Is There Luck for the Non-Irish?

Let me tell you about Frappaccino mix.

It includes water, coffee and Starbucks trademarked powders. I'm willing to bet the powder mainly consists of sugar. Let me tell you why I'm so certain of this.

Two hours into our shift, my manager went on break. I decided to be a good little employee and clean out the rolling fridge that sits underneath the cafe counter. I took everything out of the fridge, including a full liter of frap mix that I'd made an hour earlier. I set it on top of the fridge, my big mistake.

While I concentrated on scrubbing the inside of the rolling fridge, it rolled back. The frap mix hit the edge of the counter and fell. The cap came off the pitcher as the brown frap mix fell. The sticky, brown, frap mix came out of the pitcher as the frap mix fell. The sticky, brown, cold, frap mix fell on the right side of my head. The sticky, brown, cold, dripping frap mix fell on my white shirt and black pants. What remained of the liter slithered around under my feet to cover the entire cafe floor.

I had been slimed.

After several attempts to mop it up the evidence was still there. The entire floor was still caked and sticky (and so was the rolling fridge that I had almost finished cleaning). I ended up having to call my manager back early, telling him "I've make a little spill."

The man was shocked by the amount of floor and person one liter of frap mix could cover. With several more rounds of wiping and mopping the visible evidence was gone, but the floor was still sticky. It wasn't the only sticky thing.

My hair felt as though it had turned to straw. Some strands plastered themselves to my forehead in odd patterns. My now dyed brown shirt began to feel crusty and stiff. Parts of my pants stick to my skin and my shoes sounded like suction cups every time I tried to remove one of my feet from the floor. Everything I touched became sticky. And I had another five hours left in my shift.

I hinted that I wanted to leave. My manager understood, but said he couldn't promise anything. He needed to leave to hunt down more hot cup lids because he'd forgotten to order them. He left me, a sticky person, alone in the sticky cafe for an hour and a half. During most of that time, the cafe developed a line of ten people. I used my sticky fingers to call for assistance. I was the only cafe trained person in the building. And two people had called off from work for the evening. So there was only one person on the bookselling floor who was not required to remain in their position and could possibly come and ring transactions for me. Alas, that person needed to help book customers, because the book side was busy as well. So I had to take care of the ever-growing line alone. It was less than fun.

Some people noticed my shirt. A few seemed concerned, assuming the brown streaks that covered my front and back had been made by hot coffee. One man wouldn't stop laughing.

I ended up staying my entire shift with my manager apologizing at the end for "being slightly evil" to me.

It looks like I will finally be the subject of a humorous cafe story.

I ripped my shirt off before I even left the building. I showered as soon as I got home. My hair feels normal again and so do I.

But I really don't want to go in for an eight and a half hour shift tonight.

And I will never do extra cleaning again.