SCENE: SEATTLE. A GREY, DRIZZLY WEDNESDAY MORNING. 7:48 AM PACIFIC TIME. INTERIOR OF A RED PONTIAC SUNFIRE.
DATE: MARCH 15, 2006
A young man decides that, on his way to work this morning, a cup of coffee and perhaps a delicious pastry of some sort would certainly not go amiss. It just so happens that his place of work is within rock-throwing distance of no fewer than seven Starbucks locations. He chooses his preferred one; the lineups are usually longer there, but he enjoys the friendliness of the staff. Besides, showing up at work on time this morning isn’t really a priority.
The Starbucks is, as downtown coffee houses often tend to be at 7:52 a.m., a certifiable madhouse. The lineup, as he had surmised, is quite long, but he doesn’t mind. The small army of green-apron-clad soldiers on both sides of the counter are lethally efficient in the way they move and serve customers, so the line moves quickly. As he waits, he lets his gaze wander around the shop.
The garbage receptacles, he notices, are full to overflowing. Every cream dispenser (the standard array: one skim, one whole, and two half-and-half) is empty. There are no sugar packets available. He surmises it must have been busier than usual this morning. Understandable, it’s a little chillier than it has been in recent days. The staff are working hard to keep up with the flow of customers entering through the door. It’s a testament to their skill that drinks are made, served, and enjoyed even in all the bustle.
He approaches the counter and notes, with pleasure, that it’s his favorite server helping him this morning. No matter how busy it is, she’s always smiling. Cheerful, but not annoyingly so at 7:58 a.m. Cute, too. She usually recognizes him, and knows what drink he likes. Venti Americano, room for cream. Cranberry white-chocolate scone on the days they have them. Today, they do.
Something happens as he reaches the counter.
Another server, one he doesn’t recognize, is also working this morning. Is she new? Transferred from another store? Normally works the evening shift? He doesn’t know. This new girl is clearly feeling stressed by the chaos of the morning. She sighs audibly, and then:
“Fuck this. I’m going on my break.”
She sets down the box she had been holding and quickly strides into the back room. The sugar packets she was taking to the condiment stand never make it out from behind the counter.
This morning is the first time he’s ever seen his favorite server, the one who’s always cheerful and upbeat, frown.
CUT TO BLACK.
The coffee was still hot. The pastry was still good. But something invisible had gone out of the room. A shift in tone, a crack in the rhythm.
Now, years later, I see it for what it was: a small fracture in the team’s trust. Not because someone made a mistake, but because they checked out when it mattered most.
Moments like that don’t show up on dashboards, but they’re the ones that stick.
