weak nights: The Eye of the Siren

Starbucks Cups Kelsey McConnell

For two years, Kelsey McConnell worked at a popular coffee chain. This is her story.

Being Irish, I can make a night out of whiskey, potatoes and spinning yarns. With the village children gathered at my knee, I tell tales of my years working as a barista at [name redacted to protect The Man]-- Tales that leave them squealing with delight, until they sober up and ask if they will suffer a similar fate after they graduate from college. And then I laugh and say, "yes, yes you will. If you major in American Literature."

But after I impress upon them that the liberal arts breed poverty, I reassure them that working at a [redacted] can be an enriching experience in its own right. From coworkers' diverse walks of life, the desires and shameful secrets of paying customers and a bathroom accessible to the mentally ill homeless, I gained enough wisdom to fill a pyramid...

The Castaway: Free Coffee and Street Alchemy.

Vagrants tend not to offer many personal details, so we baristas developed our own names for many of the homeless regulars. The Castaway looked basically like his namesake: tall and very thin, long crazy hair, clothes in tatters. I would see him walking a wide loop around the Fairfax/Melrose area, eye fixed forward and otherwise expressionless.

Without fail, he dropped a fistful of dirt and grass into the coffee that we would give him sans charge. The only day that I ever heard him say anything other than "free sample" was the day he brought in his own cup and tilted it forward so I could see that there was a small flower in the bottom. It was pretty, really, its bright yellow petals and green stem against the white of the cup.

"Doooo you want coffee over that?" I asked, eager to provide truly excellent customer service. The Castaway looked at me with a horror that melted into a profound disgust and then he backed slowly away. "THAT is a flower!" He said.

"Oh, ok," I replied, handing him a coffee NOT poured over a flower. He looked disgusted all the way to the condiment bar, where he dumped a handful of twigs and the entire contents of our sugar canister into his coffee and he shot me a final dirty look before he walked out the door and started down the street, muttering to himself, "a flower. IT'S a flower."

Secrets and Revelations: OMG TMI.

At least twice a day, I made a small mocha for the manager of a nearby pharmacy. He was unattractive, overweight, had hair like moldy straw and was generally sweating a bit after running across the street that separated his store from the cafe. While I crafted his beverage, he'd lean against the counter and make small talk about vitamins and the weather. One day, he mixed it up and said, "So I've had this girlfriend for five years now. I love her, but I just can't leave my wife. I mean, what are you gonna do?" I don't know.

A good looking young man walks out of the bathroom, as a nicely dressed pair of middle aged gentleman walk in the front door. The young man obviously recognizes one of these men and begins to excitedly say, "Hello!" when the middle aged man puts his fingers to his lips, loudly clears his throat and puts his arm around the other middle aged man. The young man's face falls and he quickly exits the cafe.