I literally just finished this and condensed it to exactly 500 words. It was originally 650ish words--do you think it's worth going with the extra length or keeping it at this brief length? Also, any advice would be fantastic. Thanks in advance for reading/critiquing/helping.
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The first time I heard my boss sing was strange. Normally the radio played over the speakers, echoing the musical history of my childhood. "The songs I grew up with," a coworker my age commonly remarked; the '90s soft rock and pop songs were as much hers as mine. Yet when I arrived at 6:45am, ready to serve coffee so the world could wake up while I longed for sleep, my boss' voice carried over noisy customers and coffee grinders. He hummed pleasantly while bearing a tray of donuts over workers' heads, replenishing not only pastries but passion as well. His simple contentment invigorated us like wildfire.
The sounds of a shift at Dunkin' Donuts differ from typical assumptions. Coffee brewed noisily and alarms buzzed. Often a frustrated palm slapped the sugar dispenser, begging the machine to please work today. Once, when I failed to make the dispenser function, a coworker came over and wordlessly slammed it with the heel of her palm. 'That is how you do it,' her eyes declared.
The violent strength of my coworkers and I surprised customers. We banged with irritation on the hot chocolate containers, spreading powder evenly throughout. We whacked coin rolls on the counter, chopping the paper-and-metal cylinders in half. We swept away crumbs and torn napkins at a ferocious pace, clearing the floor in minutes. While we behaved cheerily for customers, we took out anger in a gratifying bam or clang. We were pleased and angered as one; customers elicited the same responses from us. We became a family teaching each other something about human cooperation.
As one my coworkers' musical voices enticed my ears-many conversed in Portuguese, and I fought to understand through my knowledge of Spanish. Comprehension of their quick conversations grew the longer I worked. Soon those same voices addressed me animatedly, and I soaked in their accents, secretly loving the purring rumble of rolled r's. They became familiar voices, no longer the Portuguese I had imagined hostile in my first month. I learned to appreciate these fascinating people who had made a life in America.
About half the staff spoke Portuguese; the rest were English speakers, either students like myself or thirty-something women. Their voices narrated heartbreaking tales of alcoholism, divorce, and financial troubles; yet they spoke with nonchalant contentment. Though struggling they held on, reduced to selling coffee alongside seventeen-year-olds.
Before ever working at Dunkin' Donuts, I thought of the place in odors-pungent coffee, warm bagels and muffins, steamy lattes. Now, though, I identify it through sound-not quarters clinking into tip jars or cash registers ringing merrily, but workers moving in unison, their diverse voices serving, judging, and telling the stories of their lives. I think of a deep conversation with my boss about my future after giving my two-week's notice. I think of myself, promising to return next summer. I think of happiness despite hardship, and I wonder if I can live as contently as someone who serves coffee for a living.
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The first time I heard my boss sing was strange. Normally the radio played over the speakers, echoing the musical history of my childhood. "The songs I grew up with," a coworker my age commonly remarked; the '90s soft rock and pop songs were as much hers as mine. Yet when I arrived at 6:45am, ready to serve coffee so the world could wake up while I longed for sleep, my boss' voice carried over noisy customers and coffee grinders. He hummed pleasantly while bearing a tray of donuts over workers' heads, replenishing not only pastries but passion as well. His simple contentment invigorated us like wildfire.
The sounds of a shift at Dunkin' Donuts differ from typical assumptions. Coffee brewed noisily and alarms buzzed. Often a frustrated palm slapped the sugar dispenser, begging the machine to please work today. Once, when I failed to make the dispenser function, a coworker came over and wordlessly slammed it with the heel of her palm. 'That is how you do it,' her eyes declared.
The violent strength of my coworkers and I surprised customers. We banged with irritation on the hot chocolate containers, spreading powder evenly throughout. We whacked coin rolls on the counter, chopping the paper-and-metal cylinders in half. We swept away crumbs and torn napkins at a ferocious pace, clearing the floor in minutes. While we behaved cheerily for customers, we took out anger in a gratifying bam or clang. We were pleased and angered as one; customers elicited the same responses from us. We became a family teaching each other something about human cooperation.
As one my coworkers' musical voices enticed my ears-many conversed in Portuguese, and I fought to understand through my knowledge of Spanish. Comprehension of their quick conversations grew the longer I worked. Soon those same voices addressed me animatedly, and I soaked in their accents, secretly loving the purring rumble of rolled r's. They became familiar voices, no longer the Portuguese I had imagined hostile in my first month. I learned to appreciate these fascinating people who had made a life in America.
About half the staff spoke Portuguese; the rest were English speakers, either students like myself or thirty-something women. Their voices narrated heartbreaking tales of alcoholism, divorce, and financial troubles; yet they spoke with nonchalant contentment. Though struggling they held on, reduced to selling coffee alongside seventeen-year-olds.
Before ever working at Dunkin' Donuts, I thought of the place in odors-pungent coffee, warm bagels and muffins, steamy lattes. Now, though, I identify it through sound-not quarters clinking into tip jars or cash registers ringing merrily, but workers moving in unison, their diverse voices serving, judging, and telling the stories of their lives. I think of a deep conversation with my boss about my future after giving my two-week's notice. I think of myself, promising to return next summer. I think of happiness despite hardship, and I wonder if I can live as contently as someone who serves coffee for a living.
