Living is working. Fine, philosophy argues otherwise. Idealist fantasies of worlds that couldn't possibly exist. Truth be told, even in those wonderfully woven tales of magic or space, dragons or lasers, they always have a striking truth. The plot, the protagonist, antagonist, then the regular people. Or often depicted as the poor. Poor? That means in this fantasy world money is very real. Even in an attempt to escape, money traps our imagination. Traps us in the real world. Jacob, like so many others, was trapped in a dull reality. But dull or boring is good. Things are moving normally. Not excitingly, just normally.
What's even more normal? Working a job you greatly dislike. The work itself is...mediocre, perhaps. If you eliminated customers well...you might just like it. But even with customers gone, the pay is very inadequate. You could not sustain a means of living on this kind of pay. Jacob knew that. Debt followed him, educated but lacking in experience. No rich parents to fall back on. No jobs lined up, because who would hire a guy with a degree in history?
"I need things prepared perfectly! Every morning, every time! Because we are vital to society."
It was four a.m. and Tim, the manager, was speaking at a ten... Almost screaming, but not quite because the pitch of his voice didn't break. It was his feeble attempt at motivation like a drill sergeant in the military. Tim never served, of course.
"Each order, no errors. These people need us! This country would collapse if we didn't provide the most delicious cup of coffee. Those heroes who protect our streets would be too tired. Working long hours and saving lives. SOOOOOOO! We must do our part."
That "part" was ensuring that every single order came through correctly. Because at "Hot Joes"
"Your cup is from our hearts."
"Our underpaid, dead hearts," thought Jacob.
Online pre orders should, in theory, expedite the service. But it was only Jacob, Kersten, Lilly, and Jose. Four people for over four hundred orders.
"Um excuse me?" Ah, a local legend. Katherine, with a K. She always noted the K in her orders every, single, morning. Double mocha frappe, soy milk, only a little bit of foam, and a dash of cinnamon. The foam mattered. As did the soy milk. As did the cinnamon. This was repeatedly expressed to Jacob. In an ever so wonderful, nasally tone riddled with the word "literally" and "like" while her sunglasses danced on her head.
"Being a mom is like sooooooo much work. And then if I don't have my foam and soy milk, I just literally cannot."
"Mrs. Ferguson? The kids are going to be late to school. Should I take them now?"
"Oh Maria. You know you can call me Katherine. And that would be so much help. Thanks..."
Then the entire coffee shop had to listen to her jubilant moan at the smell of her perfect cup.
It was very odd to Jacob that she never used the preorder system. Something about waiting in line must have been an enjoyment to her. That, or nitpicking her order. It usually had to be made twice. Kirsten never faulted Jacob for it when he had to make the order. Because she did that to everyone. Lilly never made her order anymore. Apparently, she was told that she needed to eat more if she wanted to find a husband. Lilly expressed to Jacob how much strength it took to not throw the coffee in Katherine's face.
If Jacob ever felt the presence of Tim behind him it was for only two possible reasons. One, he had forgotten to restock the soy milk from the back. Or two, a cop was at the counter for their order.
"Oh, thank you so much for your service officer!" Then he would glare at Jacob.
"Have you been thanking them for their service?"
Service of eating and drinking on my tax dollars? He could not say that. It was sad he couldn't express himself. He couldn't afford to lose a ten dollar an hour job. Not now. And Tim loved the police. Firemen too, but the cops were clearly his favorite. Well no, the military was. Then the police. Last time a soldier in uniform was there he comped the entire order.
The cop couldn't seem to save himself from obesity, let alone a person in distress. The buttons on his shirt needed saving. Breakfast is an important meal but eating a sausage, egg and cheese panini everyday was not a "heroes" diet. But Jacob did what he needed to.
"Thanks..."
Average customer. Average order. Average hours. Ticking by quickly, but as the line dies down so does the minute on the hour. Dragging and dragging. More inspirational pep talks from Tim doesn't ever help do anything. They just create a desire to smash your own skull into the wall and end it all. Living is working.
"Hot Joes" had more employees. The night crew. Jacob's misery was only eight hours a day. He had the rest of the afternoon to do anything.
Delivering food was way better. Carrying a huge bag of hot food while riding a bike wasn't the best. But no bootlicker demanding you thank people in uniform was a huge plus. A few more hours of work and then some rest. Sleep. A terrible sleep schedule. He lived close to forty minutes away, by train and a bus, to "Hot Joes". Being late was never an option unless you wanted a horribly long-winded speech from Tim. Life for Jacob was a balancing act of bills, shelter, sleep and lovely work. Sure, he had some days off randomly sprinkled in the week. Tim never had consecutive days off, so neither did any employee. Because that is fair.
"Dude...what you on tonight?" Kirsten was stoned every shift. Tim never knew about it. Never stunk of weed, his eyes were never red. But his tone, attitude and general persona was that of a stoner. It never needed admittance.
"Shit. Going to deliver some food again probably."
"Come through tonight. My boy Squiddy is spinning at the Bungalow. Dope vibes. Chill sounds. You fuck with house music?"
"Uh, I guess. I don't know. I'm off tomorrow so why not."
"For sure."
Jacob knew full well he did not like house music. But the invite was nice. A break from the repetitive days of his early twenties. The scene was as expected. People wearing hideous clothing yet complimenting each other's unique style without ever realizing they were dressed the same. Only people "into music" hang out at the Bungalow. They let just about anyone spin on Thursday nights. Anyone with odd tattoos that their friend did for them. Jacob wished he wore a beanie to blend in more. His regular Hanes t-shirt and twenty-dollar jeans seemed out of place.
The conversations were screaming matches over the loud music. The drinks were slightly overpriced. A good thing Kirsten had a flask of jungle juice.
"What the fuck is this?"
"Jungle juice my guy. Little bit of this, little bit of that. Have you feeling it man."
Feeling it was exactly what Jacob did. Feeling drunk. The sweetness hid the alcohol. Before long the music got better. The jungle juice seemed to turn the night around. Time disappeared. Only the beat. The same beat. Jacob started to dance.
"My man got some moves!" Words of encouragement from Kirsten.
"Yo we heading to our friend's rooftop. You coming?"
"Is there more jungle juice?"
At the rooftop Jacob locked eyes with a girl wearing a beanie. Baggie overall jeans with a short sleeve black shirt. Tattoos covered her arms. The jungle juice flowed through him and within him. It dawned on him. A question he drunkenly asked himself while examining everyone at Bungalow. Why the odd tattoos?
Clearly, they were for conversation starters.
"Is that like a peace symbols or something?"
"It's my sign actually. Taurus."
"Ohhh. That's cool..." The jungle juice may have blurred Jacob's vision but the tattoo was so poorly done, it's understandable he thought it was a peace sign.
"What's your sign?"
"I don't remembershh..."
Not realizing how drunk Jacob was by the slur of his speech, she continued to ask.
"When's your birthday?"
"Septembers 11."
She began to ramble about that date. Noting the tragedy of the attacks. The consequent wars. And thanks to the jungle juice, Jacob was able to drift off. Not thinking anymore. Only basic urges like "eat" and "pee" were being processed in Jacob's head.
The night must have ended with a burrito. Half of it greeted his face the next morning.
"Shit."
The one day off was spent recovering.
Several months went by. They were a culmination of failures at dating, Katherine with a K, cop lover Tim's speeches and the ebb and flow of life. Life is working.
Everyone has a drink. Sometimes too much. That was only the case a few nights for Jacob. Other nights were spent in an angry, inebriated state of thought. Reflecting deeply at choices. Coming to the conclusion that life was never a choice really. You never chose to live. Someone else did. Being born now, in this present time, you must work. That is a choice forced on you by fear. Fear of being poor because then you have no home. No food. No hygiene. No medicine. Nothing but misery. "You have choices of what you do!" But to Jacob, those were really only options. Options of what to do for work.
Life is not as black and white as Jacob's drunken conclusions. People who come from money will have a different outlook. People like Katherine with a K.
It was a Tuesday. Nothing special about it. Tends to be that way when these sorts of things happen. Some will label a person broken. That's not accurate. Sometimes people bottle up so much that it reaches a boiling point. The problem is a system that forces someone to be belittled for ten dollars an hour. Enough was enough.
"Like literally there is no cinnamon. And the foam...I neeeeeeed this to be right. You have literally no idea what it's like with two kids."
"You are right Katherine. I do have no idea what it is like to be so rich that I can afford a nanny to care for my children, so that my free time can be spent complaining about a cup of coffee that I desperately need so I can go off to my day! Shopping! And don't forget further belittling employees of those stores. I have no idea what it is like to lay on my back for a rich doctor, or lawyer, or professional athlete or whoever decided to marry you and give you two eighteen plus year security checks! They must love your inability to formulate a proper fucking sentence without the word 'like' or 'literally.' Or maybe I don't know what it is LIKE to always be a rich spoiled bitch. Maybe the money comes from "Mommy" or "Daddy." Maybe the foam is the same amount of fucking foam and the same amount of cinnamon, but your life is so pathetically meaningless that you draw purpose from being a raging, fucking, cunt. Do you think ten dollars an hour is enough for me to sit here every fucking day and listen to you? Do you think it's enjoyable to be here right now? With a bootlicking manager whose four a.m. scream speeches give you a headache before Katherine with a K comes in, bitchiness locked and loaded for you?"
Katherine's mouth hung open from embarrassment. Screamed at by a barista as he threw down his uniform and flipped off his manager. Out the door Jacob went. Kirsten took over the register. Someone in the crowd recorded the whole thing.
"Who had the white mocha frappe?"
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