Black Coffee: Liminality in Food Service

This essay is a personal project written during my time off at the University of Denver (Autumn of 2022.) I had taken a break from college to work full-time so I could fund the rest of my studies. I decided to use my day-to-day life as inspiration for a creative writing project that intentionally meanders, cycles, skips and rewinds.

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Last night I dreamt I smoked through multiple packs of cigarettes until I got nauseous. It’s hard to feel like the world isn’t continuing as I’m left behind. My routine rarely deviates—I wake up at four o’clock trying to shake off delirium, trace yesterday’s eyeliner, and drive to work. I get through this first part of my routine by reminding myself that getting out of bed will be the most difficult part of my day. As I drive, I allow myself to crank down my window. I do not think too hard about the strange and visceral feelings the early morning air gives me as it flows through. I roll my window back up when it begins to suffocate my brain. I give myself these instructions: Remember to give the proper response when the white-haired and well-meaning regular tells you, “You’re so beautiful, I just hope you know that.” Smile and thank her. Send her off ASAP so you don’t have to think too hard about the strange stomach pain you feel when a grandmotherly woman compliments you with concern on her face.

I’ve taken up physical media collecting as I’ve skipped this quarter at university. Some vinyl, but mostly CDs. Part of this is because the belief that the world is continuing without you results in the feeling that it will end sooner than you realize. I don’t need canned food and weapons when I doomsday prep. I need something that will help me do what I do best-- passively allow myself to be killed. They love to see people like me die, and every movie needs its soundtrack. The only question is what flavor of death I should choose. This is why I give myself options.

Another part of my CD collecting is the appeal of my Walkman’s animalistic nature. When it skips, I imagine it has a lurching heart somewhere inside of its plastic casing, that much like me it is yearning for something this world cannot offer it. It takes a deep breath before a track begins and awkwardly stops after its performance. I cannot convince myself that it would not bleed if I plunged a pair of scissors into it. It is a pet that seems like it is begging to be euthanized. It is waiting for its end, much like an old dog you feed knowing it won’t last forever, much like a first love you feed knowing it won’t last forever, knowing that it is only a matter of when.

I wonder if part of the mysticism I feel in my Walkman comes from me collecting it from the free bin of a gift shop in a new-age church/hostel. My band and I were staying there to finish recording our album and film a music video. As I took one Walkman, I heard a voice behind me. It was the owner of the church and great-great grandson of its founder, who would later confide in me that he has a foot fetish. He was strange but well-meaning. “Take all of the Walkmans,” he said. “I don’t give a shit. Those have been there forever. Give them to your friends. Use them in a giveaway with your band. I’m serious!” I obliged.

A photo my bandmate took of me with my CD collection. You can see the Walkman I kept decorated with stickers in the background.

The single Walkman I decided to keep is the antithesis to the soullessness of the speakers at the outdoor mall right next to the coffee joint I work at. No matter how early in the morning, its music is always echoing off the walls. Rather than serenading customers, it is attempting to attract victims. I think that music will continue to play after the end of the world.

There are many reasons why I say “coffee joint” rather than “coffee shop” or even “café.” My coworker told me that the reason our coffee stays so cheap is because we get the shitty leftovers that are below the coffee shop and café types of places’ standards. I wasn’t surprised by this. I’ve never worked anywhere that’s offered anything more. While my cohorts got jobs at the trendy coffee shops on campus, I was one of the only students working in the dining hall, not much more than a lunch lady. I couldn’t help but feel a slight bitterness that my peers, most from wealthy families, got to work so few hours for a little extra pocket money rather than to fund their schooling. They played dress-up with cute uniforms and had time between shifts and classes to accessorize and go on weekend ski trips. Then again, I am playing dress-up by going to a stereotypically wealthy university, in the first place.

I thought my parents were finally the richest they could ever conceivably be when we got two cars. My extended family thought we were rich when we started wearing pajamas with matching tops and bottoms. I didn’t know that there were enough people as rich as my peers to fill a university. For a long time, I didn’t even know that there was anything abnormal about your grandmother asking to see your “pretty teeth” every time you visit her because she admires how you’ve kept them all or that other children didn’t get fed Mountain Dew from a sippy cup. Just like how I could not conceive being any richer than being able to afford two nice cars in our garage, I still cannot conceive myself being pretty, thin, or personable (read: brought up wealthy) enough to work anywhere particularly trendy, especially not a café.

The second reason why I choose the term “coffee joint” is because the place I work at is less “coffee and French pastries” and more “coffee and donuts.” For some reason, the latter is considered less tasteful than the former. My theory is that it is because the first applies to the exclusive European standard of taste and class, which white Americans quite literally eat up, while just about every culture across the globe loves a good sweet fried dough dish. In fact, fried dough is considered to transcend cultural boundaries as it predates them, which makes it undesirable to anyone who wants to claim culinary superiority. This is because, of course, the only thing less classy than community is when non-European cultures share a common ancestor in that community. (If it were proper, I would include a GIF of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons saying “Donuts? I told you; I don’t like ethnic food!” here.)

The third reason is because my place of work has employees eat mistakes. I never make mistakes on purpose, but I’m still happy to sustain myself on them. This is something I’m good at. I’m used to consuming mistakes, even those that aren’t mine, and absorbing the guilt in the process. I let errors swim around in my mind until my body absorbs them again to regurgitate another time. Flawed things and I stick together. We have a lot in common. After all, is absorbing someone or something into your body, sustaining yourself off of it, not the highest and most self-centered form of love? (It might be more “proper” to include in an essay than a screenshot from The Simpsons, but for fairness’s sake, I will not paste a visual of Francisco Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son here. Yes, I feel empathy for pictures on a screen, and yes, I will treat them “justly.” I have my own principles. Just know that the painting is haunting me as I write this section.)

The loneliest and paradoxically most bonding part of eating a mistake at work is knowing that somewhere, there is a customer you will never meet who is eating the other half of the order you fucked up. Are they mad at me because I needed to remake their food? You wonder. Would I like them? Would they like me? Don’t you think it’s kind of weird that you’re thinking about this? Part of food service is sharing with strangers, both in the literal and conversational sense. Sociologist Arlie Hochschild first coined the term “emotional labor” as a term that is exclusive to workers and their relationship to customers. It is the invisible work that takes precedent over all other facets of a food service employee’s job. You can perform such labor by letting customers know intimate details about yourself such as the fact that you like their shirt, or how their car smells, or the color of their hair, or telling them that the drink they ordered is actually your favorite. They’ll remember you fondly without ever knowing about the weird shit that goes on behind the eyes they tell you are so pretty.