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Post by KADEN ALLINGHAM-HEMSWORTH on Jun 23, 2012 11:21:57 GMT -5
This was one of those occasions upon which Kaden was forced, for the sake of his own sanity, to constantly remind himself why he was doing this. Money. The two syllables echoed through his head constantly as he stood, hour after hour, day after day, as he pretended that he honestly gave two fractions of a shit what sort of coffee these customers wanted, as he scurried back and forth between register, counter, register, counter, register, counter, his nostrils permanently tainted with the lugubrious scent of coffee beans. Money, money, money, money, money. He could just feel the texture of the crisp bills against his fingertips as the sun rose and set through the enormous Starbucks window, over the New York City skyline. For once in his life Kaden Allingham-Hemsworth was in possession of his own money, his own means of living.
Kaden was supporting himself. So this distasteful Starbucks job had that going for it, at least.
Having fastened his apron and arranged the “Tips” jar in a mildly more appealing manner, in his opinion, Kaden took his place at the front register and steeled himself for today’s shift. Beneath the counter his fingers fiddled with the pocket of his nauseatingly green apron, retrieving a small deck of cards. He began to shuffle them absentmindedly, weaving them upwards, downwards, across each other, in intricate patterns like the ornamentations of an Ancient Greek pillar. As the cards molded themselves to his fingers’ whims, he allowed his eyes and mind to wander the room.
This morning’s batch of customers seemed disappointingly drab, though granted, it was early on a Saturday morning, a time when any human being in his or her right mind would probably be sleeping. Roving the room several times, Kaden’s gaze was caught by a young woman in the corner, scribbling feverishly in a red, crocodile-skinned notebook. Rich, he thought to himself automatically, corroborating his own point with a nod to her glittering high-heeled boots and a bracelet inscribed with the word “Tiffany” in tiny rhinestones along the band. Not a college student, then. But then...why be writing?
His eyes drifted to the table before her, completely empty save a small pile of papers, upon one of which he could glimpse the traces of an elegant, but clearly masculine script. A long-distance significant other, perhaps. Had quite enough of his conservative inclinations? Letter-writing and such. Been spending more and more time at Starbucks, after all. Kaden sighed and returned to his cards, wondering who it was he’d be working with today, and when on Earth said person would have the decency to show up to work. If he or she thought that Kaden was going to be mixing the lattes, then he or she was quite wrong.
Wordz: Four sixty
Notez: Jesus christ 460 words of Kaden complaining about Starbucks who am I
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Post by LUCAS CARTWRIGHT on Jul 1, 2012 2:03:34 GMT -5
Viewed from a literal perspective (the sort of perspective that Lucas much preferred), the name Starbucks made anything but sense. Bucks– namely, the kind of well-earned bucks that Lucas hoped to, but rarely did, discover in multitude at the bottom of his tip jar– and stars were entirely unrelated things; the implication alone that anything, anything at all (especially not the saccharine bullshit they offered here) would serve as currency upon a star, which in reality was little more than a bundle of plasma... The implication was... It was entirely preposterous, and it made Lucas want to set fire to a fervently fucking teenage couple in the park– they abounded in America, those hapless young souls whose brief lives had reached such exasperating levels of nonfulfillment that they turned to a shameful existence of drugs and sex in Central Park that Lucas could never ever hope for his beloved sister. He was not the typical man who would come in late for work; Lucas scarcely faltered in anything he did, after all. He ought to be the likely employee of the month, he ought to be the one who outshone the others, if not in sociability then in mere work ethic. True, though, work ethic was an indomitable fiend when laboring at such a place as this one. Beyond the fanciful name, the coffee bar was not the place for Lucas Cartwright, if Starbucks could really be "the place" for anyone at all. It was a mere pit stop with which to support Marlena as she wove her way through her college throes, receiving an education while he toiled away in the unbecoming apron and green hat. He loathed the Starbucks insignia– some fucking irrelevant mermaid, mind you– almost more than he loathed the franchise's groundless (but ever so famous) name. He loathed coffee. Starbucks itself had so little purpose, coffee itself so little purpose but to feed the lust for espresso of an addicted international populace. Ironic, Lucas thought, for him to work at such a place as Starbucks, which bred the poison favored by most addicts. He was addicted, himself, though his poison bore such different shape than what he served here, in his green hat and apron. Lucas' poison was Marlena. Marlena, the reason for his every flaw, the reason for his every desperation. Marlena, who both hindered and helped him. She was his inspiration to keep living– when it reached such radical matter as life and death, Lucas couldn't possibly see how anything could be more important than tending to his poisonous muse. "I'm late–" he said, as if it wasn't obvious, donning his green hat and fastening his green apron as he slipped through the gateway, across the counter that barred client from barista. "Sorry I'm late..."He offered the other man a perfunctory glance, mutely scrutinizing his every fiber. He was not a very impressive man– the sort of man that Lucas would want to stay away from Marlena, if only, if only for the fact that he had been reduced to working at such a place as Starbucks. (Could hypocrisy really be defined? Life wasn't black and white, you know– unlike the man at the cashier, Lucas wouldn't be here for long. Soon he'd be up and out, away from Starbucks and into bigger and better things with which he could properly support Marlena, with which he could properly offer her the glorious life that she deserved. The man he was working with, on the other hand; what could he possibly offer Marlena? Shit. He could offer her shit. notes false, lucas. starbucks is actually named after the moby dick character, i think wamp wah lucas you failure
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Post by KADEN ALLINGHAM-HEMSWORTH on Aug 12, 2013 13:53:35 GMT -5
What in God’s name was she writing? Kaden wasn’t sure what exactly about the young woman at the table in the far corner intrigued him so much, but he was finding himself quite curious all the same. It provided a puzzle, some variety of intellectual stimulation, in an occupation that was so mindless, day after day, week after week.
Part of him was almost hoping he’d land this internship at this bombastic, Upper East Side record label, so that such mental exercise would be a daily, not to mention paid, affair. Of course, almost was the operative word. Kaden was quite confident in his opinion that this Starbucks job was enough to make a living, and that was quite enough to satisfy him. Kaden saw no need for resume-padding corporate employment, when mixing lattes had done him no wrong as of yet.
He had just about determined that the woman was transcribing notes from some sort of interview she’d just done (a journalist, perhaps? No, her pockets were far too small to hold any sort of notebook or recording device. A researcher, then. PhD candidate? No, too young. Masters.) when he heard the small break-room door creak open behind him.
"Sorry I'm late..."
”Apology acknowledged,” he replied tersely, unmoving. Kaden would concede that he lived many aspects of his life in a quite lackluster manner. But when it came to punctuality, he’d never once made a slip. Kaden arrived places on time. It was part of common human decency. To arrive somewhere late was to undermine the value and purpose of that appointment in its entirety. Kaden did not make many commitments, but the ones he did make, he intended to keep. He wasn’t about to give others an impression that he was incapable of keeping any sort of promise or vow. He wasn’t incapable: just disinclined.
”I’ll leave you the pleasure of mixing the lattes,” he muttered, beginning to fiddle with the cash register keys. He’d discerned early on his employment that punching in certain codes would produce very amusing noises from the barcode scanner.
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