Judging on Appearance (Through the Lens of Coffee)

One of the benefits (and admittedly, downfalls) of working in a retail environment is the constant and varying interactions with society. With the given exception of the always predictable and welcome regulars each and every experience is unique, allowing you to observe the human psyche at work and in what ways it manifests itself.

Back when I worked at the coffee shop I was able to watch as a sort of invisible man. To most I wasn't so much a person rather than an object that exchanged caffeine and food for money. To this effect it allowed me to simply meditate about the various personalities that came to the counter without much interference from the subjects themselves, cataloging them.

Now when you are the device that stands between a person and their satiety you gain a unique perspective. From my position I was in a peculiar place where I could observe how their mannerisms and personality expressed themselves in their drink orders.

Take The Procrastinator, an obvious type. Bag full of disorganized papers. Dressed in clothes that stick to them in sour, wrinkled mass. That girl with the hair bunched in a rat's nest with a scrunchy or the guy who clearly hasn't shaved in a few days (these physical descriptions can be switched or combined regardless of sex)who decided to blow things off to party. It's not just crunch time, it's do I cut the red wire or the blue wire before their life utterly implodes upon them like a neutron star. Large mocha with triple espresso. Probably a sugar cookie. Whatever gets them through the night.

Since I worked in a college town, I was smart enough that during finals I actually kept extra cups pumped with extra chocolate on hand for the expected 8 PM queue of haggard students and the occasional professor or TA trying to grade papers.

Given there were a few suits who lined up, not just students, but the signs were all there and the same. One woman came screaming for a mocha with espresso "as fucking fast as possible." She was late, she was unprepared, she was likely more screwed than a piece of Ikea furniture.

She seemed to only realize it when I told her that her skirt was tucked into her underwear and she had been inadvertently flashing the entire shop for about four minutes.

Let's move on to Cappuccino, No Foam. Far too busy and self absorbed to listen to me that that order is, in fact, a latte. A cappuccino is all foam. Get off your damn cell phone, actually look at me when you make your order and be polite enough to maybe pause your conversation for three seconds so I can give you your four cents change which you'll dump in the change jar as a convenience to yourself. Jerk.

Then we have Complicated Order. Medium caramel soy latter, no whip, extra shot of espresso, high foam kinda stuff. A unique individual who looks down on the sheeple that plague their space. They're the only people in the world who really knows what's going on and feel the need to inform the coffee person behind the counter.

"People just don't seem to realize how media/the proletariat/pop culture/Iraq/the government/McDonald's/Scooby Doo is actually influencing their lives," and then tell me how they've subverted these powers and demagogues and live outside influence.

I recall one guy telling me how he wired his computer to be off the grid, and unknown to The Man. (Who is this Man? I like to think it's Niel Patrick Harris. He would be an awesome The Man.) All I can do is smile, roll my eyes when I turn away, and then repeatedly slam my head against the walk-in door and pray that I black out before the practiced diatribe on how MTV VJ's are warping the minds of youth to become slaves to Mountain Dew begins. A speech I had already heard from him. Twice.

It's been years since I've worked at a coffee shop, but I can still generally look at a person and figure what they're going to order. Anyone who has worked in a coffee shop can do the same. It's one of those stupid human tricks you pride yourself in.

However, you don't always get them all. I was thrown today. Totally left field.

In front of me was an biker, the owner of the Harley Davidson out front. Leather clad, dark shades. The salt and pepper ZZ Top beard covered the rest of his face. The only flesh I could see, and this guy had a lot, were his arms where the scantily clad women he had had inked in his your were now as stretched and saggy as the walking canvass they were imprinted upon. I figured this was a dude few people ever messed with, and those that had were dead.

A guy like this? He wants his coffee black, LIKE HIS SOUL!

"Iced Earl Grey tea and a vanilla scone." He asks in the lightest and most cheerful of tones.

Guess that shoots down my theories.

Or, at least, shows exceptions.