And Then the Nice People

The Tuesday Reblog

I have been away from blogging for so long that I’m not really up on any of your posts, so as to be able to choose one to reblog. I’m truly sorry about that. But also, I’ve been away from blogging so long that I’m fairly certain my reblogging any of your posts isn’t going to help your blog traffic in any way–if it ever did–although the 30 of you who have discovered that I’m back have been quite generous and most of you have “liked” yesterday’s post, which is gratifying. But anyway, maybe today I’ll reblog something I wrote myself, way back when I was beginning the Old Blog. You all are making me think of nice people, so here’s a (maybe uncharacteristically–judging from the post that originally preceded this one) happy post from when I was still single and still working at Starbucks:

And Then The Nice People

Today was an eight-hour shift of grace, in which I got a glimpse of our many very truly wonderful customers, who treat us well. I thought I should share this with you, just to balance things out a little.

Yesterday I messed up someone’s drink. I mean, I actually did. It wasn’t just her saying I did. But she didn’t even say I did until this morning, when she subtly and politely asked Hannah to make sure that the barista made her drink with white mocha instead of regular mocha. I overheard her, though, and so I went over and apologised, and arranged for a little discount. I mean, she really hadn’t gotten what she wanted yesterday, and she should have, and then she was nice about it. She was so grateful for the discount (even though she deserved it), that she thanked us a million times and left us a big tip.

Later, just after noon, I did the trash run. (It took five trips. In spite of how eco-earnest most of us Starbucks employees are, we do generate a dismaying amount of rubbish.) As I was bringing the bin in for the second-to-last time, a young woman exiting the store with her husband and daughter grabbed the door and held it for me as I approached. Her husband must have said something about this to her, because she smiled at me and said, “Well, I want to, because she’s always nice to me.” Whatever the cockles of the heart are, mine were warmed. This young woman is more or less a regular, and we’ve chatted. For one thing, she has a spectacular butterfly tattooed on her left arm. I don’t like tattoos as a general rule, but this one is quite gorgeous. But I couldn’t think of ever having been extra-specially nice to her. Not so that she would notice, I mean.

And then there was the guy who phoned to talk to his wife. “What does she look like?” I asked.

“She’ll be sitting there with her laptop,” he began.

“Oh–is it Betsy?” I said. It was Betsy.

And that, my friends, is what I love about my job. I love to see people being gracious even when a situation wasn’t their fault. And I love having a rapport with people I see every day, so that we smile genuine smiles at each other when they walk through the door. (Um, I guess I probably kind of like when they tell other people I’m nice, too.) And I love when I know someone’s name.

The original Starbucks, which I visited years and years after this story happened.

The original Starbucks, which I visited years and years after this story happened.


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