I’m not sure if I even have $7 to my name, but I find myself waiting in line nonetheless. It’s an integral part of my day to spend money I may or may not possess, on a sweet little treat, to feed dopamine, serotonin, or whatever the fuck is supposed to make me feel happy, directly into my bloodstream. Oh yeah, straight to the good stuff. The two people in front of me are waiting for their order to be taken by the barista that is getting paid to sling overpriced drinks all day. I see a sign in the window as my eyes wander around that reads, “Hiring! Starting at $20/hr plus tips! Be a part of the team,” in bold, royal blue letters. I briefly consider changing career paths for a measly $2 raise. Working at a daycare is joyous at times, but I often find myself driving home wondering how I got to this point in my life. It’s all only temporary.
The barista has the uniform black apron tied around his waist, cinching his red and black flannel tight to his lean, muscular figure. An attractive, young barista wearing a flannel in a shop covered in funky knick-knacks, random crystals and antique furniture. My eyes glance him over and I think, I’ve never had a truly unique experience. Every story I tell at parties or family gatherings is something that already happened to someone they know — a friend of a friend, maybe a distant relative or a coworker even. And the world might just implode in a fiery wreck if they don’t interrupt me to let me know. If they don’t stop my sentence to rebut with a similar experience, how will they go on? If a sudden death happens in my life, my coworker knows a person who was diagnosed with cancer, tragically given only a week to live. If my car breaks down, the tow truck guy will tell me he saw a motorcycle accident earlier, “It was horrific. You’re lucky to be standing here breathing young lady.” And I know that’s true, but my car is still on the way to a shop, to be picked apart until I can’t afford the repairs.
The line has moved up in the midst of my spacing out, now it’s my turn to order. “Hi, how are you?” I plaster a smile on my face and greet the man behind the counter. It’s the polite thing to do. And I don’t want him to spit in my drink while I’m not looking.
“What’s your order?” The man snaps back at me. He might spit in my drink while I’m not looking. My false smile disappears, I relay my coffee order, shoulders sunken down now. This guy is not having a good day and he’s taking it out on me? What a sadist. He flips the screen to face me and a tip option appears. My finger reaches for the No Tip button, but a deep guilt sinks into my bones. The drink distributor, who makes more money than me, stares me down as I hit $1 and insert my card into the reader. The machine obnoxiously beeps at me, displaying Payment Declined brighter and bigger than a shooting star. This is just… swell. I try my card again, getting the same result. Now I’m alone on a deserted island, no help in sight and I’m running low on rations. A coconut just bonked me on the head while I was trying to take cover from the beaming sunrays.
“I’ll take care of that dear,” a shaky and frail voice comes from behind me as I’m digging around in my bag for cash that I know isn’t there. I turn around to see a small, elderly woman offering her credit card.
“Thank you, that’s okay. I think I have cash, somewhere,” I keep shuffling through my bag, only finding chapstick, a dried up pen and a gas receipt from two weeks ago. The woman has already paid and the barista had already turned around to make our drinks. “Thank you, very much. That was nice of you.”
“Don’t mention it. I just have somewhere to be,” she says quietly, walking away to wait for her coffee. If I had enough money to get people out of my way like that, I’d never have to wait in line again. Since my coffee is now on the way, I park myself in a metal chair, cool to the touch on my legs, at a small round table. The little bits of wood chipped out of the table add character, perfect for this place. My hand instinctively reaches for my phone to mindlessly scroll through social media, the best way to fill my time. There’s nothing interesting to see on the screen, just another person I went to high school with getting engaged.
I couldn’t sleep last night because nobody has confessed their undying love for me. Every night I turn my head on my pillow and I see an empty bed, untouched sheets and I’m marooned on an island once again. Deep down, I know that having someone in my bed won’t solve all my problems, but maybe if I had someone to complain to I wouldn’t be so bitchy about the little things. Coffee machine doesn’t work? I’m in love, doesn’t matter. Ran out of gas in the middle of the road? Someone will come pick me up and tell me, “It’s all okay.” If I woke up to someone with messy hair and morning breath saying, “I love you,” maybe I wouldn’t get so bent out of shape, seeing those diamond rings bedazzling other women’s fingers. It’s still polarizing to see, but right now, my reaction is to be repulsed, shocked and think, “That could never be me. I’m too young, carefree and once more, too young.” If I had someone by my side, “That could be us.” But nobody has confessed, so I have an empty bed.
One time in college, a guy kept asking me for hot sauce. I never had it on me so that’s what I told him. I came to find out that he hated spicy food. I don’t know what it is, but I have never been able to see through that. I can’t make the distinction between friendly banter and flirting. Why wouldn’t they just come out and say it, if that’s what they really want? Are they scared to go too far and lose their chance? Maybe they think they never had a shot in the first place, but I’ll never know. I’m also too scared to ask. If they were just being nice, but I inferred it as flirting, then I’d seem conceited. Conceited women are judged and I can’t stand the thought of being perceived negatively. Wearing a skirt today, instead of pants, was a conscious choice.
I have an interview after lunch and I want them to think I’m friendly. It’s a position where I’d be working directly with customers, servicing them daily. It’s crucial to be compliant working with customers. If they feel threatened, they’ll turn on you. The alligator snaps its teeth shut on its prey because the prey forgot an extra side of ranch. The prey had to ring the alligator’s drink in as a double. The alligator snaps its prey’s neck. It’s an impossible battle, especially for women. I think women aren’t allowed to be conceited because something in their uterus will implode. Maybe we lose an egg every time we get too much of an ego. That’s why the government is always putting us down, hell, we didn’t even get credit cards until-
“Stevie! Chai latte for Stevie!”