck out quickly, avoiding any contact. I immediately reached for my phone, knowing I was already behind this morning since a manager’s presence prohibited smartphone use.
I heaved a sigh of relief. Three emails from my editor. Three stories I could pick up and turn over in the next 12 hours. I read the descriptions and my heart fell. One was about a college student that had committed suicide; it was a follow up to a feature I did earlier in the year about stress and mental health problems going undetected or ignored for too long.
Grabbing my purse, I ran out the door. A voice was bubbling up inside me. The voice of a young girl who silenced her own.
Time to give it back.
