Why has it become okay to berate and demean hourly workers?
They roast their own beans, not that it matters to me — I don’t drink coffee — but it does matter to the line of people standing in front of the counter. It’s Thursday, my morning writing day, and I’ve placed myself in the best seat in the coffee shop: an oversized, well-worn leather chair that has a view of the entire place.
A few other people sit at tables, headphones on and laptops open, but most customers order and wait for their to-go drinks. Sometimes, I catch snippets of polite conversation the barista makes with the regulars but mostly, the din of the espresso machine drowns out what’s being said.
Until she walks in.
I’ve seen a version of her a hundred times. She’s busy. So very busy. And she clutches her phone in her hand, eyes glancing at it every few seconds like she may miss something important in the thirty seconds it takes to order. She is sometimes blonde, sometimes brunette, sometimes male, but always, always loud.
The college-aged barista smiles and greets her. The woman nods in her very busy way and dives into her order. “I want a frappé with non-dairy milk and light ice.”
“Great. What’s your name?”
