job interview at starbucks, take 1
I sat there for at least ten minutes, watching the Starbucks employees work. I think I applied at the Loser Store- every employee had long brown hair that hung annoyingly over their eyebrows, everyone was wearing all black (and I know you can wear white), and they all acted as if they were very emotionally volatile, like they might burst into tears if they dropped a double chocolate chunk cookie on the floor. The cashier with the bowl cut hairdo told me to "just go over" to the manager, who was clearly in the middle of an interview. "You mean INTERRUPT her interview?" I said incredulously. Who were these people?? "Umm, no thanks, I'm here to get a job, not piss people off," I muttered, as I backed away from the counter.
And then, who enters Starbucks? Penn Jillette, that big loud man who happens to write books now. He had an entourage of pathetic middle-aged women in hideous floral tee-shirts and baby blue acid-washed jeans. His VOICE is so distinct, I could recognize it anywhere. It narrates my nightmares.
Oh no, this guy has to come here, when I'm trying to apply for a job as a barrista?
I wanted to yell at him, "I'm a writer, and I'll be serving people like YOU coffee (or beer or food) for the next 4 years." I wanted to ask him if that's what he did when he was starting out. Probably not. People with those kinds of voices are born with jobs, bad ponytails and some sort of fame or notoriety . I mean, could you imagine Penn Jillette working at Starbucks, with that hideous green apron tightly lodged around his meaty neck? No. Penn Jillette would NOT work at Starbucks. He would not cower in all black behind a counter. He would not repeat orders of ICED VENTI MOCHAS, to the barrista, and patiently await a tip of three pennies and a dime. Not with that voice. So I asked myself, "What would Penn Jillete do?"
I walked out, before the manager was able to meet and greet me. Sorry, Kate the Starbucks Manager. Thanks, Penn. I rode my hot pink bike into the sunset, with my shiny red helmet secured on my head, fully aware that I didn't even have enough money to buy a coffee from that dreaded store.
And then, who enters Starbucks? Penn Jillette, that big loud man who happens to write books now. He had an entourage of pathetic middle-aged women in hideous floral tee-shirts and baby blue acid-washed jeans. His VOICE is so distinct, I could recognize it anywhere. It narrates my nightmares.
Oh no, this guy has to come here, when I'm trying to apply for a job as a barrista?
I wanted to yell at him, "I'm a writer, and I'll be serving people like YOU coffee (or beer or food) for the next 4 years." I wanted to ask him if that's what he did when he was starting out. Probably not. People with those kinds of voices are born with jobs, bad ponytails and some sort of fame or notoriety . I mean, could you imagine Penn Jillette working at Starbucks, with that hideous green apron tightly lodged around his meaty neck? No. Penn Jillette would NOT work at Starbucks. He would not cower in all black behind a counter. He would not repeat orders of ICED VENTI MOCHAS, to the barrista, and patiently await a tip of three pennies and a dime. Not with that voice. So I asked myself, "What would Penn Jillete do?"
I walked out, before the manager was able to meet and greet me. Sorry, Kate the Starbucks Manager. Thanks, Penn. I rode my hot pink bike into the sunset, with my shiny red helmet secured on my head, fully aware that I didn't even have enough money to buy a coffee from that dreaded store.