As for the uniforms, well, most people don’t know it, but Starbucks treats its aprons like martial-arts belts. Green aprons for beginners, black aprons for coffee masters, and purple aprons for gods. I was a black apron. After working there for four years, I was certainly the Head Nigga in Charge. But to be honest, this didn’t mean much.
“Hey, Darren!” Nicole said, tying the straps of her green apron behind her back. Nicole was a large white woman with a pretty face. She was probably thirty-five and always in a great mood no matter how rough customers were.
When I came out, the place was packed. Carlos, Brian, and Nicole were filling cups, making change, and serving pastries as if it were a five-star restaurant. They were a motley crew—Carlos was an ex-con who’d committed a crime he wasn’t allowed to discuss, Brian had charcoal skin with a face full of acne and a side of Tourette’s, and Nicole, though well-meaning, only saw the world through rose-colored glasses—but I molded them all into soldiers. They were never late, always professional, and knowledgeable about every newfangled drink that corporate handed down to us. But most of all, they were just good humans. I don’t have any siblings, so they were the closest thing to it. And even though I was the youngest, they saw me as an older brother.
As the line of morning addicts stretched out the door, I hopped into action. Now I’m not trying to brag, but I was what you’d call a Starbucks prodigy. No one except Carlos, Brian, and Nicole knew it, but that didn’t matter. I could remember someone’s order from three months back, mix and match drinks to accommodate special tastes, and while doing all that, man two registers at once, shuffling back and forth like I was Billy Blanks or Richard Simmons.
We halved the line within ten minutes, and I hadn’t even broken a sweat. Then I saw him. He had started coming in two months ago after his company moved in. Early mornings, he’d enter alone, always on the phone. At ten, he would return flanked by a group of men, all resembling Dobermans. In the afternoon, he’d come in again with a few younger people who beamed at him as he laughed, and he’d tell them to get whatever they wanted. Then late afternoon would arrive, and I never knew what to expect.
His appearance changed depending not on the time of day but on whom he was with. When alone, he was pensive; with his Dobermans, he was focused; with his young disciples, he shined brighter than the sun itself. He’d never order food, and despite his athletic build, well-groomed hair, and healthy olive complexion, I was sure he ran on nothing but coffee.
I can’t tell you why I did what I did next; I suppose I just wanted to be helpful. He walked up to the counter, earbuds firmly in his ears, his face twitching in frustration. But instead of getting him his regular Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew—I waited. He nodded his head, then finally said, “I know, I know. It’s going to be fine, trust me. I’ve got the board handled.”
I served customers on the adjacent register until he looked up, and said, “Hey. Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew. Like always. You remember, right?”
By now, the last of the morning customers had grabbed their drinks, and it was just us at the counter.
“I don’t think you want that today,” I said.
I didn’t know why my heart was furiously beating against my ribs. But looking back on it, I realize my body must’ve known that this was a pivotal moment in my life, that these supernatural turns of fate are rare.
Reader: What you are about to see is what happens when intuition overrides logic, which is the mark of any salesperson worth their salt. People buy based on emotion and justify with reason. Watch.
“Yeah, hold on,” he said into his mic, staring at me. His eyes burned with anger. “Why wouldn’t I want that today?” he asked, growing larger, like a lion with its prey in reach.
“Because I always hear you on your phone talking about efficiency. And the Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew isn’t built for that. You want something like—”
He laughed, but it wasn’t the kind where someone actually finds something funny; it was the type where you’re so pissed off, you’re about to snap. He took a deep breath, slowly releasing it. “Listen, I’m good on whatever you’re selling, just give me my regular. I don’t have time for this.”
Just give him his regular. Stop fucking around. But I didn’t listen. What I said next had to be divine intervention because I didn’t know where it came from.
“That’s what the last five customers also said to me, until I gave them another option that solved a problem they didn’t know they had.”
He clenched his jaw and leaned toward me like he was going to Tyson my ear off.
“Because,” I continued, too committed to stop, “believe it or not, when you come here and order something, you’re not ordering a drink, you’re ordering a solution. A solution to fatigue, irritability, and anything else that a lack of coffee means to you. So, if you’ll indulge me, I’m confident that the Nitro Cold Brew with Sweet Cream is what you actually want. It has ten grams less sugar than your regular, forty fewer calories, and one hundred forty milligrams more caffeine. But at the end of the day, those are just numbers. So if you buy the Nitro Cold Brew and don’t like it, you can come back, and I’ll give you your regular free of charge. What do you think?”
Silence. Ten full seconds of silence. If you don’t think ten seconds of silence is long, just count it out while picturing a grown man staring directly into your eyes as if he’s going to snatch the black off you. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. I was tempted to tell him to forget it, that it was my bad, but something told me not to. I just stared back into his eyes until he said, “Did you just try to reverse close me?” He relaxed his jaw and his eyes softened with curiosity.
It was then I realized Carlos, Nicole, and Brian had been staring at us the entire time. I felt their hearts collectively skip a beat when the guy spoke, and I remembered the color of the apron I was wearing, and that I was the HNIC. “I suppose I did,” I said, nodding at Brian to make the guy’s drink.
“What’s your name?”
“Darren. Darren Vender.”
“Rhett Daniels,” he said, extending a hand over the counter. I quickly wiped the sweat off mine before gripping his.
“Nice to meet you, Rhett. I see you in here every day. Well, a few times a day, actually.”
He laughed. Genuinely this time. “Yeah, I run on coffee. What do you do besides work here?”
“Read, watch movies, hang out with my girlfriend. Normal stuff guys get into in the city.”
“And how much do you make?”
Damn, how much do I make? This guy was going in deep. I shrugged.
“Your drink is ready,” I said, nodding toward the far side of the counter.
Rhett slowly walked over, never taking his eyes off me, grabbed the drink, and took a sip. “This is delicious. Thanks for the recommendation, Darren.”
“No problem.” I felt uneasy. Something had shifted.
“Listen, I gotta get to work. But here’s my card. Why don’t you swing by the office after your shift?”
Swing by the office? I had no clue what this guy was talking about. “For what?”
“An opportunity.”