Morning Shift Barista
The traffic around the strip mall is dead. Streetlights on and the sun still an hour from rising. He drives with his faded navy puffer on to help fight off the freezing temperatures outside. He sits blankly in the turn lane waiting for the right green arrow to flash into the Starbucks parking lot. The 5am shift stings, but he doesn’t have much choice. He needs the job and it was the only shift available for new hires.
The small strip mall has two stores and the other is for used clothes. Its windows covered in depressing casual wear that look cheap as hell. The old brownish red Starbucks building next- door doesn’t look like it was originally built to house a coffee shop and the paint around the entrance is chipping everywhere. The front sidewalk has strange dark stains, and the shrubbery and small trees lining the building always contain cigarette butts.
Every space is empty this early in the morning. His grey used Hyundai Accent hatchback, more a toy than a car, is the kind you have at thirty-six because life didn’t work out the way you planned. The paint on the front hood is peeling so badly it’s turning the car black. Pedestrians walking by laugh at it.
He parks and sits with the ignition on. Heat on full provides one last bit of emotional support. His mind pendulums from what he needs to do once inside to looking forward to it all being over. He checks his look in the rearview mirror. Dark circles around the eyes, short messy hair, a double-chin, and spots of gray invading his thick brown beard that his boss tells him is too scruffy.
“It’s time” he sighs quietly, then opens the car door. The wind is so cold it kicks him back causing him to forget to grab his green apron and name tag. He goes back to the car to get them and for a moment thinks how good it would feel to just drive away. A child’s fantasy.
Lights on with the Starbucks Jazz Mix playing too loud in the background. His store lead is already in. The tile floors shine from just being mopped and all the tables and chairs are neatly in their place. She performs her job as you would expect from someone who has made being a barista their long-term career. Early forties, she rarely smiles, and is constantly giving him shit about not putting the food in the proper location in the glass case up front. “Coffee cake shouldalways be on the second row next to the banana bread.” She explains in soul-destroying detail.
This morning, she asks him to unpack the sandwiches.
“Put ‘em here,” she says pointing impatiently to the top right part of the display. “Ok, I’ll take care of it in a minute.”
He walks to the backroom passing the main employee station that has various info tacked to the large brown board. One sticky note mentions their location is the busiest in the region. Another small flyer about college tuition support at a university he has never heard of. “That won’t be me,” he says under his breath. He then sits in the back windowless room, quiet.
The first customers start in as early as 5:15am. Flourtown is blue collar in the morning, upper middle class in the afternoon, and people who drink Frappuccinos in the evening. This means the first hour is a shelling of large coffees taken black. Mostly men. Little conversation, not much eye contact. In and out so fast he struggles to remember them even though they come in each day.
Manning the register for hours is like getting punched in the fast in rapid succession. Each order served with its own pretentious size designation. “Tall two-pump Mocha, triple-shot, almond milk, hold the whip cream.” “Venti, black tea lemonade, 6 pumps, shaken.” “Grande, Caramel Macchiato, extra drizzle.”
“What’s the difference between the sizes?” a customer asks.
“You’re mostly just paying for the extra milk,” he replies resignedly. “The bag says the beans are processed using the Dry Method. Is that better?” The next customer curious as she puts the Ethiopia Whole Bean pack on the counter. “Well, the beans are basically dried differently, so sometimes weird flavors may stick to the beans.” Unfazed, she nods and pays for it anyway. As the day drags on, he’s moved to the drink station, a hostile espresso-soaked environment where even seasoned baristas struggle to survive. “I’m on it.”
No time for conversation between coworkers.
Each drink a small token of hope. “Is the temp right?” “Is the steamed milk frothy enough?” “Was that one pull or two?” He’s so good now he can tell just by the weight of the cup if a drink is done properly.
“Espresso con panna, doppio,” says a middle-aged woman with long brunette hair to him as she receives her usual, awkwardly juggling her drink in one hand and a red leather purse in the other. “On your way to Milan again I guess,” he says with a laugh. They smile at each other as though they have both discovered a shared secret. Over her shoulder he sees the sun’s long orange and yellow rays flickering warmly through the store windows. He closes his eyes and for a moment feels like he’s somewhere else.
By 10am his shift is done. He checks his phone. A missed call from one of the collection agencies and a text from his other boss at a local crab shack asking if he can pull a double over the weekend. He walks to his car, pulling off his apron, the cold wind hitting his face helps provide a needed brain reset for the rest of the day ahead. He smells like coffee beans everywhere.
He thinks about grabbing something to eat on the way home. They might still be serving breakfast at the Burger King across the street and their hash browns aren’t too heavy for someone fighting a pot belly. He heads home the back way instead. The rest of the day will go by too fast anyway and tomorrow is another 5am shift.