True Story

Making coffee is probably the most annoying task ever given to me at my job, but somebody's gotta do it. plus when it's really slow or i don't feel like manning the register? it's a good way to burn out a good 25-30mins standing there shuffling around &running water. shit gets real tedious after some time and today the store was real slow anyhow, i guess people in Williamsburg don't need gas or coffee or munchie food. cause we definitely got it all.

i'M changing the coffee out, dumping the old grinds, marking the re-brew time, &putting more coffee in the filter for the next 2 pots, minding mines jamming to pandora in my pocket via the Droid. next i know, a guy who's making his little ice coffee (we sell that too) looks over at me &here comes the downfall. "you live in Williamsburg?" - "yeah...?" - "oh, okay." now it's not the first time i've been asked that question, and it's not the first time i got the "oh, okay." response, you know the response people give you, especially those of the lighter skin complexion ;) when they don't (EX)pect you to reside in such a nice, small, clean, Caucasian dominated place. where your kids go to pre-school to hs together, where the soccer moms roll big, where the pizza guy always had a crush on your daughter type town. 

What was coming next i couldn't ever prepare for. "i should ummm, bring my gf in here" , as he whips out his blackberry, pushes a couple buttons to reveal presumably his gf: real life character from sistah-soulja/zane novel. i'm talking tiny framed, weave droppin`, black mesh shirt, blue skinnies with hands on thee hips image of LaKresha 
(yes, spelled with a K). 

"...Oh" that's all i said cause that's all i could get my mouth to say. "yeah you know, we've been living here for 2yrs &it's hard for her to really meet any friends, cause... well you know what i'm getting at, around here it's difficult, you know. i'm always catchin` slack cause i'm older & (muffles) awhitemaledatingayoungerblackgirl `n so it's hard, but we're doing alright." - "yeah." - "well yeah, so maybe i'll bring her around here, to the store, then you guys can chat, i'm sure you guys have something in common. it'll be good for her." - "yeah" -____- 

Now in my head, i'm already off the richter, i'm talking fcuk 10, i'm at 5011. there's nothing about me that would suggest that i would get along with LaKresha there. how did he come up with this conclusion? i simply wear a brown polo, black jeans, and old black dunks to work. i rock an Aum symbol necklace, with a peace sign hemp-made bracelet, i have a lip piercing, and my music was playing GCH. maybe i'm wrong for judging her, maybe she isn't as bushwick as i gathered. but in all honesty, idgaf. i was judge, i was (PRE)judged. &its not that he took the time to gather up all his information. it wasn't even that he took the time to correct his pronunciation of my name ("AyeIeShaye?"). he simply looked at me, saw i was a female of a minority race complexion &(ASS)U(not)ME that i &her would have something to talk about. i don't know what he was getting at, but i know where my mind placed him. he's the type: the-ignorant-don't-know-any-better-says-things-that-are-so-unpolitically-correct type.

Dude proceeds to finger taste his ice coffee, i guess he doesn't like everything black. re-brew in 2hrs. i'll be making my boy brew that shit, i can't deal. hell i'm thinking, good thing he didn't see the tattoo of Africa on my ankle. he would have really hit the nail on the head. 
i should get a raise for customer tolerance.