The Girl at the Barista Stand

“Thank you for working on Thanksgiving.” That is what I said to the young woman leaning out of the coffee stand window. She had a handful of precious treats for my family. A croissant for my daughter, a half sandwich for my wife, and a mocha with an extra shot and half the chocolate for me.

I used to dislike coffee. Then I started working a real job after college and realized that people are like cars - they need fuel. But I had quite the sweet tooth. So I got the coffee with all the bells and whistles. Flavor, whipped cream, anything to make this coffee taste like something other than coffee. I was the guy repulsed that my fish tasted fishy. Then slowly over time, I started becoming the old man I was destined to be. The flavor became too sweet, and the whipped cream took up permanent residency inside a growing bulge in my stomach. So I started weaning myself off the high octane gas and began down the arduous path toward black coffee.

My dad is my favorite black coffee drinker. When I popped out of bed as a child, I knew the scene I was walking into every morning. My dad would be sitting on a stool in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette, staring out the window, and drinking coffee. He always seemed in a trance. The way he looked out that window made me think he could see for miles. Like his eyes were telescopes, and he was the lighthouse looking for ships coasting too close to shore. And his coffee, well he needed it. I could tell the mornings he didn’t have any, because he dragged more ass than me to get out the door.

I’m not anywhere close to that yet, but my mochas no longer have whipped cream. And that standard amount of chocolate baristas pump into a cup, well I find it almost criminal. As for the coffee shots, it usually takes an extra to actually enjoy the flavor.

I have a friend I call Fish. He has the best drink order for when you need a real kick in the pants. He gets a 16 oz, quad shot, no whip, white chocolate mocha with half the chocolate. “Nectar of the Gods!” That’s what Fish says when he drinks something especially special. He is the best.

So when this sweet lady handed me a cup of coffee, it wasn’t just that I wanted a tasty drink, I wanted delicious fuel to power our two hour drive home after spending Thanksgiving at my sister's house. And it was even better because it was unexpected. I didn’t think anyone would have a coffee stand open at 5:00 PM on Thanksgiving. When I spotted it in the wild, the lights were dim and uninviting. But we pulled up anyway, expecting to be disappointed.

Not only were they open, but we were greeted with a warm smile and friendly welcome. When she asked how she could help, it was as if she was really asking how she could assist our family in having a better life, not just ramping up to the list of fresh scones. After she handed us the goods, she thanked us genuinely and wished us a happy Thanksgiving.

I thanked her for working on a holiday and pulled out. For the next five minutes I wished I had said so much more. I should have told her how much that coffee meant. How appreciative I was to have some caffeine after a long day. How much her attitude was noticed by everyone in my car. I wish I could have explained to not only her, but everyone out there working on Thanksgiving that it isn’t a trivial thing. These jobs matter because they help us acquire the things we need, and they connect us - two special things happening in the outside world, on a day when most people are inside. That matters. The barista matters. And the coffee was perfect.