i walk into starbucks and order a pumpkin spice latte with 13 shots of espresso. i tell the barista that i intend to transcend humanity and become a god. i ask for no whip cream
you say this jokingly but i had a customer actually order a pumpkin spice latte with 9 shots of espresso (also no whip) and when i asked her to verify that she did indeed want 9 shots of espresso she looked me dead in the eyes and said “i have 5 kids”
I once had a woman come in and ordered an Americano with 19 shots of espresso. The drink took ages. It held up the line. I asked her why, and she shrugged and said “I just don’t care”. We still talk about that woman. We never saw her again.
new cryptid: exhausted woman at starbucks
Actual conversation I had at register:
“Hi, welcome to [Starbucks]! What can I get you, today?”
“How much is it to fill a Venti with Espresso?”
“I- I’m sorry?”
“A venti cup. How much to fill it with Espresso?”
“Oh. uh. Well, it’d be I suppose… I only have a button for a Quad. I don’t have special pricing for twenty ounces of espresso in a single… drink.”
“Price is the furthest thing from my mind right now. How many ‘add shots’ is that?”
*deep breath of fear* “It’d be a quad with,” *clears throat* “uh, sixteen additional shots of espresso. But, ma’am, I should tell you that the shots will start to get really bitter if they have to sit and wait for us to pull twenty of them-”
“Taste means nothing to me.”
At this point I am truly fearing for my very existence in the presence of what must clearly be an eldritch being.
“Oh. Well, okay.” I put on my absolute best customer service smile to hide my terror and accept that I must face this dragon, fae, or demon with dignity. “We can certainly get that for you! The price will be _____.”
She begins to pay, I shit thee not, with golden dollar coins. We are a block from Wall Street, and this eldritch demi-being is paying for an unholy elixer with golden coins. My life will end soon, I am sure of it.
“Do you still have the ‘Add Energy’ packets?”
My heart began to race at this request. “Yes ma’am.”
“How many can I add?”
Futile though it is, at least I know the rote response to this. “For health reasons, we won’t add more than one per drink and we cannot sell the packets individually.”
“One then.”
I alter the order and tell her the new price. She pays, dumps the change and five golden dollars into the tip box. I write the order on the venti cup and pass it silently to the girl working the hot beverage station. Normally we called and pass, but this was … not something to be spoken aloud.
My fellow takes the cup, not thinking anything of the minor break with protocol, until she sees the order. She stares at me. “No.”
The woman, which I call her for no other greater insight into her terrifying being is within my grasp, simply stands on the other side and says, calmly but with a commanding tone I expect of Admirals in bad movies, “Yes.”
My fellow barista pales before her task. But we are dutiful, we are true to our task, great though it may be. She sets about clearing the two brand new Matrena’s of all distraction, and sets two tall cups in the ready position. The energy packet is emptied into the venti cup, and the shots begin pouring.
The barista was damn near shaking. This woman’s gaze felt like the fires of the sun. Finally, the shots are pulled, the cup is filled, and the hand off takes place.
Our visiting Incomprehensible takes it to our milk bar and adds a dollop of cream. Satisfied, she proceeds to down what must have been half the damn cup.
Then she smiled at us, like a benediction and I was honestly filled with joy. And horror. She left, and we knew nothing more of her after that.
When I talk with other former employees, we quickly begin talking about “The Company” as if we’d never l, perhaps knowing that part of our soul still powers that awesome and terrible corporate machine. And when I share this stroy, other Baristas at first act shocked but quickly settle and comes the chorus,
could u imagine inventing butter, and you take a big spoonful and ur like 😏 then that shit hit your tongue and….. 😰….. 😨 ….. ur done! 😱🤢 soooooo nasty! ugh! ohhh it’s repulsive! but then ur thinking 🤔i spent 16 hours making this little bowl of this filth, not gonna just toss it! no way! 😑 so u grab some of your leftover bread that you grew yourself on a bread tree. spread some of that Gunk on that bad boy. 😧 bottoms up!!! …….😳❗️❗️❗️❗️❗️ it’s amazing! it’s so delicious! how can something so horrendous by itself, make this bread so much better❓❗️❓❗️ you losing your damn mind
i like clues because they make sense, unlike people, who have legs that go on for days. how can a leg go on for days? i don’t know. help
i got the call late at night: “there’s been a murder on the orient express.” i knew i had to take the case immediately, because that is a TRAIN
i have been told i am “gritty” and “hardboiled”, maybe because i eat so many eggs and crunch the bits of shell between my teeth
“he’s the killer!” i said. “wait, no he’s not. wait, all these people look the same, which one is which again?”
i’m a straight shooter who plays by my own rules, all 376 of them that I have in this annotated binder
i’m a lose cannon, in fact, i have been institutionalized for erratic behavior
my job as a detective is made harder by the fact that i am physically incapable of telling a lie or bluffing but made easier by the fact that i have no emotions about anything but trains. once a train was murdered, and i couldn’t stop crying
she had curves in all the right places. i like curves, because they make sense, unlike people
i like my liquor hard, and my social interactions harder
i’m the best detective around, but my fees are high, and i only take payment in trains
she had curves in all the right places. she was a graph i was making about trains. in the other room, my dad was crying because i wouldn’t make eye contact with him
“you will tell me what i want.” i said. “everyone tells me what i want. i’m tough as nails, and i’m not afraid to display aggressive behavior”
i got into this job because one time in fifth grade i asked my special teacher why people don’t like me, and she told me to be a detective and figure it out. i took that completely literally, and here we are today
maybe i should throw away all my detective memorabilia so that i can hug my dad for the first time
“i know you’re a detective,” my mom sniffled, “but sometimes i feel like the real detective, trying to figure out how to finally help you”
the only mystery i cannot solve is the mystery of why these nice ladies keep making me play with special blocks. i have literally no theories about why this is happening
“i didn’t solve the case, and i let a second train get murdered!” i cried. “i’m a bad detective!” “oh, honey, no,” my mom soothed, “you’re not a bad detective, you’re just special, and sometimes that means things are a little bit harder for you”
he handed me the pictures of the suspects. i crossed out their eyes so i could look at their faces.
i got the call late at night. “TEXT ME” i shouted into the phone
“there’s been a terrible murder.” “that makes 231,” i said, twirling my hair. i like numbers.
she had curves that went on for legs. i reminded myself to make eye contact, like my special teacher told me
“ain’t she a beauty?” i asked. my special teacher had been working with me on saying “isn’t.” “a genuine Horse .75. i got her 12 years and 37 days ago and she weighs exactly 14 ounces. i call her Melissa, after my special teacher. she’s almost as good as a train.”
i took out my bottle of whiskey, and started to read the label aloud
i’m a private eye. that means i think eyes should be private. why do people have to look at each other’s eyes all the time?
the ceiling fan moved slowly in my grimy office, slowly like someone about to give up on the world. i stared up, up, up at it, distracted from my obsessive cleaning. it had curves in all the right places
the whole world seemed black and white, like an old film, or my thinking
i took my gun out of the pocket of my trench coat, which i was wearing because of my sensory issues
with my gun smashed to pieces on the floor and the criminal’s gun pointed right at me, it seemed like just about the right time to elope
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