And how we danced

Okay. Here's a song. Listen to it. I got things to say and this is the music they go to.

See, I had a job. I hated the fucken thing but I loved it at the same time. The things I did, the things I could do, there was no one better than me. I loved that. I loved that everyone I worked with I either trained them or trained the person who trained them. I know they don't all love me and think I'm awesome, but the fuckers all respect me and they did what I told them, not because I was their boss but because they knew that when I told them to do something it was the best thing to do.

I worked at the same store for just under three years. I outlasted everything. I prided myself on my ability to take anything. Any shitty job I was asked to do, I did. Anything difficult I at least gave it a try, at most succeeded better than anyone could hope.

But it's not the job I'm fucked off about. I'm fucken awesome. I know what I'm doing. Two weeks from now I'll have someone else paying me. I'm not worried about that at all. Anyone who passes over my resume is losing one hell of an opportunity.

What's got me is that something I worked at for three years is gunna get torn down on Sunday and have its guts kicked out. When I landed at Starbucks I was desperate. They gave me a job, told me because I worked hard I'd go far, promoted me and taught me. They gave me a place and I made as much as I could of it. I didn't do every goddamn thing I was told, I'm not an idiot, but I did as much as I could. And now I'm a rain dog again.

This morning I went for my break and started going through my usual routine of checking figures and communications. I found we'd done a forty-eight cup half hour. That's a drink made every forty seconds? We'd had three people on, which is less than the standard amount for that volume, and it'd felt like nothing. The time'd just flowed smoothly, even with telling customers this was our last week. When I saw that, thought through how this would be the last time I'd ever see something like this, how I'd gone through so much to get to that point, I couldn't help it. I spent the next half hour in the back room and in the toilet wiping the tears off my face.

I'm not completely innocent. I've wanted to leave for as long as I've had the job. But I was getting to the point that once I'd moved on I'd always come back to my store and if I didn't see my people I'd see people trained by the people I'd trained. I'd get my drink, my double short latte, in my beaten up little store, and know that the person making it had been influenced by me. And now that's never gunna happen.

I've lost skin, sanity and sleep over this job. And now I've been told none of it matters. I've worked my guts out, and there was never any point to it. On Sunday we're going in and we'll tear it all down, pack it up and move on as if all I ever did was sit here typing. I'm a rain dog now. And how we danced...