I don't know if you guys like coffee.
I do.
Like, yeah, I like the kind you put in your cup in the morning. Folgers, Chock Full 'o' Whatever. But I really like the frilly, froufrou drinks popularized by Starbucks. You know the ones—the fancy Italian names, the ones pumped full of various syrups. The big sizes, the high sugar, the payload of calories just in one Venti cup? I was all about some coffee. You can blame Hannah Hammond for that, back at Buttercombe.
So when Colleen and I were in town one day I saw that Bean Machine (our local coffee shop, which was much more affordable than Starbucks) I mentally filed it away for future knowledge. I mean, I could see myself working back there. Couldn't you? I mean, people tell me all the time that they could see me working in food service. I'm pretty sure it's because I weigh about five hundred pounds, but I take it as a compliment. That means I'm friendly, cheerful, and cute enough to get tips. So fuck yeah, I'll work in food service.
I'd do it for the discount alone!
So, arriving promptly at two in the afternoon, right after lunch (well, that's what she said—I could personally have gone for another one) my Uber pulled up in the parking lot. Donna was gonna be off at about four, so that meant I had two hours to wow my interviewer and then stylishly waddle out, squish myself into Donna's car, and make a celebratory Wendy's run.
Bean Machine was this cute little shop in one of those outdoor centers. It was tucked away next to the GNC and some kind of computer repair shop. It wasn't exactly big—the seating area was packed enough for me to consider it a hazard for a girl of my size. Surely once I started working here I could make some adjustments...
So I walked up to the counter, told the barista that I was here to see Mo, and took a seat in the corner. A short woman, I would say late thirties, in a black t-shirt and a brown apron came to greet me. She sat me down, we talked, and got on with the interview.
"I'll be blunt." the woman, Mo, said with a wry cock of her eyebrow, "We don't exactly have aspiring baristas banging on our door. It requires a lot of footwork."
She paused, looking directly at my gut as it pooled onto the table in front of me. Honestly, I must have looked huge. The tables were so small and Mo wasn't exactly a giant. I was pouring out of both sides, and I had to resist the instinctive urge to grab two chairs for comfort. I tried not to move, or the poor metal seat beneath me would creak and groan. I really wanted this job, and I didn't want my size (of all things!) to be the reason I didn't get it.
"Do you think you'll be able to..." she flicked her eyes back up at me, "...handle that?"
"Sure!" I hoped I sounded convincing, "I, uh... I'm pretty light on my feet!"
"Uh-huh..." Mo nodded, her lips pursed contemplatively...
And so the interview went on like that. She'd ask me a question, most of the time hinting that at my size I probably wasn't the best candidate, I'd lie my big fat ass off or at least stretch the truth a little, and she'd make that face. I did my best to not look like I was nervous, but I'm sure she could tell. I was shiny with sweat by the end of it all.
"Well, everything seems to be in order here." Mo finally said with a click of her pen as she wrote something down in her notes, "I think..."
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