May I Take Your Order?

All my life, I’ve given people secret nicknames. It’s not that I’m being an asshole or think less of them. Most of the time, I just think of people as characters in a movie, and I take creative liberties imagining their backstories. Like the nerd in high school algebra – Socks and Sandals – I always pictured him striking it rich in tech. Or the woman on the subway with the sweater sets – Tidy Joan – I imagine she works for a tyrant of a boss and is marching to a job she utterly hates. And the loudmouth guy talking on his cell phone – Sidewalk Talk – he’s covering up his failures in bed with extroverted bravado in everything else he does.

When I notice these curious people, it’s as if I can see what’s rattling around in their heads – like a thought bubble rising above them. Sometimes I doodle what they look like; other times, I write a few lines of their imagined bios in my little black notebook. Over the years, I’ve built up hundreds of these characters, and it’s the secret way I’ve coped with assholes during the pandemic.

Morning Shift

“Welcome to the Coffee Barn. May I take your order?” I say into the uncomfortable headset I have to wear to work the drive-thru register. I can hear garbled arguing and wait patiently for a response. Nothing.

“Welcome to the Coffee Barn. May I take your order?” I repeat, looking out the window at the sunrise.

“Hello? Hell-o?!” Oh, it’s Idiot Ted. He’s so self-absorbed that he can’t even figure out how to work a drive-thru. Every morning before he goes wherever he goes – probably an office to escape his screeching wife – he’s here loading up on caffeine.

“Welcome to the Coffee Barn. May I take your order?” I repeat, predicting the tirade that’s about to come my way.

“I’ve been waiting here forever – what’s taking so long? Whatever. I don’t care. Large, quad shot latte,” he barks at the speaker as someone shouts through his Bluetooth call.

“I told you I don’t give a shit about what you think,” Idiot Ted yells back at his caller, pulling his car forward before I can tell him the total. His sports car pulls up to my window, and he sticks an arm out to wave his credit card at me. I hear the “tap” chime and smile with relief as he goes to the next window, no longer my problem. I can still hear Idiot Ted fighting with his wife through the car speakers.

“Welcome to the Coffee Barn. May I take your order?”

“Hi, hello, yes. Could I, um, get, uh, a medium coffee. And um, maybe a muffin? Do you have a muffin?” says a soft-spoken, feminine voice.

“Sure thing. We’ve got carrot, blueberry, chocolate chip, and lemon poppyseed today,” I reply to Eyeshadow. This lady looks like she’s in her seventies, stuck in the make-up trend of blue eyeshadow that never suit her from the get-go. But she’s so meek and anxious; I can’t help but feel the impulse to hug and soothe her.

“Um, I guess, maybe I’ll get a…carr…blue…berry…?” she says, not even confident in her muffin order.

“Good choice, ma’am. That’ll be $5,” I say with a bit of extra cheer in my voice. Her rusted station wagon pulls up to my window, and she takes a pile of coins out of a Ziploc baggie and deposits them into my palm. “Thank you, next window, please,” I smile, pumping sanitizer as the cash drawer clangs shut.

Earlier That Morning

My alarm goes off while the sky is still dark. I work the opening shifts at Coffee Barn and try to think of the bonus that the chances of someone I know seeing me in a hairnet will be slimmer at that time. It takes a couple of buses and a train to work, and it’s a lonely commute that leaves me in my thoughts. I leave a covered plate of eggs for my mom so she can eat while I’m gone. Ever since she got sick and I lost my job, it’s been our routine. She shuffles to the kitchen and heats up what I leave, watching TV until I get home.

As I sit on the subway, I try and remember how busy the city used to be before the pandemic. In those days, I was in nursing school and waiting tables at night. It feels all the more bizarre that I had to drop out instead of becoming an essential worker who could help today. And with restaurants closing, I had to find work on another front line instead, pouring coffee and dealing with people who don’t make eye contact.

I don’t make nearly what I did before, but it’s just enough. Not enough for school, too, though.

The vibration of the subway car hums through me as I leaf through the pages of my notebook. ‘I wonder what happened to Tidy Joan…’ I think to myself, imagining if she got laid off, too. Or maybe she’s working from home and given up on the sweater sets.

I look at the notes I wrote about her, like a pretend journalist.

Tidy Joan. She’s gotten so used to being in the background; she’s like a piece of furniture. Her boss treats her like crap because she’ll never complain. In by nine and out by five. Yet she daydreams of setting his trash bin on fire or slashing his tires. She used to be excited about the future – her potential. She was going to be a badass, but now she demands nothing.

The train pulls into my station, and I tuck the elastic over the cover of my black notebook, slipping it into my bag. There’s no inspiration to create characters on this empty ghost train.

Later that Morning

I hear the obnoxiously loud music reverberate through the windows before it hits my microphone. The driver has no idea I can hear everything while he idles at the menu board.

“Welcome to the Coffee Barn. May I take your order?”

“Ya – large coffee, sweetener, and cream, a dozen donuts – whatever kind – and throw in some extra napkins, will ya? You guys never do,” says the man. It’s a new voice. Let’s see who this is.

“How many sweeteners and cream, sir?” I ask.

“What?”

“How many sweeteners and cream?” I repeat myself.

“Are you fucking dumb?” I hear him mumble under his breath. He yells at the speaker, “LARGE COFFEE, SWEETENER, AND CREAM.”

I close my eyes for a second, trying not to lose patience with the hundredth customer that’s treated me like garbage today.

“How. Many. Sweetener and cream. Do. You. Want?” I spell out staccato.

“Coffee with sweetener and cream – LARGE,” he yells again. “For fuck’s sake,” he huffs, and I hear him pull forward.

He rolls up to the window, his oversized SUV rattling the windows with his music.

“That’ll be $10.” I plaster a fake smile on my face, looking at his cracked, tobacco-stained fingers, handing me a bill.

His silent glare is meant to cut through me and make me feel like a tool. But it’s his coffee that’s going to taste like crap because he’s been such a dick. I’ve already typed “eight sweeteners, four creams” into the order by the time he pulls up to the next window. I’m going to nickname this one Chimney Fingers.

“Welcome to the Coffee Barn. May I take your order?” I ask the next driver, checking my watch and willing the day to end.

The Next Day

I’m back at my window, taking orders during the morning rush when I hear the familiar vibration of loud music. ‘Fuck, it’s Chimney Fingers,’ I think to myself as I feel the dread of hearing his voice and condescension. There’s a long line in the drive-thru, so I hope he doesn’t bother with the donuts this morning and just moves along.

“Welcome to the Coffee Barn. May I take your order?” I say mechanically through the headset.

“Large coffee, sweetener, and cream,” rumbles Chimney Fingers. I don’t even bother asking him how many add-ins; I know how he’s going to react.

“That’ll be…” I start saying. But before I can finish, he screeches up to the window and chucks something through it. The paper cup hits me on the shoulder, exploding across my upper body with hot, sticky coffee.

“That’s how you fucking make it, bitch,” he shouts at me, hitting the gas and peeling out. My coworkers all freeze, staring in shock.

We’ve all dealt with stressed-out, anxious people during this pandemic – people do weird shit and nerved out. But this – this – was too much.

I take off the headset, put it on the counter, and walk out the back door into the fresh morning air.

I don’t feel like crying; I feel like screaming. This wasn’t supposed to be my life. I’m not supposed to be here, and I’m not supposed to be here dealing with these kinds of assholes. I’m supposed to be working at a hospital or somewhere that lets me make more money than what I earn at the Barn. I feel so far off from where I thought I would be by now; it makes me feel stuck. Because, like it or not, I need this job. My mom needs me to have this job.

I sit on the ground and rest my back against the wall, trying to slow down my heart, so it doesn’t jump up my throat. The coffee stain isn’t even what bothers me. It’s the look in that ignorant jerk’s eyes.

I glance up as black luxury sedan stops nearby. A woman in her forties gets out and jogs up to me as the passenger door opens, and another woman gets out slowly. As the first lady nears, I recognize her as PTA Mom. She used to come through after dropping her kids off at school, but now she’s always alone – I imagine taking a break from homeschooling.

“Are you ok?! I saw what that piece of shit did – I got his license plate, and we already called the cops,” she says, abruptly stopping herself six feet away from me. She’s wearing a black face mask and looks like a Stepford Vigilante. Maybe I should rename her.

Her passenger reaches us and hands me a pack of tissues. It’s Eyeshadow. I guess PTA Mom is her daughter or relative. They stand near me, and somehow, I start talking, and I just don’t stop. I tell them about almost being a nurse, about my mom. I tell them why I can’t quit the Barn and how it’s gotten so much worse as the pandemic goes on. People are getting even more stressed, strange, and rude than before. But I can’t complain; my coworkers have dealt with worse this year.

They listen carefully, brows furrowed with disgust even though I can’t see their faces beneath their masks. I can just tell. Because who wouldn’t feel that way?

The sirens and lights illuminate the parking lot as a cop car pulls in.

The Next Morning

I’m back at the Coffee Barn, mixing drink orders and taking a break from the register. As I clock out for the day, the shift supervisor hands me a greeting card envelope. “Someone in the drive-thru handed this up for you.”

“Who?” I ask as I grab my coat and bag.

“One of the regulars – older lady with the muffin.”

“Eyeshadow?” I ask, amazed. “I mean, with the blue eyeshadow?”

“Yeah, that’s her,” she replies, walking out of the staff room.

I crack open the envelope and find a cheesy, glittery card that says, “Don’t Stop Believin’” on it. Tucked inside is a folded-up cheque for $20,000 with the memo “Tuition.”

And I realize that I’ve got to update Eyeshadow’s backstory.