Dear Tall, One Pump Cinnamon Dolce, No Room, Americano -
It's mid-afternoon rush at your local coffee shop. All of us baristas are rushing around looking frantic because God knows we're consistently understaffed, and on top of that - someone called off. I'm stressed out beyond recognition, calling out cappuccino after cappuccino because there's something very trendy about the foamy substances this month, and just when I think I've made it through the worst part of my day: you snap your fingers at me to get my attention, almost like I'm a dog. I'm clearly not. I'm very obviously a young blue-haired girl who is currently knees deep in coffee grounds and regret. You tell, not ask, me to get you a cup of water. I stare at you blankly for a moment, and you proceed to ask me, "Are you retarded, or just stupid?"
I'm entirely unsure as to why you think I'm the literal ground you walk on. Maybe you're the actual King of the World, and I'm horribly misinformed, but to me: you look like a married man out and about with your wife and kids on a Sunday stroll. Your children, aged probably 6 to 10, all thanked me for their hot chocolates, which I delicately put a smiley face in chocolate on, because your daughter asked, politely. Why does your 6-year-old have better manners than you? I work in the service industry, yeah. I get paid to make your coffee. I do not get paid to be treated like a slave.
Sir, I heard you call me a "blue-haired bimbo bitch" to your wife. Maybe you thought I didn't, or maybe you didn't care if I did. I wonder where in your life you decided that I was not the same as you, that we were not both humans, both trying to make a living, both trying to survive. You're probably the CEO of some big company, but that shouldn't make a difference. Because you and I will both be dust in the end. You tell me I don't deserve the pay raise I'm getting and proceed to demand that my coworker gives you your tip back from the jar: a whole five cents. You act like you've won some sort of battle I was unaware we were having, and sneer at me as you leave.
I hope your kids are proud that I cried in our break room for 15 minutes after you left. I hope your wife thinks your attitude is attractive because the rest of us aren't proud. The rest of us think that your soul is ugly. I hope that you're happy with who you are because it seems to me that you aren't. I hope that one day this comes back to bite you and that you finally realize:
You cannot demand a service while simultaneously degrading those that provide it for you.
Sincerely,
The Blue-Haired Barista Who ( Apparently ) Ruined Your Life
