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What made this job suck was that my boss was awful. He was twenty-two years old, was about five-foot-nothing, and he had a huge Napoleon complex about it. His idea of good leadership was ridiculing everyone for the smallest infraction.
Or, in some cases, no infraction at all.
“You’re late,” he said when I walked behind the counter. His voice had a whiny pitch to it that made me wonder if he had ever gone through puberty.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Late? I’m five minutes early for my shift.”
“Mark Twain once said that if you’re not ten minutes early, then you’re thirty minutes late,” he quoted sagely.
“That doesn’t make any sense. And I doubt Mark Twain ever really said that.”
“Just hurry up and clock in,” he said. “I need you to clean the grinders.”
I groaned, but didn’t say anything. My boss loved it when people talked back to him because it gave him an opportunity to wield his meager authority. It was best to put your head down and avoid his wrath.
Cleaning out the bean grinders was a slow, tedious process that he always reserved for whoever he disliked the most that week, which for some reason was me. I took everything apart and cleaned them in solution, rinsed them thoroughly, and then put it all back together. When I was done, I pulled out my phone and checked the job listings on my app. I hadn’t checked since this morning, and I felt a sliver of hope.
Nope. There was nothing new. Just the same two short-term nannying jobs I had already applied for, neither of which had responded to me.
“Hey!” my boss snapped. He was suddenly at my side. “What are you doing?”
“I was just checking my phone,” I said. “I finished cleaning the grinders, like you asked.”
“Cell phones are supposed to be stored in the employee lockers,” he said, curling his lip petulantly. “I am going to have to write you up.”
I sighed. “Come on. I only glanced at it for a second. I promise it won’t happen again.”
“Do youenjoybeing disobedient?” he asked, raising his voice so the other baristas could hear. There was no point in chewing someone out unless it made an example. “Because I get the impression youintentionallydo a bad job.”
“I… I’m sorry,” I said, swallowing my pride. “You’re right.”
“I don’t care if you’re sorry. I care if you’re productive. This is a business, Patricia, not a charity.”
A few customers were watching. I felt my cheeks redden for the second time today. “I understand.”
“Doyou understand?” he said, continuing the tirade. “I thought you went to college. I guess having a degree doesn’t make someone smart, huh?”
Anger rose up in me like a fountain, but I didn’t have a chance to say anything to him because a customer did first.
“Hey, relax, man,” said a broad-shouldered man in a polo shirt. “You don’t need to be a dick about it.”
Brownie?I blinked at the sight of him on the other side of the register, both hands planted on the counter and giving my boss a warning stare.
“Sir, this has nothing to do with you—” my boss began.
“You’re being an asshole to my friend,” Brownie said. “Which makes it my problem. Are you going to apologize to her, or what?”
My boss scoffed. “Apologize? For reprimanding a bad employee?” He glanced at me. “Patricia, do you know this guy?”
“Um, not really. I’ll be right back.” I left the counter and grabbed Brownie’s arm, pulling him over to a secluded corner. His bicep was as solid as marble, but warm to the touch.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“Your boss kind of sucks,” Brownie said. He was gazing over my shoulder, and he looked like he was ready for a fight.
“You’re getting me in trouble.”
“I don’t want to argue with you, Kettlebells,” he said with a wince, “but it seems like you were already in trouble when I walked in.”
