Confessions of your friendly neighborhood barista

I just love people.

Watching people, that is. 

Have you ever thought about how funny people are? One of my favorite things to do (although admittedly very creepy) is just sit and watch the behavior of those around me. My job as a barista at our campus coffee shop affords me the perfect opportunity to observe human behavior in my customers.

After 4 semesters behind the bar at McConn, I've watched a lot of people. The funny thing about people is, they tend to fit into groups. If you've ever been a barista or worked in some kind of service industry, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Every waiter, cashier, barista, or lunch lady subconsciously (or even consciously) sorts their customers into specific categories.

I can laugh at these groups.

I'm allowed to laugh at these funny people.

Why?

Because I have been all of them at one point or another. I was a customer before I was a barista, and I continue to be a customer in several other areas of life. You have been all of these people, too, if you're honest with yourself. So, it's not a malicious kind of laughter. It's enjoyment of the general quirks and idiosyncrasies in everyone that make life so interesting.

Here we go.

The Barista Confessions, part 1

"The Timepiece"

     These customers are so dependable, you could time your shift around them. They grace your coffee shop with their presence at the same time every day, with the same order, and generally the same attitude. They are more predictable than Indiana weather or the quality of Baldwin's food and nearly as consistent as Dr. Lo calling the student body "Dear Ones" in chapel. Depending on who the person is, they might be the highlight of your day or the thing you dread most about coming in to work.

When you see a Timepiece approaching the register, you already had their order entered in to the system 10 seconds ago, because it never changes and it never will.

If it ever does....well, let's not consider that situation. The world just might fragment into shatters of reality.

"The Stiff Arm"

     With their no-nonsense attitude, these customers charge the register with an apparent lack of working elbow joints as they hold out their student ID for me to swipe before they've even uttered one syllable. My introductory greeting is overrun by their directly delivered and well-rehearsed order. When you know how the system works and you know what you want, common pleasantries are inconsequential. 

I like to think that the Stiff Armers are losing an internal battle against the need to purchase caffeine - they need to order fast before they can reason themselves out of the decision, and I am the enabler, fueling the legally addictive habits of the students populating our campus.

"The Live-In"

     I am entirely convinced that there are students on this campus who do not actually go to this school. Either that or they simply skip their classes all of the time. How else do you explain a person who comes to a coffee shop before it opens in the morning and stays until closing time at night? One of these days, I would like to conduct surveillance on the student center overnight and catch one of these creatures sneaking a mattress behind the bar to sleep.

Now, there are two different breeds of the Live-In.

The first is the Hibernator. This sub-species of the Live-In remains in one chair at one table for hours at a time. On occasion, I will surreptitiously pass by the table of a Hibernator to ensure that they are still breathing. It would, of course, reflect poorly on my company if a customer were to expire in our dining area without anyone noticing.

The second is the Migrator. This type of Live-In is unsatisfied to remain in one spot for too long, but floats from table to table, taking advantage of the many relationships they have established in order to secure a permanent residence in the area.

"The Jesus-Gazer"

     You can spot this one a mile away. 

Almost literally a mile away, because they hover a significant distance away from the register. Just close enough to make you aware of their presence, but far enough away that it's not yet socially acceptable to engage them in casual conversation or, worst of all fates, ask them "What can I get for you?" before they have fully decided.

Even after deliberating for several minutes, they cautiously approach the register and stand wide-eyed and open-mouthed in front of the counter, staring at the menu screens mounted from the ceiling as if Jesus had just ascended from behind me and currently occupies the space above my head. They stay that way long enough that they just might experience the second coming. 

The Jesus-Gazer is faced with a dilemma - to order the safe, pedestrian sounding, and familiar White Mocha, which is unlikely to disappoint or present with any surprises, or to be bold and order the more esoteric and mysterious London Fog or Midnight Grae, which, despite one's mention of foreign cities and the other's eccentric spelling, give you absolutely no hint as to what will actually be inside of your drink. 

What inevitably follows is one of my favorite questions: "Can you tell me what I want?"

While your friendly neighborhood barista has many unique talents that could potentially pass as super-powers, reading minds is not one of them. 

I do, however, have the ability to control minds it seems. Whatever drink I ultimately recommend is almost invariably their final coffee decision.

With great power comes great responsibility, Peter Parker.