It was my morning to open the cafe, so I was in at 5am, alone until the first regulars arrived an hour later to join me. As I turned on the lights, started the coffee brewing, and began setting out pastries, I was reminded of why I loved 'Cafe Muse' and why I had jumped at the chance to work here.
The owner, Jason, had put his life into the place, creating just the ambience he knew would be successful in our little college town. Families were drawn in by the comfy chairs and fair prices; young professionals appreciated the fair-trade organic coffee and eco-friendly business practices; and artsy student types, such as myself, came for the ever-changing shows of artwork by local talent, the open-mike nights offering shy students the chance to test out their songs, their poetry, their politically-charged stand-up, in front of a friendly audience.
As the smell of coffee filled the air, I turned on the stereo, and chuckled to myself as I remembered Jason's instructions when he was first training me. "Always classical in the morning, but never more than the first few hours - after that, the college kids are out of bed and we need something more contemporary."
He was very particular about every detail of how his business was run, yet the customers would never know it - through his meticulous management of every detail, what came through was an ease, a comfort, that drew them all in. Much like his own personality; his work-ethic and business skills were hidden beneath the fit, handsome exterior of a 6-foot, blonde, blue-eyed guy of about 40. He wore the same thing each day - jeans and a polo shirt - and always had a smile for the customers, regardless of how lousy his day might have been.
As I mentioned, I first found the cafe as one of those customers - an English major at the college. I was a junior, seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, realizing that while my creative writing and study of contemporary American literature was fulfilling, it wasn't going to pay the bills, and it was time I got a job. Much as I didn't want to see myself as a young businesswoman, it was somehow easier to stomach it if I could learn from Jason how to run an earth-friendly, art-friendly little cafe.
Anyway, in the year since I'd been working there, he had indeed showed me the ropes, seeming to take pleasure in my eagerness to learn all about the business. I wasn't just a waitress or barista, I also helped him with the books, worked with our suppliers, and even assisted in roasting the beans, something Jason insisted we do ourselves.
So you can imagine the rude awakening when, after the sun came up that morning, I looked out the front window and saw the sign across the street - 'Java Jigglers' - it hadn't been there the day before, and I did a double-take to make sure I really had seen it. The new strip mall had slowly been filling with little shops, a nice variety of businesses that catered to a similar clientele as 'Cafe Muse' - and now this? Right on the side of the road, drive-through espresso, served up by a pair of scantily clad baristas.
"Don't worry, Megan," Jason said when he arrived later that morning, "it's just a fad - and like all fads, it'll die off before you know it. Once guys realize it's lousy coffee and they don't actually get to touch the, um, display items, they'll go out of business in no time."
I smiled, glad that he was able to make me laugh and forget the supposed competition for the moment. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a prude, just an earnest young woman who had found a second home in this high-class artsy cafe, and didn't understand the appeal of a crass operation like that. Would men really choose to-go coffee in a paper cup over our artisan brew, just because of the tits?
Unfortunately for both my sense of aesthetics and my tip jar, yes. Over the next several days, I watched in frustration as many of our regulars chose drive-through titillation over a relaxed cup of great coffee. First it was the young men, but soon it was others as well, drawn by the daily specials on syrup-laden drinks, the punch-cards (buy ten, get a flash with number eleven!)
But the excuses when folks came back to 'Cafe Muse' were the most offensive. Families claiming to be just back from a vacation; young professionals who apparently had an unprecedented string of early-morning meetings. They laughed politely at my pointed jokes - my favorite renamed the 'jigglers' the 'clapuccino girls' - but I could sense their tension, their eagerness to get their coffee 'to go' rather than stay a while as they always had in the past.
Jason was still confident, still taking it all in stride, but I was beginning to get fed up, feeling like I needed to do something to shake things up. Perhaps it was the difference in our ages - Jason had more life experience, and had been at this business for a while now, presumably riding out a few previous bumps like this one. But this was my first real job, and I had poured my heart and soul into it. The bimbos across the street were taking in triple my tips after just dipping their tits into the business. And I mean that literally - on this particular day, they had dipped their nipples in chocolate. That was the last straw.
That day after I was home from work, I stared at myself long and hard in the mirror. I was just as hot as those girls working across the street, I just didn't flaunt it, preferring to be comfortable and casual. Maybe it was time for a little honest competition? I stripped down to my bra and panties and stepped into my closet, studying my available wardrobe. Yes, this was worth a try.
Particular as he was, Jason had never actually told me how to dress when I came to work, but I always got the impression that he thought my image was a good fit for the Cafe. I almost always wore a black turtleneck or sweater, and loved long, flowing skirts. My long blonde hair was usually tied into a ponytail or wrapped in a bandanna. The next day, I would go with something a little different and see if it didn't bring a few customers back. No need to be a slut, but a little more skin wouldn't hurt.
Most of the customers didn't even seem to notice as I stood before them in a form-fitting sundress, my hair down in waves. The next day, a plunging neckline and painted-on jeans didn't get me even one big tip. I was having fun with my wardrobe, but was shocked and frustrated that our customers couldn't get over the novelty of tits actually hanging out as they were served their coffee.
The next day, my hair was in two braids, and I was wearing a tailored, buttoned blouse and knee-length skirt. As soon as he got in, Jason asked to see me in his office as soon as Rachel got to work to relieve me from the counter. He had looked very serious, and I was worried - was business already down enough that he was going to have to reduce my hours? Had I made a mistake in the books?
"Hi Jason, what's up?" I said cheerfully as I stepped into the back room - which doubled as his office and our roasting room.
"Hi, Megan. Can you close the door behind you, we need to talk."
