By Arvilla Fee

I’m going to conduct an experiment. No; I’m not a retired science teacher; I’m a retired speech and debate teacher, and I believe today’s working young people have lost the ability to make eye contact and care about their customers. Here’s how I know. I’ve been going to Barista Central every day since it opened two weeks ago. The place is filled from corner-to-corner with bar-high chrome tables, black-padded bar stools, light bulbs hanging in long strands from the ceiling, and a colorful chalkboard menu the size of Maine. It’s a bustling place, especially in the mornings when I order my regular black coffee at half past 9.

There’s always a line, music blaring with words that make no sense, and a whole army of baristas shouting: tall frap skim milk, double espresso, white chocolate latte, caramel macchiato —over the grinding and whirring of at least a dozen machines that bear a startling resemblance to space ships. Now, I know what you’re thinking (especially if you’re under age thirty) Bro! Go to a different coffee shop. And I would, but this shop just happens to be a two-minute walk from my apartment, and while I might complain about the things I just mentioned, it’s actually a fascinating place to observe people.

But, back to my experiment. I’ve decided I will order the same black coffee every day, but I will use a different name each time to see whether the baristas take notice. I’m betting they don’t know any of their customers, and that’s a shame, considering I’ve already seen many “regulars” like me. Back in my day, customer service was valued, and employees called people by name. These young folks think they’re clever because they write names on the sides of cups, but they never match names with faces. 

* 

Over the next week, I tell the baristas my name is Tom, Bill, Henry, and so on. When I slip into line on Saturday, I’m disappointed (but not surprised) that not a single one of them has matched my face to my real name. I see a new employee today, or at least I think she’s new. She has bright pink hair, a pierced eyebrow, and painted fingernails that match her hair. I order my coffee (saying my name is Cash—after legendary Johnny Cash) and step aside. I watch the machines, listen to orders, and then I see pink girl place my coffee on the counter.

She calls out “CASH!” but doesn’t scuttle back to her station like most of them do. She waits until I reach the counter and says, “One regular black coffee, Tom, Bill, Henry, David, Jack, Cash?”

I gape at her, and, for once in my life, am speechless.

She winks at me. “And what’s my name?” she asks.

Still staring, opening and closing my mouth like a fish, I try to read her nametag.

“Nope,” she says, covering the tag. “No cheating!”

“I-I’m afraid I don’t know,” I finally say, flushing red from neck to hair roots.

“It’s Wendy,” she says, grinning. “My mom likes Peter Pan. Thank God, she didn’t name me Tinkerbell.” 

Recovering somewhat, I grin back. “Nice to meet you, Wendy. I’m Noah.”

“I know,” she says. “Enjoy your coffee, Noah.”

“You’re not new?”

“No. I’ve been here every morning you have. I just changed my hair color.”

Yes. I recognize her face now. I raise my cup and say, “To failed experiments.”  

                                                         *   *   *

Arvilla Fee teaches English Composition for Clark State College and is the poetry editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, and her poetry book, The Human Side, is available on Amazon. For Arvilla, writing produces the greatest joy when it connects us to each other.