| (Dr. Barista or How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Keep Starfuckin’ – Part 3)
Star*ucks @ Orenco Station
Hillsboro, OR 2002
It was hard not to laugh. At first I thought it was his nebbish little voice. But really, it was his whole thing, his total appearance that got me going. He was the first person I had ever known who had zero insight into themselves.
“Remember, all you have is 90 seconds,” The Assistant said, his voice causing repressed spasms in my diaphragm. “Company policy states that you have 90 seconds from the moment a customer steps inside. I know you went over this in training class, but it is very important. Do you have a problem with this?”
I shrugged.
“Good. Now we need to go over this.”
He pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and handed me a cream colored pamphlet. On the cover it read: Star*ucks Anti-Harassment Policy. And in quotes at the bottom: “We provide a safe, wonderful work environment and treat each other with love and respect.”
He flipped it open and studied it intently. “Let’s go over a few of these. I want to know if this is true or false. One, sexual harassment only occurs when physical contact is made?”
Again, I shrugged. “False?”
“Great. Remember, you don’t have to touch a woman’s breasts to fondle them. This is very important. You may say something as simple as, ‘That is a nice shirt you’re wearing’. And she could easily assume you were staring at her breasts. Understand?”
I nodded.
“Good. Let’s do one more,” He scanned the page, his finger finally resting near the bottom. “All right, number five. True or false? Kim receives a promotion and Doug gives her a congratulatory hug. Is this sexual harassment?”
“False?”
He cocked his head to one side. “Well, it depends. Let’s ask Mocha Man.”
His right hand appeared, the fingers clinched into a fist. He produced a black Sharpie, and drew on his fist a set of eyes, lips, nose, and bushy Afro. It was then Mocha Man came to life, slowly at first, the awakening a process of long, aching coughs. Its voice was scratchy, deep and wise.
“According to the pamphlet, if you make contact for more than five seconds, you come dangerously close to rape,” Mocha Man said. “However, if you keep an invisible barrier of 2.59 inches, you may hug for as long as you please. This is a gray area and I’d suggest consulting me before giving any hugs. Understand?”
I said that I did, but he didn’t believe me.
“I don’t think you do. Take it from me,” Mocha Man said in earnest. “I have experience in this matter. Come and see me if you’re thinking of giving someone a congratulatory hug. Now come on, we have lots more to see.”
The assistant began moving through the store very quickly, his hunched back and droopy shoulders giving no indication he was taller than he appeared. That was one of his problems, really. We only saw him how he saw himself. And now he was pointing at things yelling words that made no sense.
“Whole beans!” He said, as his hand slapped a cabinet. “Pastry case. Frap mix. Mop bucket. Cups and paper supplies. Mocha mix, toilet paper, and retail merchandise.” Then he began naming the girls behind the counter, my co-workers, each lovelier than the next. But their names didn’t sound like statements, more like questions.
Liza?
Vicky?
Michelle?
Lisa?
Jolene?
Sure, why not?
I smiled at all of them, just to say hello and to let them know I’d like to give each and every one a congratulatory hug. They all smiled back, with the exception of Jolene, who winked back at me, probably to let me know that very soon, I would get my chance.
“Let’s keep moving,” The Assistant shouted, a few paces ahead of me.
We whizzed past the front counter, where a group of professionally dressed women were clumped together, waiting for their drinks. The Assistant kind of hissed at them as we went by. Next, we rounded the corner into the seating area and took another sharp left into the bathrooms. He swung open the MEN’S door and took a gigantic breath, instructing me to do the same. Then we turned abruptly and took a huff of the WOMEN’S bathroom.
“Do you notice the difference?” He asked, breathing deeply again. “The MEN’S room was fresh, sterile, inviting. But here,” He swung his finger defiantly at the toilet. “Here, not so much. You must pay extra attention to the women’s bathroom because women are foul and dirty by nature. Understand?”
I said that I did, but again, he didn’t believe me.
“I don’t think you do. Listen,” He said. “Do we need to consult Mocha Man on this?”
“It’s not necessary.” I said, but it did no good.
Mocha Man crept up from some hidden base, his mouth gaping, astounded at my ignorance toward the female species. “You may not believe it. Lord knows I had problems with it myself,” Mocha Man said, smiling. “But, women have bowel movements just like men. And sometimes these bowel movements contrast with the beauty and sanctity of the female myth. This is a truth you’re going to have to live with. Remember, we are constantly at war with the female myth.”
Mocha Man was sheathed and the Assistant returned. “Now come on, I’ve saved the best for last.”
He slammed the bathroom door and darted back toward the front of the store. I tried to stay with him, but he was too fast for me. By the time I caught up, he was already standing in front of the dual espresso machines, smiling like a fiend, rubbing an oily cloth over its metallic hide.
Mocha Man jumped up suddenly. “Behold! The Automatico 26,000!”
Now, every store is essentially built around theses machines. It’s a fancy piece of hardware that costs more than I would make working five years for the 'Fucks. It was designed for looks, consistency, and above all, speed. The whole thing is automatic. No grinding, no pulling, no tamping, no steaming, nothing. Just push a button, and the thing pisses espresso into a cup, shits the grounds out inside its self, and steams milk to the perfect temperature. I, hell, all of us, we were just its keeper, its nanny, and the goddamned machine knew it. One day, I’m sure the machine will run itself.
Mocha Man was explaining all of this to me, but I was having a terrible time focusing. The professional women surrounded the machines, all of them leaning over the counter, their cleavage exposed and impossible to miss. I thought I was hallucinating, the visions of breasts and nipples and masturbation taking hold…
The room folded in on itself and sounds of the shop melted into a single breath, the breath deepening and repeating and growing and needing. I smelled perfume and soiled panties and coffee grounds all mixed together…
I saw women squeezing their breasts. I saw women pinching their own nipples. I heard coos and moans and the gravelly voice of Mocha Man…
Then the espresso machines no longer looked metallic and cold. They appeared as a set of gargantuan mammary glands, the queen breasts in a field of soft flesh, begging, sweating, steaming, preparing for the action. And in that moment I knew I had found the perfect place to work. Not because I was surrounded by gorgeous women in low cut blouses, but because I looked over at the assistant, and he saw it too.
Mocha Man let loose a feral scream and dissipated before my eyes. The Assistant backed away slowly from the machines, his eyes bulged and his apron distended at the crotch. Blindly, he stumbled over a box of grande cups and toppled head first into the sink. Laughter replaced the sounds of intercourse inside my head. It was coming from the women waiting for their drinks, from the women I worked with, and myself.
The Assistant pulled himself from the sink, his head soaked with the stale water of dirty dishes. He retreated to the back office, too embarrassed to turn and look at us. I felt kind of sorry for the guy. Little did I know, my sympathy would be my own undoing… |
