Post Traumatic Starbucks Disorder
This is war. And I am on the front lines. Beyond the impossibly coffee-stained counter that separates friend from enemy lies the subjects of my nightmares. They ceaselessly occupy my mind; my every thought, reflection, introspection and reverie is now marred with their presence. Groggy and decaffeinated they permeate any and every memory I thought once sacred. They are the cause of the twitch in my right eye and the interminable shake in my hand. Who are they? They are the customers.
Businessman, stay-at-home-mom, and hipster alike, all join ranks in the enemy platoon that barrage my company day after day. Some days, are better than others. And others? Worse than those. Harsh and demanding, their overly complicated orders remain but a constant, dull ring in my ears.
I remember my first day in the ranks. I was excited. Proud. Proud to serve my country the staple hot drink of the American diet. They armed me with a whipped cream gun and iconic army green apron. My training was little to none. I stood in the backroom amongst the other plebes who were recently enlisted. We were told three things: always spell the name wrong, beware the pumpkin spice, and the customer is always right.
My first time in the field was one I will never forget, despite how hard I try. It was 0600 hours. I was shadowing a fellow soldier, Riley. His time-worn apron and size 4 gauges manifested his veterancy. It was just us in the store. In such a small town, we didn't expect much traffic. Wiping the counters, I heard my first door chime. I hadn't realized I was shaking until I felt a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“It’s gonna be alright, champ,” Riley said, eyeing the customer as he walked in.
He had a briefcase in hand, head buried in his iPhone. “It’s only a businessman. They’re simple. You can take him out nice and easy.” Slightly reassured, I walked to the register and took a deep breath.
“Welcome to Starbucks, how may I help you?”
“Regular coffee, tall, two sugars, no whip,” he replied monotonously, not looking up from his phone.
I sighed internally. Relieved. Regular coffee? I could handle that.
Riley took the reins as I went to make my first cup. The large machines at first felt awkward in my hands, the loud noises slightly frightening. But I managed. And with a valiant smile, I slid a cardboard cosy around the drink and handed it to the man. He took it from me wordlessly, then proceeded out of the store. I looked over at Riley, who looked back with a sort of ambivalence.
“Your first kill, kid. Congratulations,” he said with a sigh.
“Yeah, thanks” I replied. At the time, I couldn’t understand the lack of pride. One day I would. One day I’d understand better than ever.

The rest of that morning went by relatively smoothly. One mom put up a fight with her ‘half-caf, marble mocha macchiato, no foam.’ But that was nothing in comparison to what would happen next.
It was 0800 when it all fell apart. The other soldier who was to provide backup had a flat tank. He wouldn’t make it in. It was just Riley and me when the bus pulled in.
I heard the clatter of coffee cups. Confused, I looked over to Riley who stood in shock. I followed his eyeline to the object he was focusing on out the window. That was when I saw it. The school bus. As if in slow motion, I saw the door swing open, followed by a flood of caffeine-hungry teenagers.
“What’s going on?” I asked Riley, frantically.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, kissed his fingers and made the sign of the cross. He turned to look at me and said, “Highschool fieldtrip.”
That morning was hell. I sit here now, a veteran of war. I can still hear the screams of the teenagers; demanding drinks off the secret menu and extra pumpkin spice.
I lost Riley that morning. He fell victim to a frappuccino machine malfunction. He was honorably discharged.
It’s once again 0600. I am the one with the shadow now. A young girl named
Emma. She seems promising. She looks upon my time worn uniform with glimmers of hope in her eyes. All I can do is look away. I can’t tell her. Tell her that this is not something to aspire to. Because kids have the right to dream. But I know now what Riley knew then. That this apron is not the mark of a soldier, but of a prisoner of war. I want to tell her that as I hold this whipped cream canister in shaking, ‘triple venti’ traumatized hands, that this is war and we have lost.