An Open Letter to the Girl who Works at Toastie's and Yelled at Me Monday Morning at 8:45 AM

Dear Married Polish Girl (the tall one),


I’ve worked next door to your place of employment for almost a year now, and I thought, until recently, that you and I had established a nice, mutually cynical repartee about our frequent business interactions. You know I like my coffee iced. It’s nearly 100 degrees now in this lovely city of ours, and while there are some freaks out there that still drink hot coffee in this weather, you must know by now that I am not one of them.

I suppose what I’m really upset about is the fact that obviously my faith in our friendship is stronger than yours. Based on the words we exchanged this past Monday, I see now that you perceive me as just another one of the spoiled, yuppie zombies that frequents your cash register simply because Toastie’s is the closest place where one can get an iced coffee for under three dollars. God forbid, you may even think I attend New York University and live in the dorms next door. I’m terrified, that somehow, through my behavior, I’ve misinformed you in this way, and I have to say, the last three nights have been sleepless ones.

I ordered an iced coffee and you handed me a hot one. I apologized profusely and restated my order. Icy knives sliced through the very depths of my heart when you dramatically rolled your eyes, only to return with the iced coffee, saying that next time, you would charge me for a cup of ice and have me make the beverage myself. When I restated that I had indeed ordered an iced coffee, you replied “You said nothing of the sort.”

Your words were like a turn of the century Frenchman’s glove striking me across the face.

Polish girl, well, Polish lady I should say since you’ve obviously married and who knows, you may even be a mother, I apologize. I apologize that Monday mornings exist and I apologize that I take it upon myself to buy an iced coffee every morning. Without the caffeine, I most certainly would have committed homicide several times over by now, and would most likely be in jail. Most of all, I’m sorry that both of us seem to be living lives and working jobs that make us sick. Believe me, there have been times when I have wanted to tell my boss, “You said nothing of the sort” when I messed up something or other. In fact, I admire you for taking a stand against all the bullshit in this world when you laid the smack-down on to my demure little iced coffee loving shoulders this Monday morning.

The problem is, I wish you’d do it to someone who deserved it. Someone who lives in the East Village on Mommy and Daddy’s dime, who shops at the Barney’s Co-Op and goes to NYU, and doesn’t have a job. If one of those bitches mistakenly orders a hot coffee when she really wants an iced coffee, as far as I’m concerned you’re immune from prosecution when the Feds come to carry you away as you’re standing over her mangled corpse. I will watch, from behind the caution tape, and secretly smile to myself as the sirens go flashing by.

Until then, I’ve decided to give us some space. I think we both need time to re-evaluate our relationship and take a breather. I’ve been going to Tisserie instead. Honestly, their iced coffee is better. Granted, it’s more expensive, and the store is probably owned by Republicans, but this is what you’ve forced me to do. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to return to Toastie’s with the same confidence in what I thought was my progressive understanding of the proletariat, but thank you, for the wake up call. God knows I need it.

In love and admiration,

Comrade Jessica