When someone asks me what my first job was, I always lie. It’s not that I mean to lie, it’s just that I loved my second job so much more than my first. If you want the truth, my first job was being a photographer’s assistant. However, that won’t be on the test because we’re discussing the faux-first job.



I was a high school junior when my sweetheart of three years developed a sudden interest in coffee. I remember I went out to Wal-Mart and bought a tiny bag of French Vanilla coffee grinds to surprise him. The next time he was over at my house, I announced that I’d make him some coffee. The problem was that I had no idea how to make coffee. Like, none. So, I improvised by putting the grinds in the filter and filling the water up to the top line. I’ll never forget the way my sweetheart dumped it out after one sip. “This just tastes like gross water.” Ah, love.

Since I wasn’t doing so well on the Susie Homemaker front, I did the next best thing. I started taking him to The Coffee Loft after school. I went all the time anyway because I loved their Neapolitan Icerageouses (read: vanilla/mocha/strawberry “Frappuccino” equivalent), honey mustard chicken wraps with veggie chips, and turtle cheesecake. 

Can we pause a moment and reflect on how awesome the name “Icerageous” is? IceRAGEOUS!



He seemed to like it, and so — out of nowhere — I decided to apply for a job there. They didn’t have formal applications, so they gave me a piece of computer paper and a pen. I wrote out my info: name, contact numbers, school schedule, past work experience (the only time I really credited my first job), and references. I handed it back in to the girl I would later know as Kendra. Well, the owner was there at the time, and she came right out and briefly interviewed me. She seemed particularly pleased with all my art hobbies and clubs (as it turns out, it was so I could be assigned any and all aesthetic-based tasks such as label-making, signage, and the like).

On my drive home, I was really quite pleased with myself for being so proactive and being a teenager from a “rich kid” college prep academy who actually wanted to earn her own money. Well, I was pleased until MY PHONE RANG. When I saw “Coffee Loft” flashing on that Nokia cell phone with a plastic, cherry-adorned, snap-on cover…I panicked. I answered and Beth, the owner, was on the line.

“Would you be able to start Monday? You can also come to the employee meeting on Sunday.”

WHAT?! Just like that? I started to think of ways to tell her no. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t mentally prepared for taking a job; I was being way too spontaneous. But instead, I said, “That sounds great! Thank you so much.”



A very long story made extremely short, I loved it. I didn’t have a lot of friends at my school or anything, so Coffee Loft became a haven for me. Nearly all of my current closest friends were fellow baristas or customers at the Loft, and it’s where I met my first true love. I even gained a goddaughter from working there! You know, I have three years of memories made exclusively in that shop.

 
Countless birthday parties…

 
…educational opportunities…

 
…and strenuous, nose-to-the-grindstone business.

One of my most favorite moments was during autumn of 2004. We sold pumpkin pie cheesecake, and MY GOD, it was so good. I used to take so much pride in plating it for customers. They’d point over at the deli case that was loaded with homemade quiche, sandwiches, and treats, and my heart would skip a beat. No matter which barista was helping these people, I’d shout, “I’LL GET THE CHEESECAKE!”

I’d strut over to the deli case, whip out the glass cake-saver, snick my nose in the air, and strut back behind the counter. I’d wash my hands, grab a plate, and place a slice delicately on the plate…juxtaposed to the left. I’d go to the fridge, pull out our whipped cream, and shake-shake-shake. One big squirt on top of the slice back by the crust, and three baby squirts that resembled flowers on the side. I’d swipe the caramel sauce and squeeze it over the plate, very gourmet-like, in long zig-zags. As I handed the customer their food, I’d grin and wait for their ooohs and aaaahs. And they always came. I did excellent work with dessert garnishes. 

Well, one day, I was going through this rigorous and pompous practice when — aw shiz! —  I dropped a mother-frickin’ piece on the ground. The ground you just saw bubbling. That’s some nasty ground. 

So, I channeled my inner Rachel and Chandler and got out a fork. That pumpkin pie cheesecake was MAGICAL, and there was no way in hell I was letting any more than the bottom-most layer go to waste. I even got two coworkers to eat it off the floor with me.

 

Aw, I could go on forever with the stories. More will definitely come; look forward to the Washing-Feet-in-the-Sink and the Team Gloria Estefan stories. Until then, I leave you with another shining example of my dedicated work ethic:

 

PS - I still don’t know how to make coffee in a home coffee-maker.