Hallelujah.
I wanted to wait a day before blogging about my work experience, because I figured a second shift was necessary before I really set down my impressions on the whole thing. I'm still not sure how I feel about the experience in its entirety, but I'll put down my thoughts on Naidre's at Carroll Gardens and hope none of my co-workers ever read it.
First and foremost, it's intimidating, working with so many people who have such high skill levels in something I used to take pride in doing. I mean, I still take pride in being a good barista, and being both quick and - for a certain sphere - talented, but these people are brilliant. They draw swans in their lattes just by pouring them a certain way. They count their shots and shun them if they start in less than 4 seconds or last longer than 35. They expect you to be able to steam milk right-handed . . .
I worked almost 12 hours yesterday with Drew, who told me amazing stories about himself, his wife of four weeks (who he'd known for 25 years, had gone to boarding school in the UK with, had been in love with for a very long time, and who threw a glass at his laptop screen because "she's Spanish, she's feisty like that"), and the espresso machine that he owned at his coffee shop in Ontario that he showed me pictures of. He also claimed that Canadian = snow Mexican. Which of course made me laugh like crazy. We spent those hours together because the closer was sick, so the swing shift - the one they're training me for - slowly fused with the closing shift and left him there for three more hours even than me. I stayed because I wanted to stick it out with him, but knowing that I had to be there early the next morning, decided to go ahead and go right about when he was closing down.
It poured down rain the entire way home, and naturally I was wearing my Toms. It was like a tiny wave pool in my shoes.
Today I was set to shadow the swing again, but there was no swing, technically - Jesse, the manager at the other location, took the first part and managed to simultaneously make me feel entirely inadequate and really hopeful for my future adequacy. Then Janice, the owner, came in to cover him, but ended up leaving a few hours early and just pointing at the closer (Abby) and telling me that we'd figure stuff out between the two of us. Umm, thanks.
There are very few things that I hate quite as much as I hate workplace tension. Bosses are most often the cause of it, as in this case - when Janice came in, her issues with Sinclair basically "sucked all the air out of the room," in his words. Dealing with that, my own inadequacy, and the fact that there were four of us bumping around behind that small counter space eventually made me break down and half-jokingly asked Sinclair for a hug. He was incredibly sweet and obliged me, eventually saying that he probably needed it too. Right before he left, he wrote his number on a piece of paper and told me that if I ever wanted to come hang out with him and "the lady," that I'd be more than welcome. That's a great guy right there.
I feel okay about things. I feel like the work they want me to do - a lot of stocking, a lot of being-a-body - will come easily to me, and now that I know what I'm up against, I'll start paying a lot of attention to my steaming and foaming techniques. More than anything else, I'm just so glad to be doing things again, to have a schedule and defined "work" and "play" times. It feels good to go home tired, to order my days around something, to interact with people on a semi-professional basis again. I realize with increasing certainty that I can only really be at peace with myself when I feel the physical effects of my productivity. Maybe I was actually meant to be a dock worker or something mind-numbing and laborious like that.
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