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It’s no secret that I’m a pushover. Drivers know that it’s fine to cut me off in traffic and my coworkers can usually count on pressuring me into covering their crappy shifts. If you catch me off guard, I can’t say no. However, last week I said no to Starbucks. I said no, and I meant it. No I will not work under these conditions I said. I quit, just like everyone said I wouldn’t. I followed my heart and my heart would rather be poor than make one more extra-hot nonfat latte for those bastards. Sure, I wasn’t exactly assertive or even truthful as I gave my two weeks notice. I am leaving as a coward, hiding behind a fake excuse about leaving town, and hoping that no one is too mad at me. But quitting is quitting is no more freaking frappucinos. Among the things I’ll miss after I turn in my apron are:
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| To understand more about my relationship with Sugar, you first have to understand more about why I hate my job. Because it’s the busiest Starbucks in the entire city of San Francisco, it is standard to ask for the customer’s name when taking their drink order. This prevents say, Mikala from accidentally taking Nancy’s mocha. Of course, we undoubtedly get the name wrong, |
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have no idea how to say/spell it, or it is somehow lost when yelled from the register to the person preparing drinks. Regardless of the inefficiency of the practice, we continue to play the name game. Some customers think it is funny to be asked personal questions like “Name?” and they hesitate or just stand there looking confused and nervous. Others find it funny to ask for my name before they volunteer theirs. A very special few think it’s clever to give a fake “joke” name, so that when I call out the order I am forced to yell, “I need a grande caramel latte for…uh… Pimp Daddy!”
This is how I met Sugar. In a store that serves mostly tourists and conventioneers, we don’t get that many familiar faces, regulars if you will. Sugar, however, visits us at least once or twice a day. She’s about 70 years old, and while she lives in San Francisco, she is most obviously a Southern belle at heart. She saches her pretty little self right up to the counter and says something along the lines of “My my my! What a beautiful day in San Francisco, don’t you think, darlin’?” Her genteel manner of speech combined with a slight accent equate in my mind to carrying a pink parasol and wearing a ruffled hoop skirt. Initially, much as with Pimp Daddy, I was not keen about calling her name so that people could hear. I just wondered why this crazy old lady couldn’t give me a real name. Not only is it “Sugar”, but as she says it Shuuuga’. I cannot possibly speak this way, replacing r’s in words with apostrophes. I compromised and began saying ‘sugar’ the only way I know how – all business, no drawl, and clearly enunciating all letters. But other than that, I was nice to Sugar, and she was always a pleasure. Recently, however, I became more than the girl at the coffee shop. She came in during an unusually slow period of a few minutes and I was the only employee to be found. I had been told to stay away from the register area, no matter what, but always the rebel, I went for it as she approached the counter. I knew that if I didn’t ring her up, no one would, and I didn’t want to disappoint Sugar. Just as I began to charge her 3.50 for some crappy coffee, my coworker Rene caught me, and told me to get back to the bar, my designated work station. I was happy to do just that, but before I had the chance to leave, Sugar piped up, scolding Rene, “Hey! Now don’t you fuck with my little Sugar!” I was stunned. Her little Sugar? What a weird honor! Rene assured her that it was for my own good and that he knew what was best for me. “Just like a man,” she sighed and shook her head. I told her it was okay, and that I didn’t want to be at the register either. She accepted this and waited patiently as I proceeded to make her mocha frappucino. Not wanting to cross Sugar after her uncharacteristic little outburst, I politely asked if she wanted whipped cream on her drink. “Oh my yes! Sugar’s gotta have her sugar, now doesn’t she?” I shook my head. Yes, I suppose she does. She then proceeded to commend my distribution of whipped cream. “You always do it just right,” she cooed. “Not too much, not too little – just like you, my little sugar!” Ahh yes, just like me. I thanked her. I wondered about the new publicity effort for the nickname “Sugar,” but more I wondered how she chose me to be hers. Of course I know I’m better than everyone I work with, but I never imagined it was so evident to customers as I put whipped topping on their beverages. I beamed with pride. Though I will no longer be Sugar’s barista come July 31st, I think I will always be her little sugar. | |