Prior to moving back to Minnesota I was in Seattle for nearly five years where I worked at a coffee shop named Bus Stop Espresso that may have well just been a singles bar. Though the pairings that occurred there were far more successful than any that take place where the beer flows. My friend Bess (and former co-worker) talked about in one of her posts about how eight marriages have formed each involving one employee and one customer. My sister Sarah is in one of those marriages. I guess it is somewhat easy to form a relationship with one who you see every day who hands you your soft drug of choice. Another easy thing for customers to do is to treat the barista as though they are Lucy in front of her psychiatrist stand with the doctor is in sign posted at all times.
One morning, just after we opened at about 6am a guy came in who was nice enough and friendly enough and he ordered his drink and said goodbye and that was that. He headed out the door and just before leaving he turned around and walked back to the counter and says to me and the other girl manning the shop, “So, here’s the story:”
I was sucked in at that point ust because anyone who begins their sentences with that phrase deserves some sort of a medal for cheesiness.
He continued, “I met this girl and she has a boyfriend and I knew that going in and it didn’t bother me. We decided that it was just going to be a fling between us, and I was fine with that. Until this morning when I woke up at her place and he called to say good morning. They talked for a minute and when she got off the phone she said ‘I Love You’ and now I can’t get it out of my head I think I really like her. Any advice?”
Uh. Did that just happen? Did some slime ball just ask me for advice on how to be slimier? Naturally, sir, she must be the girl of your dreams if she is lying naked next to you and telling some other man that she loves him. Stick with it please.
Another time I was working and it was quite busy. A regular customer came up and was wearing a sticky name tag like the kind you would wear at meeting. One of the girls I was working with asked him where he was coming from and he stated without any embarrassment, “I threw my wife down the stairs and I decided it was time to get help.”
Once again, did that just happen?
I never saw the first of those two men again. Thankfully, because hearing his tales of trying to woo that woman would have depressed me. The other wife-beater I saw still every day. Though he was eventually left by that wife who was thrown down stairs. Smart woman.
Nobody says those types of things to me any longer now that I am a server. There’s only a hand full of regulars that come into the restaurant on a daily basis. I kind of miss familiar faces, but I am not so sure I miss disturbing stories force fed to me.