The Pressure Within

By: Alyssa Jones

“Uhg they’re understaffed again.”

My body flinches as my muscles tighten and my heart rate rises. My eyes wander behind the cold

stone counter at the five bodies rushing around the tight space behind the bulky registers trying

to please the long line of customers held together by thick velvet rope. I walk to the end of the

line and simply listen to the world. The sounds of people talking loudly fill my ears.

“Did you do the assignment last night?”

I loose focus on the voices around me when I hear the all familiar yet horrifying sound. The

sound of milk steaming to a warm and fluffy consistency. I remember the days I would stand

there for hours, drink after drink watching the milk swirl endlessly in the metal pitcher. Two

percent, soy, almond, and skim; they all swirl the same way. Around and around they go. It was

like a never ending white milky abyss that kept my eyes fixated as it turned and turned with no

purpose.

“I don’t get why this is taking so long.”

My hands are shaking, is it from the coffee that I had already consumed this morning? No. It’s

fear, it was the fear of being behind that white stoned counter. The fear of feeling the hot coffee

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burn my shaking hands from all the espresso I had consumed before my shift. It was the fear of

being yelled at by a customer for a problem I had no control over. It was the fear of having my

manager over my shoulder screaming at me to hurry. It was the fear of not pleasing. It was the

fear Starbucks had instilled in me.

“Yes, were finally moving.”

I shuffle behind the crowed an inch maybe two. The velvet rope hits my clammy skin as

someone gripped the soft velvet and began swinging it around. The light velvet rope felt like an

avalanche crushing the softest parts of my skin. I look down at my arm that was covered in an

abnormal amount of small scars. My hands were no different, scar after scar, cut after cut, burn

after burn my hands look like they lived through a thousand different wars. The razor-sharp

metal on the wire shelves, the heavy metal safe door and the burning hot spigots dripping out

liquid that felt more like lava then coffee to its unexpected victim.

“Hey, how are you?”

Broken.

“I’m good thank you. How are you?”

She looked surprised.

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“I’m wondaful thank you for asking.”

I walk over to the condiment bar avoiding the swarm of hot bodies standing by the callout area.

I’m lost in thought again ignoring the heat radiating off the body next to me, how many people

asked me how I was doing? How many people actually cared. Of course, there were a few people

who cared but honestly, when was the last time I ever genuinely smiled at someone and said I’m

good. I went to training after training to learn how to connect with customers, but what if they

never wanted to connect with me? What do I do then? Smile. Fake a smile and lie. Don’t show

them weakness. If you show them weakness, they’ll eat you alive. They’ll rip your flesh from

your body, your joint from your bones and drain the marrow within. Smile. Keep going.

“I mean honestly where did they learn to clean?”

The countertops were sticky and covered in a light film of sanitizer. The skin between my fingers

begins to sting at the memory of washing dirty dishes over and over again until the harsh

chemical ate away at my sensitive flesh leaving them dry and cracked. Self-conscious. My dry,

cracked bleeding hands left me no other option but to hide them. Keeping my battle wounds

hidden from the world. The small drops of syrup covered the counter like sticky confetti. I was

reminded of the way it stuck to my arm hair creating a white circle of crystalized freckles up my

arm. I used to pull them off my skin taking chunks of hair along with them, the pain reminded

me I’m still alive. It reminded me that I am not just a machine, I am more.

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“Finally.”

I move my way through the bodies of people in front of the exit, the shaking in my hands, the

trembling in my body and the racing in my heart begin to subside. I take a sip of the sweet

nectar. The brown water, the hot milk, and the sweet taste of the seasonal pumpkin syrup. I calm.

The feeling of being able to walk away, takes all the anxiety and fear from my body. The

pressure behind those glass doors grew in me every day until the pressure finally released like a

steam wand pushing air deeper and deeper into the metal pitcher. Hotter and hotter, the

temperature rises till finally, it stops.

Now again.

Do it again.

Word count: 826