My favorite time of day is first thing in the morning when I venture out for coffee.
Of course it could go right downhill after that, but between 5 and 5:30, the world’s my oyster, or at least a Tall Blonde Roast in a Grande cup (I like lots of milk).
I’m happily surrounded by Starbucks, 3 within walking distance of my house, but every once in a while, someone’s asleep at the switch, well in this case, the train.
Now please don’t think I’m not sympathetic to anyone rising at 3 to open a store at 5 for a bunch of neurotic insomniacs…but…rudeness is another matter entirely.
So I’m at the door and it’s 5:05. Okay, I’m not unreasonable. I can see the little blonde barista with the name, Jose, tattooed across her neck who is on her phone. I wait another full 5 minutes, which when you’re chomping at the bit caffeine-less, feels like 50, before gently knocking on the window. She ignores me as she’s chatting up a storm, chairs still stacked up on tables, boxes of Twice-Baked Pretzel Sticks and Buck Wild Snack Mix strewed across the floor.
This happened last week with another crew who opened despite the disarray, and I helped put the chairs down. Hey, anything for a cuppa Joe, which brings me to Joe the window washer who is now next to me cursing in Spanish since she’s ignoring him too, with a bucket he could easily knock her over the head with.
15 minutes have gone by, and not even a glance or nod or a shred of remorse for being SO FUCKING LATE. Connecticut was not happy, but that didn’t come close to how pissed the South Bronx was. Joe started banging on the window with his squeegee calling her names.
“You’re gonna break the window,” I said, “take it easy.” Finally, another worker showed up so she comes to let her in, along with Joe, who is still screaming while I wait outside.
“Hey, when are you opening?” I say, looking at my watch realizing, it’s now 5:30 and the one on my corner should be open, so I calm myself, almost hating to leave since the fight she and Joe were having was like sitting ringside.
All day it bothered me, being ignored that way…a big old wound of mine that gets pierced quickly. At one point I was going to march back to complain to the manager, but then thought, Susannah, she’s a kid working for a modest wage getting up in the middle of the night, not from the polite prairies of Connecticut either.
Get over it. Oh well…
all in a day, or at least, first thing in the morning.