Erin Yarwood is a journalism senior and opinion columnist for Mustang News. The opinions expressed in this article do not necessarily reflect those of Mustang Media Group.
It’s two o’clock in the afternoon on a random Tuesday of winter quarter. I speed walk from my 12 to 2 class near Dexter lawn to the University Union bathroom, where I swap my tank top for my collared, black uniform shirt. Despite washing it only two days ago, the smell of coffee ruminates from its fabric, permanently ingrained in the fibers. I sprayed it with perfume this morning, but it has worn off by now.
I debate whether to put my non-slip Doc Martens on or risk a comment from my manager about my white Reebok sneakers. I decide to play it safe and lace up my Docs. My bleeding heels will have to persevere. Finally, I put on my green apron and standard Starbucks name tag.
I clock in at 2:15 and prepare myself for a glorious shift sporting a tight ponytail. As soon as I get on the floor, I am informed we are down a person. Someone called out, and someone else got sent home for being out of uniform, without warning. Sounds like I’m in for a fun shift. I start my work at the hot bar: the espresso bar.
After making about 20 caramel macchiatos (which is really just a vanilla macchiato with a squeeze of caramel on top) the first spill of my shift occurs. A customer reaching for a Grubhub order has splashed a hot mocha across the counter. He did not order on Grubhub; he ordered in person. Yet this fact did not stop him from picking through the fifty online orders waiting on the counter in search of his own. Guess the clear plastic barrier is there for nothing.
I digress. I’m at the frozen bar now, which isn’t too busy at this hour. I roll my eyes at a Frozen Strawberry Lemonade Acai Refresher with no ice. I blend the ingredients together and pour a half-full venti cup. This is what they asked for.
Trouble hits. There is a middle school tour. I watch, terrified, as fifteen little 12-year-olds approach the counter, ordering one frappuccino after the next. All attempt to pay in cash, despite the large sign directly next to the register clearly stating that we do not accept it.
For a second, there is hope that they will not be able to pay, and the 15 frappuccinos coming our way will be left unordered. Alas, the one kid with a debit card ends up paying for all of them, and gladly takes their cash.
I sigh. It is frappy hour. The worst hour. I speed through the frappuccinos as fast as I can and take my break: a ten minute sit on the sofa chairs in the UU where I scroll my phone and chug a latte.
When I return 15 minutes later, the closers are here. The closers clocking in means my shift is almost over. It also means Baby Keem is on aux and someone in the back is doing dishes for an hour. Today it’s me. Thank God I brought my headphones today. I put them on and zone out on dishes for the next forty-five minutes.
I finish my glorious four hours with a variety of closing tasks, as we somehow manage to close up while also making several severely stressed college students venti cold brews with two extra shots at 6 p.m.. Good luck to them.
I clock out and wave goodnight to my amazing, entertaining coworkers and supervisors. They are the only reason I will return the next morning. Well…. them and the money.
