[Original - Story] Mooreeffoc Part 1: Prefaces - Never Say Yes

Mooreeffoc

Preface to the Useless Preface

Forgive these words - this book - born out of bitterness, fathered by frustration and feelings of futility and grown with disgruntlement.

Useless Preface Where I Rant

I considered googling 'proverbs for work life' - but after a long 8 hour shift at the Coffee Shop, I don't think I could lift a finger. The metaphorical research finger which drives every academic, but which gets exhausted after dealing with the coffee-drinking masses.

No.

That sounds a bit... racist, doesn't it?

But you know, exhaustion is the enemy of a politically correct mind. Broken down by reality, you tend to make those kinds of statements which end up with you sued as you give the driver who rear-ended you the third finger.

It's better just to type it down and give your coworkers aliases and blog about it.

Preferrably on a site your boss doesn't venture.

Never Say "Yes"

I said yes (why, I don't know) to a fellow co-workers plea. Yes, I have that weakness. I can't really say no to something like that - when they want to switch a shift. 11 to 7 instead of 3:30 to Close (12 o'clock pm). For once, I could have an "early" night on Satureday... and perhaps be a bit more marginally awake than normal during my Sunday School class....

So I said yes.

What a mistake.

One should always listen to rhythms of the body. Like the sea which pounds on the shore and then draws back in the tide, as the salmon force their way upriver... as the monarch flitters its way to the southern, warmer lands, evading Canada's winter...

Even in all this, our bodies, too, have their seasons: yearly, monthly, weekly - and daily.

My body was trying to tell me it was naptime. My mind was telling me to create a decaf, XLG latte with cocoa on top. Eyes heavy, movements listless, I managed yet another specialty drink - and carried it out deftly to the waiting customer.

"Will that be all?" I asked with a gritted, toothy smile.
"Oh yes, thank you," said the lucky bastards.
"Sorry," the lady said. "Do you mind getting our table wiped down."

I cast a peevish glance on the said table. It was crumbly, to be sure.

"I know..." she smiled apologetically. "Why we pick the most dirtiest table here..."
Her husband (???) flapped the newspaper with a rueful shrug.

My smile got toothier.

"Sure," I replied, chanting the "The Customer Is Always Right" mantra in my head. "I'll see what I can do."

The table was furthest from my mind. Three regular cappuccinos with cocoa were still up to be made....

Stephanie would have to do it.

I turned on my heel, mind made up, avoided any questioning (or needy) glances from the customers - and escaped into the dishpit backroom. I was safe. Momentarily.

"Steph," I passed the Hispanic girl in question. "Table 37 wants a table wipe."
"Sure."
"Would have done it myself," I hedged carefully. "But I got some cappuccinos up..."
"S'kay."
"Thanks."