Behind the counter at a Starbucks I like to call the “Icebox” is the cutest barrista in the world.
Adorable. Under 5 feet tall, little pixie of a girl with her hair in a ponytail and cute, not hot, face.
But that will not keep her from being shit on by The Man.
The Man, at least for the purpose of this blog is a white haired old dude in a white polo shirt and pressed cargo shorts.
Polo shirts are what business men wear during their off hours. Its like a suit for them, classifies and identifies them to their peers.
Its weird, but I read an article in Forbes that laid it all out.
The Man, is retired, but runs a tight ship.
From the moment he walked in, you could tell he was not pleased with all of us.
The brow furrowed, no doubt many a junior executive withered before the scorn of that scowl.
The right toe tapped impatiently.
The sigh was audible.
The case on the iPhone 5s is a bit of a status symbol. Its one of those cases that could survive a space shuttle crash, but they will pay for a new phone if there is a nuclear accident and it destroys his phone.
The entire attitude/ensemble/presentation is one that tells you, in no uncertain terms:
I AM THE MAN, AND DON’T FORGET IT, SHITHEAD!
His order was a high level workshop in concise ordering. Eye contact, voice of a proper timber and volume medium, with a crisp delivery.
Paid, and stepped immediately to the right to await proper assembly of his java beverage.
(Technically, his ordering of a caramel macchiato flies in the face of his post cold war masculine stance. But whatever.)
Enter the aforementioned, cut as a button, barrista.
She finished his macchiato in pretty much record time.
But she forgot his whipped cream.
The combination of whining/macho posturing that followed, was embarrassing to witness.
And then he got personal.
“Do you even know what your job is? Have you been TRAINED?”
Training is very important to The Man.
The actual amount of time it takes to apply whipped cream to The Man’s hot sunday can be measured in seconds, and not to many of them.
But that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to milk it out like a pissy little drama queen.
When he finally does stomp his chunky aging ass out the door, two guys that were sitting at a nearby table burst out laughing. One of the guys did a pretty weak mime impression of him. It was topical, but weak.
The barrista never paused, just continued making her wildly overpriced java creations for slightly over minimum wage and questionably attainable tuition reimbursement.
Because the line of paper cups with instructions written on them never seems to end.
Kind of a commercialism perpetual motion engine.
The only unanswered question from this whole scenario is whether or not the barrista indeed spat into The Man’s effeminate drink. (And before we go down that whole road of denial, yes they do. I know I would and I don’t think I am alone. I would probably do it a little more often and for lesser offenses that just being rude.)
Let that be the moral of the story.
Be nice, you never know when your attitude might cause a little extra shot of DNA into your beverage.
(If you didn’t catch that, here it is, plain and simple. “Don’t be an ass, people can and WILL spit in your food.” If you don’t think that exists, you are either naive or dumb, which is the same thing for practical purposes.)