Let me preface this by saying I have been very lucky in finding work. The longest I have ever been unemployed since turning sixteen is just under four months (study abroad) and that was a rough four months (London, you’re fucking expensive).
I love working. I love the idea of having all of these mini experiences and random skill sets under my belt; looking after demonic children, washing dishes until my fingers prune, selling ad space, commuting, supervising overly hormonal band nerds, sweeping the floor of the Wakeman gymnasium, standing behind a podium in a dress and talking to European tourists, making and dressing Greek desserts, seating Chelsea Handler, selling pizza, lifting corn crates, growing and selling my own organic vegetables, learning about oysters, learning about coffee, learning about wine, learning about farming, learning, learning, learning. Not to mention getting to meet new people, all the time. I love it.
Back in September I made my annual Boston application run-around. I dropped by several places in my new neighborhood as well as some restaurants downtown. At some point between the end of camp and the start of the fall semester, I popped in at my neighborhood Starbucks. I had applied online earlier in the summer and figured I would check out the store first hand.
This particular Starbucks is the Starbucks that Starbucks wants every Starbucks to emulate (lol STARBUCKS). It’s a neighborhood store. A giant oak table fills the center of the store with college students, lawyers, architects, pre-pubescent teenagers gawking over their iPhones, crazy homeless people, blind dates, and new moms. All walks of life functioning in a communal space, and enjoying it. It’s adorable. A slew of regulars come in every morning at 5:00 right as the door is unlocked. A short plump hispanic woman with cherry colored hair orders a venti java chip frappuccino with extra caramel drizzle everyday at 2:30pm. Everyone ties their small dogs to the iron gate outside while they wait in line to order their coffee beverage.
I was hired and trained the first couple weeks of September. I was ecstatic at the idea of learning about coffee, how it’s farmed, harvested, washed, roasted, double roasted! I was excited to wear a silly green apron and make over-priced drinks for people I would soon get to know. The training was very hands on. Each training shift involved a coffee tasting, on bar training, as well as overviews of the Starbucks mantra. I caught on quickly to most things and enjoyed everyone I was working with. The regulars immediately gave me a ton of crap for being new, but it made me feel welcome. I found my home on the bar, probably because it really is an art. Not to brag but I can steam milk like a fucking champ. I found great satisfaction in handing off drinks that I had made, and made well.
Skipping ahead to this last week, I found myself being weird on the phone with my mother. If you don’t know, I talk to my mom all the time (she rawks) so this weird attitude I was giving her was new and unwelcome. I was coming off as annoyed anytime she made mention of Christmas. Maybe it was the fact that Christmas is shoved down your throat a la Starbucks. Red holiday cups came out less than twenty-four hours after Halloween. We started playing Christmas music on that same day. I had been on Christmas overload since then. But when I sat down to think about what was bothering me I remembered back to October when we discussed holiday availability. They essentially gave the partners an ultimatum; work two holidays or find a new job. Thinking nothing of it, I said I would work Christmas Eve and New Years.
I was scheduled to take the 6:34pm train home on Christmas Eve, pulling into the Bridgeport train station at 9:36pm only to return to Boston two days later. On Christmas Eve. And for what? For about eighty dollars, before taxes. Excuse my French but that’s RETARDED. The icing on the cake was visiting my brother at work on Friday. He was recently employed at a restaurant in the Financial District as a bar back. He made over two hundred dollars last weekend in one night.
The decision to quit came to me on a cold-as-fuck early morning walk to work. Why should anyone have to wake up at four in the morning? No matter how many showers I take, I still smell like flavored syrup. Why would I ever even consider working on Christmas Eve? What sort of weird guilt-trip am I experiencing that I am not able to stand up for myself when I am scheduled 32 hours instead of 20? Why am I letting creepy men creep on me? Why do I exert so much energy and passion for so little reward? Why should I remake you’re drink when you’re a huge cunt?!
And so I quit. I quit for me. I quit because time with my family is worth more than any money you could ever offer me.
Cheesy, yes. But so very true.
Fairfield, see you TOMORROW!
