Page 9 of Another Roommate (Life in the Brohouse 4)

Rachel spins around and strides back to my side. “Oh, you should apply. Can you grab an application for me?”

I nod, watching them leave before turning back to the front.

“Can I get two applications please?” I ask the barista.

*****

I fidget with my new brown apron while I listen to Jason, the supervisor. After filling out my application, Jason told me I’m hired and asked if I had time for some training. I stupidly told him yes. Now, I’ve been stuck in this cafe since eleven this morning, going over rules and methods that are pretty much going in one ear and out the other.

I’ve never worked before. At least, not outside my dad’s office. When I was about ten years old, I remember helping my dad’s secretary. It mostly involved shredding paper and stapling files together. Nothing that involved anything difficult. I remember enjoying it. Afterwards, my dad gave the secretary money to take us out to get sundaes. It’s one of my favorite memories.

Apparently, the real world doesn’t work like that.

I stare at the cash register as if it’s an iPad from the future. One with multiple buttons in random areas. At least the specialty drinks are under the Specialty Drinks button labeled with red, but extra shots, milk replacements, whipped cream, and other random items are under the Extras tab.

“Don’t worry,” says Jason. “We won’t have you work the cash register for at least another week.”

He expects me to understand the cash register in a week? My eyes widen as I stare at it. It stares back at me, as if daring me to touch it. I can see future me fucking this up royally, but I need a job. I’ve gotten used to a certain kind of lifestyle, and I don’t want to live off ramen and water for the next year. Rent is also due soon. I can’t continue living off my friends’ kindness.

“As far as specialty drinks go, you can find the recipes here,” says Jason while handing me a big binder.

Shit.

“You can use this as a cheat sheet for a while, until you have them all memorized.”

I flip through the pages. My insides twist even more. There’s no way I can do this. Stapling papers. Shredding faxes. Sure, that stuff is easy. Making coffee? Nope. Not possible.

Who knew there were nearly a hundred ways to make coffee?

I take it back. Coffee doesn’t solve everyone’s problems. It creates them.

I snap the book closed and rest it on the counter. I hear Jason’s voice. He’s talking about the espresso machine, but I can’t see him. I follow the voice, then find him behind the giant espresso machine. All I hear is “blah, blah, blah,” as he points to the random buttons on the giant metal box. Sweat drips down the side of my face.

I don’t think I can do this.

“But, most important,” says Jason while holding up a finger in front of me, “is cleaning. We have cleaning slots that need to be done throughout the day.”

“O-oh?” I say, hoping I sound intrigued, when in fact, I’m dying inside. This gig gets paid minimum wage. Why does it seem like rocket science to me? Isn’t minimum wage supposed to mean easy?

“So we clean the espresso machine in the morning and at night, then again when things get slow, which depends on whether or not it’s finals week.” He chuckles here. I join in awkwardly. A part of me wants to call up my parents and ask them to take me back. My hands fist at that thought. No. I can do this. Everyone does this and so will I.

“We also clean the bathrooms. You can find the slot on the door and the list of things to do. Every time you finish, just write your name.” Jason pulls out a pen from his brown apron. “So why don’t you do that, and when you’re finished, we can go over upselling to customers.”

My head bobs up and down and I go into the men’s bathroom, reading over the slots of things to do taped to the door.

Wipe down the sink counter.

Well, that’s easy to do. I grab several paper towels and swipe them over the counter before returning to the list.

Wipe down the mirrors.

I nod to myself. That’s also easy to do. I can do this. Taking my already used paper towels, I swipe them over the mirror, smearing some sort of residue across my reflection. My smile dissipates.

“Huh,” I say while placing my hands on my hips. “Why didn’t that work?”

I lean into the mirror and rub the towel against it once more, creating even more of a mess than before. “Crap,” I mutter to myself. Deciding to deal with the mirror later, I throw the towels in the trash can and turn back to the list.

Clean toilet bowls.

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