Old Man Eddy

Tonight's blog I will deem Old Man Eddy, because for the past two nights he has creeped me the fuck out.  I believe it was last weekend or so when he hovered around the handoff plane with those dreary eyes of his and said, "Evelynn, do you like baseball?"  I'm like, "yea, I go to some Sox games with my boyfriend."

Unaffected, he asks, "If I get tickets, would you come?" in a casual manner. Confused, I stammer, "What, to a Cubs game?" And he says, "Yea."

I'm thinking, not enough information, so I say, "Is it like, a group thing?" and he just says, "No, with me...Here, gimme your number," edging back up to the plane where we hand off drinks.


I swear man, don't put me in this awkward position. And, damn you have some nerve. Because you're like 50+ yrs old and you've known me since I started here back when I was 18.  And now you've just gone and made things weird by being inappropriate, which lets me down again.  In the past, you had even tried to counsel me on what route to take in school during one of my lunch breaks.  Buuut now you've reassured me that you view me as an object of sex rather than a pleasant acquaintance.


So now, I just feel awkward and uncomfortable because yesterday, (a week after prior incident) you came up to buy a tea and quickly asked if I had given you the wrong number. Phone in hand, you reviewed the number aloud and I confirmed it, but then you repeated, "847, not 773?" and I said, "Yea, 8-4-7." Jesus fucking christ. And then you followed me from the register, past the pastry case, and up to the safe where I was organizing the breakfast sandwiches and you were scrolling through a screen of texts between my so-called-number and yourself.  It was then I realized you'd heard the last digit wrong, as a 2 instead of a zero. But I told you that and said, "that wasn't me," and continued my work.  But still, you hovered, reading the newspaper at the stand just three feet from the safe, like a creep. And THEN you asked me something about Spain and Portugal or some country and soccer.  Like, "did you watch the game?" And I knew where you were headed and quickly said, "No, I don't like soccer."

I guess some might say I shouldn't have given him my number to begin with. And I think so too. But at the time, it was easier because I was caught off guard, in which case my natural reaction was to ease the awkwardness at own my expense.  I just figured I'd give him the number and if he texted I would tell him that I wasn't interested or that I felt weird about texting him in general.

So what I learned is I just need to suck it up and say no the next time this happens. Set boundaries. The healthy thing to do is set boundaries.  But since many of my relationships haven't been healthy, things go on all right until something like this happens and I whirl around the circle again, wondering whether I should smile at male customers at all.

Apparently I look like I need to be saved

according to the twin sisters I served tea to the other night. In exchange, I received a nice pamphlet with a graphic image of the Crucifixion titled, "HEAR YE HIM!"  If I hadn'tve shown it off so much maybe I wouldn't've lost it. Oh well. Guess all hope is lost.

They reminded me of the actress who played Luna Lovegood. You know, that googly eyed, all-knowing look from behind the bifocals.  Hair a crazy, frizzy mess. Well, they were nice and quite entertaining. We got to talking and they asked me if I was Assyrian, and I responded that I am a quarter Arabic on my fathers side. Perhaps that was a mistake because they simultaneously drew in a breath, looked at each other, and back to me with increased intensity.

"Who is Arabic???" They probed. "Ohhh, yourr grrrandfather. And wherr is he frram?"

I knew it was coming.

"OHHH, Iraq! Our family is frram der too! Your grrandfather, he is not Assyrian???"

And for the 7 thousandth time in my life I say, "No, he's just Arab."

"So hhee is Maslim, yourr grrandfather???"

And for the 10 thousandth time in my life I say, "No, he's Christian." As if it matters.

Finally, they asked, "What is his name, your grrandfather???" And I mumbled it, reminding myself, "BOUNDARIES, Evelynn, BOUNDARIES." God dammit.

'You can't smile at male customers, you just can't,'

or they get the wrong idea,' - I quote myself. The last time I explained this to a fellow female Barista she looked befuddled, as most people do.  But sure enough, I was true to my word. She watched as a couple of male customers came up, and I proceded to stone-facedly take their order in a polite tone.

As further support for my argument, I will say that as soon as you smile at them, you've given them an in, which in foreign-mandom of our customer pool equates to, "Yes, I would love to sleep with you, 50 yr old Eastern European man." 

Watch and observe for the eye-twinkle.  Sure enough, 45-50+ yr old Armani Code/Versace overload wearing men waft over and as soon as you smile, they say, "Whherrr hyoo frrrram?" followed by, "Hyoo speak Romanian?"

"No, sir, I don't." And I'm not interested in having this discussion with you. "What size did you say?"

"Hrregular."

"You got it."

Confessions of a Starbucks Barista

with extra, extra caramel (oh my mistake, KARmul) "Ventay, with extra whoopcream."

 Ugh, that order. The likes of it get me everytime. The last time someone ordered that from me personally, I felt like someone'd punched me in the stomach.  I'm going on 4 years of this, part-time, since I started college. And the funny thing is, I finished and I'm still here, which happens, I've noticed. Herein follow the confessions of a Starbucks Barista.

I feel safe at my store, I'm good at my job now, and I love the people. My coworkers, are amazing and ever-changing, and there are benefits; it's social, interactive, and exciting. The hours go by decently fast, it's on-your-feet and active, and you get lots of free caffeine. Which I love.


But I don't know. There's the sense that you're smart but you're stuck. There's the realization that  your job is actually decently hard and requires intelligence, but then the reminder that it could be worse and you know it.  Plus it has more prestige than McDonalds.

And after months of mulling this over I feel like I've walked the circumference of a complacent circle and find myself tired. And then I go to work where I am refreshed by the sense that I like my coworkers and a "let's do this!" oomph runs through as soon as I've taken a doppio. But sooner or later, it happens.  Someone orders a Venti Caramel Frappuccino with extra, extra Karmul and extra whoopcream, or a passionfruit iced tea with lemonade and raspberry and I'm reminded again that most people are idiots.

Sunday, June 24th.