​Two fat people walked in and ordered fat people things, and a skinny person ordered a skinny person thing directly after, and I felt like the universe punched me right in the dick and screamed at me that nothing happened by accident. That’s why I worked in this shitty coffee shop for so long, because I needed to know that. What a relief.

    ​I was relieved when a clearly gay lad came in with his grandfather and they just ordered regular coffee. That was easy enough to make. They ordered the coffees, talked about it, coffee that is, and seemed very comfortable with each other. I was intrigued by that, and found it to be rare and beautiful, the older man being so understanding and accepting that is.

    ​An older man and I drank, not together, but in general. He was alright, came in for a cup of tea a few times a week, he looked pretty fried. We talked about it, drinking that is, “it wasn’t a problem” he insisted, “you just have a few drinks a night, like everybody.” I agreed even though I knew most people didn’t do that, but it made me feel better, because I only drank like four or five days out of the week. Every night? Don’t be ridiculous.

   ​We drank while making coffee, from time to time. My co-workers and I, that is. I had one of my best friends hired and had become pretty good friends with one of the other guys from the shop throughout the years, and we all drank, so it worked. While the cat was away we put whiskey in our coffee from the bottle we had hidden in the bathroom. The cat was oblivious. We drank during some weekend mornings/afternoons to keep the hangovers at bay, from the damage done during the night prior. It kept us civil and jolly, but terribly uncoordinated. It was a good time though, especially since we were able to play our own tunes over the shop’s speakers.

​   And we play some good music, some groovin’, thumpin’ and bumpin’ funky ass shit. Some customers are like “yeaaaa,” and some are like “can you turn that down, just a little?” and we’re just gettin’ down, bobbin’ our heads having a good ole time, like “doesn’t this make you wanna drink some mothafuckin’ coffee?” And we sing and pretend we’re in Parliament, the funk group not the government thing. And women laugh, and hot girls ignore us, and guys are too cool and are thinking “fags,” and I’m like whatever Serious Jones, gay dudes are way more fun than you anyways. And right on cue a gay guy walks in and orders a mocha and signals for me to leave the change in the tip jar, and isn’t fun at all. “Have a good one, thanks” I mumble.

    ​I mumbled a lot of the time. I was miserable most of the times that I mumbled.

    ​The Mexicans in the next store over seemed so happy, always smiling and jovial, and making eight dollars an hour if that. Meanwhile, the Mercedes owners stared in disgust at the prices and calorie counts. They called me “boss” or “guy” or “buddy,” and they took themselves very seriously, which kept me in stitches. Middle aged women acted the age they were trying to look, unable to admit their time had come and gone. Tough guys looked at hats in herds in one of the other stores nearby, and the simple right leaning white guys just wanted a regular small hot coffee. “None of that fancy mocha-chino crap.” “Those are for fags and Mexicans,” I imagined they thought, with their short sleeve polo’s tucked into their cargo shorts. I wondered, what if these kinds of guys had a gay son, or their daughter fell for one of my Mexican friends from the next store over? Wouldn’t that be some shit?

    ​I wanted someone’s daughter to fall for me in the back corridors, where the garbage and stock rooms were for the various stores. I tried to get my ex to come with me to the stock room, before she was my ex that was. She thought about it, but ultimately said no. I always imagined one of the girls from one of the stores would mosey into the stock room while I was picking up supplies and give herself to me on a whim. It’s yet to happen, but I won’t give up hope.

    ​I went out with one of the girls from one of the stores once, and she drank a lot, and she threw up a lot, after we were making out for a minute. I held her hair back, and told one of her friends whom was still in the bar what had happened. We got her into my car, and she directed me to the girls house, the friend that is, and we got her into the house. She was embarrassed the next day, and swears she was drugged. She never got like that. She didn’t know what could have happened. I thought prior to that we would meet in the back corridor one day, but we kinda stopped talking after that, which was a real shame, because she was terribly attractive.

    ​The last girl I was with told me to lick her asshole after we had both already came, and I was appalled. Not that I haven’t done that in the past, I have and have enjoyed it, but I don’t want to be told to do it. I had already been in the region earlier with the necessary tool if that was going to happen. If I wanted to do that, I would’ve, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t know or like her like that. I didn’t want to know her at all after she said that, and I was sooo happy when she left later that morning.

    ​A mentally unstable lady told me to go fuck myself and wouldn’t leave my work place, because I didn’t notice her walk into the shop earlier that day. She thought I was deliberately avoiding her for some reason, and apparently everyone knew her in that mall and everyone always noticed her, so she told me to go fuck myself. I purposefully did not jerk off for two days just to spite her.

     ​Some jerk off spewed out some racial slur about Obama after I served him his coffee, assuming that I was an out of touch racist like him. “This is why I hate white people,” I tried to explain to the black girl I worked with. “But you’re white” she responded, unable to understand my point.

    ​A younger black fella asked what I had for a dollar, “water” I said. He asked if something that cost more than a dollar was a dollar, and I replied no, “come onnnnn” he groaned or asked as he slowly walked out, holding his book bag by the inside of his elbows, so that it hung very low. It looked quite uncomfortable. “Sorry?” I thought to myself.

    ​I enjoyed when customers apologized to me while I was sitting on the counter at work reading, or just sitting there, and I had to get up to go help them. They actually apologize for disturbing me and forcing me to carry out what I get paid to do, and I totally expect and think I deserve their apology at the time. How dare they?

    ​How dare you people come in at all, annoying me with your orders and demands, it’s like can’t you see that I hate you, you don’t care about that? You don’t care that the random coffee shop guy hates you? No? Of course you don’t, why would you? I’m only your temporary servant, your sub-human. Right, no, don’t worry I get it, I’m the asshole.



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