Day 5

The only thing worse than serving coffee to the

“double nonfat sugar-free vanilla latte” crowd

is managing a bunch of loosely trained

stoners posing as baristas.  Customers

are a predictable pain in the ass,

but these kids, these potheads who

come back from their breaks reeking

of burnout, they’re killing me.  I have

inventory to order, new screw-ups

to hire, a budget to balance.  I don’t need

these high-flying jerk-offs calling in “sick”

and fucking up orders at rush hour.  At least

I’m in charge of Halloween morning instead of

Halloween night.  Small miracles, I guess.

 

I always leave work borderline homicidal,

but that passes after I get home and

pop open a can of whatever is strong

and cheap.  By the eighth can,

I feel great about people.

                                             Now, I just

stay pissed off until I get a headache

from clenching my jaw and thinking about

all the stupid people I want to scream at

but can’t.  The last thing I need is to sit

in a moldy community center basement

without a drink, listening to everyone else

and their costume party problems.

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