Our Rotten Elders

In 1999, Tom Brokaw wrote and introduced the world to "The Greatest Generation." This book chronicled the lives of men and women from the United States of America. The great Americans dealt with the turmoil caused by the Second World War. These people witness things that following generations could not even fathom. Yet, while Mr. Brokaw could be right that they were at one time part of the greatest generation, many of them have no split off and formed one of the meanest mobs of angry old farts this world has ever seen.

While I am indebted to them for being able to do the things that I don't believe I could face, I don't deserve to be treated like a dirty plague carrying rat every time they feel I messed up on their coffee beverage. That's right, I am a barista. I am even somewhat egocentric. However, I just don't know why members of the greatest generation always generate most of my emotional stress at work.

Don't get me wrong, there are still some great older people out there. Some men like, let's say Bob, coming gallivanting through the door with the most contagious smile on their face. When they reach the counter, they clearly state their order and no matter how it turns out, this drink seems to be the most wonderful part of the day. They then breeze out of the cafe nearly crying because they feel so fortunate to have had another day in which they could sit, drink a coffee, and talk to their neighborhood friendly barista. These are good times.

Yet, there are others. The Others. Whom clearly have a vendetta against me as soon as they can force their way through the doors. Once in, they are ready to consume. Throwing human emotions aside, they mumble their order and expect me to know exactly what they want. When I attempt to clarify their order, they look at me as though I had just stepped on the head of their favorite dog, presumably named Lilly. Now that "Lilly" is dead, they hate me. No matter how marvelous this drink is, it takes like a tall glass of urine to them and they only thing that would satisfy them now is a quart of my blood. I am not saying old people are vampires, well maybe I am. Anyway, after this unsatisfying experience, they pull out a dollar from their pocket as if to give a tip, then quickly put it back in their pocket.

I cannot wait to be old