Son of a Bitch! (long ass post)

Alas, alack, dear reader, for I have been chewed up and shat out by the mighty corporate Nazi-engine that is known as starbucks. no longer will i be able to spy from the inside, quietly making my way through the ranks and causing mayhem where and when i can like Archibald 'Harry' Tuttle (See if you can figure that one out!). No, now i lay, gently steaming in the wake of the mighty Engines of Destruction, forgotten, a pale fugtive cast out. I am become a Pariah, unclean and unwahsed, and horribly, horribly addicted to coffee.

My crime? Affecting the status quo, preventing greedy fatcat backroom managers from claiming their even fatter bonuses, cash rewards, i might add, that are written on the skin flayed from the backs of underpaid employees and signed with their blood stained tears. i fell prey to draconian cash handling procedures. i was demolished by stringent policies that would make even the most rightest-right-wing ultra-conservative wince like they'd sucked a lemon, inhaling that sharp gasp of air that is usually reserved for when a guy gets royally sacked in a nasty game of Rochambaux.

not to put too fine a point on it, i'm a numerical retard. it's kind of funny, if you find pointing at the less intelligent and making chimpanzee noises at them. lord knows i find that kind of shit hilarious. but there it is, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

much like california, starbucks believes in the three strikes and you're out policy. it helps rotate the bright, sharp minded and ultimately cynical employees out and bring the easily molded, clay-minded yesman and yaywomen in.

first warning is basically, hey, spaz, knock it the fuck off. learn your numbers, and don't give me any lip, bitchass, or it's garbage run time for you. (sidebar: there is a term for the liquid detritus that sits, stewing under pounds of garbage in the heat, assisted by the warm, smothering warminess of expired coffee grind. it is called dumpster juice. it is some foul, fucked up, truly repellant and repugnant shit. for the first time in a long time, i discovered that yes, eyeballs can actually taste things, but only if nose and mouth have been cauterized shut by a furnace of heated goo steam kept under pressure for hours on end)

second warning is a little more serious. out comes the paperwork, and boy howdy, does them people at starbucks love them some paperwork. it gives them something to do, i expect. the official party line on phase two is that it's a 'recorded coaching conversation designed to affect a change in a person's behaviour and/or learning curve'. more of a swat on the hand, really, but there you have it. at this point, there is much in the way of serious eye contact, heartfelt 'you're a good member of the team', and 'i will keep my penis in my pants when working'. it's all very soft, touchy feely and not at all intimidating.

don't fall for it. this is a ploy designed to lull even the most hard-hearted rational mind into a sense of soporific bliss. Ah! you think to yourself, walking away with a fistful of pink-for-partner carbon copy papers in your left hand, they truly need me! all is well, i shall simply avoid doing the things (or not doing, whatever the case) that got me into the position in the first place. this shall be easy peasy, much like making ice cubes or that thing were you don't stare into the sun for too long. the Dr Phil-esque avuncular or Oprah-esque avauntular semi-praise is a prelude to step 3.

step 3 is officially classified as 'final coaching conversation'. don't let the innocuous term fool you. this is ultra-level enigma classified crypto-speak for MAn, you done fucked it up good now. you are on the bench, fuckface. gone are the encouraging words (you can do it, evil! you can enter the numbers so they come up the right way ... i am so fucked on a debit machine i'm somehow entering cyrllic in there. four dollars squiggly squiggly pi? what kind of price is that for a mocha??). gone are the gentle tones, and the low-level sense that it ain't that serious.

you get to step three at starbucks, you need to be looking over your shoulder and counting your hands and toes when you get off work, because man, there ain't no such thing as a time limit at this point; you fuck up after level 3, you get your shit fixed for you so fast that, if you listen closely, you can hear a sonic boom. that is you, losing your job, faster than the speed of sound. you drop the ball at this point, it's like flubbing the winning field goal for the team that has never ever ever been to Superbowl, and, thanks to your suckitude, never will again.

now, if you're lucky, you're like me: big, mildly intimidating and utterly, utterly unashamed to use a voice loud enough to cut through concrete to your advantage, you get two people for your 'exit interview'. this is to presumably ensure that, should i decide to go ted bundy, someone will be able to shout for help.

my 'exit' interview was hilarious, at least to me, because my fourth and final mistake on cash happened just prior to a weekend off. i spent the weekend considering the pros and cons of working at starbucks for any reasonable length of time and discovered that, beyond an inordinate number of beautiful women, there was very little there worth putting the effort of staying forward. i made my peace with the decision, because as anyone knows whose worked for a large American company, once the paper trail has started, nothing, not even a promissory note to behave, signed and ratified by the Joint Chiefs of Staff and notarized by the Pope himself, can stop the Juggernaut of Beauracracy.

so. two people, both of them looking profoundly ... well, embarassed is a good word to use. they think i don't know what's coming, which makes me smug like charlie sheen for not getting AIDs after banging all those hookers. they tell me, in quiet, whispered tones, unable to really look me in the face, that today is my last today, but i'll have until the end of the day to get my coffee of the week. it went a little like this:

them: this is your last day.

me: uhuh. yeah, i kind of figured, on account of, you know, i'm a retard when it comes to cash.

them: this has nothing to do with who you are as a person, you know. if it wasn't for your cash handling, you'd be perfect.

me: yes, well, clearly i belong with that tribe in new guinea who lacks the necessary gene to even comprehend numbers, so if you could just stop being condescending and give me my walking papers, i'll mosey on out of here and spend the next six months poking merciless fun at you behind your back and inciting your fellow dissatisifed parnters into riots.

them: ??

me: separation papers? those forms you fill out when you heedlessly hack and slash a man's only source of income from him? yet another thick sheaf of carbon copy pages that are the main ingredient on going on EI? without them, i am likely to become an enraged and penniless beast.

them: this is news to us. what are these ... separation papers ... you speak of?

me: it is a part of the termination process. it is the culmination of the legally binding decision on your behalf to end my employment with the company for failure to adhere to the strict, neo-Nazi protocols for selling legalized crack cocaine to twelve year olds and mentally deficient wannabes. it lists, in no particular order, when i sold my soul, when my soul was returned to me, the number of unshelled peanuts i received per hour, and the amount of skin stripped from my bare back for things like a pension i will never see.

them: this is the first we have ever heard of this. all we do is send an email. it's taken care of on the other end.

me: yes, well, without these papers i can't apply for ei, so unless you want a man dousing himself in gasoline and setting himself alight in your storefront, i advise you to actually pick up the phone and discover for yourself just what it is you should know.

them: we shall do this. we cannot even comprehend you now that your soul has been returned to you. the light is so bright, the shadows even darker, and we want to walk into it ...

me: of course you do. it is the natural way of things, but unfortunately for you, i'm a selfish prick who won't let you touch me, now that i am bright and shiny once more.

we exchanged a few pleasantries, i bade those few working who i genuinely liked farewell, and made my way home, where i ate an entire pizza, spent four hours playing Empire Earth 2 and surfing the internet for a way to hack into a secure starbucks server.

i suppose my next post will chronicle the starting stages of finding a new job.

until then, this is evilmister, not down, not out, and certainly unstoppable.