Monday, October 02, 2006
Dear Slow-Mo Barista,
I think it's time I tell you how important our early-morning encounters have become to me. On my first day of work as a productive member of society, you were there to charge me for my grande americano with room. As I handed you my last five, you bobbed your head in time to the Bob Marley playing in the background, an odd choice for the Starbucks channel at such an early hour.
You sang "No Woman No Cry" and my heart pounded a little faster. I must admit, it wasn't just the overpriced espresso.
For a few days last week you went missing, Slow-mo Barista. You weren't anywhere to be found and I was suddenly left with Perky Braces, who always asks me if I'd like anything to eat.
No, I wouldn't.
And you know that, don't you Slow-Mo? It's as if you can see past my tired eyes and into my over-sized purse, where a granola bar waits for me, an organic cinnamon soldier. Every morsel of dried fruit like a bullet into the heart of The Man.
It is your attitude that I admire most, Slow-Mo. You too are a lone warrior, fighting against the image of the cheery, helpful barista. You are working the Establishment from the inside.
Perky Braces just doesn't understand, does she? She's in it for the superior benefits package, or perhaps the lure of discounted muffins.
Other customers notice your devil-may-care demeanor. Just last Friday, a woman ahead of me in line suggested you treat yourself to another cup of coffee. You shrugged off her comment with a simple snort.
You don't need caffeine to fuel your movement. Your energy is pure. Unfortunately, Slow-Mo, mine is not.
Understand my plight. I am a weak woman under the influence of your mighty potion.
See you tomorrow. I'll be the one with bags under my eyes.
Sincerely,
Drew
I think it's time I tell you how important our early-morning encounters have become to me. On my first day of work as a productive member of society, you were there to charge me for my grande americano with room. As I handed you my last five, you bobbed your head in time to the Bob Marley playing in the background, an odd choice for the Starbucks channel at such an early hour.
You sang "No Woman No Cry" and my heart pounded a little faster. I must admit, it wasn't just the overpriced espresso.
For a few days last week you went missing, Slow-mo Barista. You weren't anywhere to be found and I was suddenly left with Perky Braces, who always asks me if I'd like anything to eat.
No, I wouldn't.
And you know that, don't you Slow-Mo? It's as if you can see past my tired eyes and into my over-sized purse, where a granola bar waits for me, an organic cinnamon soldier. Every morsel of dried fruit like a bullet into the heart of The Man.
It is your attitude that I admire most, Slow-Mo. You too are a lone warrior, fighting against the image of the cheery, helpful barista. You are working the Establishment from the inside.
Perky Braces just doesn't understand, does she? She's in it for the superior benefits package, or perhaps the lure of discounted muffins.
Other customers notice your devil-may-care demeanor. Just last Friday, a woman ahead of me in line suggested you treat yourself to another cup of coffee. You shrugged off her comment with a simple snort.
You don't need caffeine to fuel your movement. Your energy is pure. Unfortunately, Slow-Mo, mine is not.
Understand my plight. I am a weak woman under the influence of your mighty potion.
See you tomorrow. I'll be the one with bags under my eyes.
Sincerely,
Drew
