I told two people today about my former life as a barista.
I can remember clearly standing on those rubber mats behind the counter, swinging gallon jugs of milk, flipping cans of whipped cream up and around in a lazy arc, the toes of my black earth shoes perpetually glazed in glossy lactose. I remember drinking a soy chai every morning for breakfast. Eating ramen quick-cooked under the scalding hot water for the tea, prepared in a for-here cup every day for my lunch. Taking the New York Times for my lunchtime reading material. Looking out the window at the drive through scenery- the immense, hulking snow-capped Pike's Peak. Watching the grey streaked view of Speedway for my boss' car to pull in, which it inevitably did, even when she took the day off.
It seems like a different life altogether. The memories themselves wholly apart to me, as if I read them somewhere and misappropriated them. Or perhaps they are nothing more than the vestiges of a particularly vivid dream.
I talked to my dad last week on the phone, and he told me my old manager from Starbucks stopped in at his GFS store, looking for a job. Which would make him her boss. I told her she is an absolutely kick-ass worker, if you can get over the constant swearing and verbal abuse. But she'll work herself to death. I guess certain skills are always marketable.
I hope to find diversity in what I do, not disconnection. I'll tell you, though, the thought of Kelly at the cash register, answering to my father of all people, has my internal record player skipping. As warped as the song is, I do not find that I mind.