prospects of bonding

At sbux:

I've been invited to attend an informal (which translates to swearing and gossiping aplenty) get together with a select group of co-workers (which means everyone but the new assistant manager and those of us who have better things to do on a Wednesday night at 6pm). Even though recently I've had thoughts about transferring to a location closer to home (for many varied practical reasons), I am seriously considering the proposition, which was whispered to me in the back room so that the assistant manager would not hear, which I then repeated audibly and enthusiastically (not knowing, of course, that no one likes the new assistant manager).

I like the new assistant manager. Part of the reason that I like him is the reason why everyone else does not. He is called Mr. Starbucks behind his back because he knows the rule and reason and manual phrasing for everything and he not only spouts it, lives it, breathes it, he also enforces said rules and regulations. For nearly everything.

Somehow, in the lulling drone of the satellite radio, the lack of customers and during the nightly cleaning, we got into the conversation of comics, comic books, and my favorites (Black Hole and Metabarons). I was enthused, he surprised. "Oh," he said. "Well, I guess we have more in common than I first thought."

Yes, my dears, I had been written off as someone that other people do not have much in common with as happens frequently in public venues without the exchange of words. I was offended. But I pressed on about the comics.

He also happens to be taller than me.

Last night, as he drove me home (to appease me for keeping me late at work) my boyfriend called in his drunken stupor to report that he was lost. It was nearing one in the morning. We were heading west on Fullerton and before I could even think of it, my coworker, this assistant manager guy wanted to drive and go get him. I was all for letting Eric learn his lesson and find his own way home. As we tried to figure where exactly he was, we asked, "What direction are you heading?"

The answer, for sure, must be recorded, not just for its value as a humorous anecdote, but as a charming instance of just what I go through as a girlfriend.

"Forward?"

We managed to find him, we were driven home, and all was well.

As I waited on a customer, a familiar face entered my peripheral view. One of my old customers from Siena was waiting in line to be waited on by me. I was overjoyed to see him. No one I worked with was impressed. Neither were any of the other impatient customers. He and I for that one moment were the only two people in the entire world, sharing not just space, but stealing, violating, impeding on the time and patience of other people. There was a pause to take in the person I'd become, complete with logos. For the two minutes he was there, I was myself, my self as I have not been for many months, the girl whose voice is too loud and clumsy, who says too many words at once, who finds life sentimental and meaningful, especially when there is nothing there to clench and fondle,

Imagine the crush I felt when he turned away and I had to stand rigid again in my apron and hat, wearing all black, like a cardboard cut-out, a picture perfect, up to code, uniformed employee. It brought on a deafening moroseness that has been building inside of me.

When one of your extremities is pained, the blood pulses with difficulty through it, as if it were an added appendage that needs taking care of, a new piece to supply, and it quivers and trembles with pain. Sometimes, during this pain, when I close my eyes the afterimages of the day twitch at my eyelids and the act of being personable, human, real is so damned unappealing.

Probably the thing that I am most fretful about is the dry hands. I do not like to shake people's hands when mine are dry. I carry lotion with me everywhere, I suffer without it at work, where it seals microbacteria along the pores of my skin and emits a perfume that interferes with the aroma of coffee. There is a lot of washing of things. Everything must be washed at least once daily and it usually occurs in the evening shift, my shift of choice. My hands are in water constantly, or being washed incessantly, for the idea of working in a hospital and not frequently washing my hands seems wrong somehow.

At Siena, nothing was wasted. Nothing. Nothing was prematurely thrown away and things were not tossed even when they were moldy and greening. Waste not, want not. However, at sbux, in the pursuit of freshness, there is an abundance of throwing away, pouring out, and dumping in obscene amounts. Shelf life dictates and is followed. I try to do my best to rescue the unsold sandwiches, the pastries deemed damaged or small in number (there must be at least three of each pastry in the pastry case at all times, otherwise, it is not acceptable) and take them home where I eventually end up throwing them away, for no one at my apartment has a taste for sbux pastries or expired sandwiches, and I can only eat so many of these things myself.

Often I ask, "What should I do with this?" And generally, I can count on hearing, "Toss it."

The tip rate at my location fluctuates between $1.11 and $1.27 an hour. I generally work an eight hour shift. That is fucking paltry and sad. Previously, I could count on making at least twenty dollars during a six hour shift at Siena. I could collect the contents of the tip jar and do with them what I willed. Not so anymore. They go into a pool where they are doled out equally for each worker. Seeing red? I was.

All in all, many wonder, how's it going for her at the new job? It's aint bad, but it aint great, as my roommate Greg would say.

Oww, I think the tuna veggie mixer that expired two days ago is doing a number on my stomach.