Donuts and Coffee

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
the tediousness of working in a coffee and donuts shop

Submitted: August 17, 2010

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Submitted: August 17, 2010

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My head feels like its stuck to the screen of the electronic cash register. I don’t hear the radio station that the corporation funds play the same songs over and over again. I don’t hear the drip of the coffee pots next to me. I don’t hear the microwave oven hybrid monstrosity, churning out hash browns and angry random beeps. I don’t hear the bell over the door ring. And I don’t hear the old woman’s fake cough. But I hear the second one.
“Hi.” I stand up startled, and look at her blankly. She looks behind me, her beady eyes scanning the menu above my head. 
“I need…” she pauses and furrows her brow. I need… they don’t need anything. I need a better job. They need someone to degrade as the buy there evening coffee. I need to keep my last sliver of self-respect. And they need donuts. 
“Did you get all that?” She asks me sternly. I turn around towards the ice coffee machine trying to pretend I heard her order. I make a medium ice coffee with sugar and cream, cause that’s mostly what everybody her age purchases. 
“Extra cream.” She’s fumbling through her purse. I press the button again to produce more cream from a small rubber tube. It’s the future of milking cows. All of farming will be reduced to pressing buttons, and there you have it. milk and cream fresh. no hard work necessary. But then again, there’d be no more respect for farmers, cause any asshole can do that job. My job.
“Two eighty seven.” I put the drink down on the counter and she stops rummaging through coins.
“Oh…” That noise is the only noise I hear anymore. That first sound of disappointment, or anger, or just exhaustion from dealing with this fuck up wearing a visor and a pink shirt. “Do you think you can poor some out and put more cream in? I like it really light.” Really. I do as she says. What else can I do? Tell her we are all dealt shitty hands at times, and that ordering me around wont make her younger, or skinner, or a nicer person? She sighs as I hand her the drink again. “I said Lighter. Did you put cream in there?”
“Yes, I did”
“How much cream? Can you show me on the side of the cup?”
“No, it’s a preset on the machine, I just press a button.”
“Are you giving me attitude?”
“No miss. I’m just saying it’s preset.”
“Well, I’m not paying for it if that’s all I get.”
“you don’t have to buy it miss.” I tried to say it as politely as possible, but took an angry breath in. Her eyes grew wide, and she stormed (or waddled) out of the door saying something about my manager. I threw out the drink, then rested my head against the screen, once again trying to drown out the sounds.


© Copyright 2020 josephkaroack. All rights reserved.

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