An Evening of HistorTEA sequel
Author’s Note
Hello, fellow reader. Thank you for taking the time to read my lovely creative nonfiction piece. I had the honor of crafting an anthology piece that serves as a sequel to my previous HistorTEA installment–even if no one asked for it, I still delivered. Yes, there are some references to the previous installment of the anthology series, however this installment still stands on its own as there isn’t really an arc within these two creative pieces.
Please note, as this is considered to be an extensively researched literary nonfiction piece, I have altered some names and identifiers to maintain anonymity of the places and people featured in my smaller anthological stories (aka my different “brews” of coffees). While all these stories are true, of course I have to respect and maintain the privacy of different people, groups, and locations.
Anyways, I hope you enjoy this conversation with me through this text as much as I did writing it! So find a café near you, order your favorite latte, and chat with me.
Best,
poopydavid 🙂
P.S. here’s a Google Doc version of the story if you prefer.
Hey! How’s it been, fam?
It has been a minute hasn’t it? Well you know—when I shared with you some tea? Remember? Well, I suppose that tea was alright. Anyways, what have you been up to lately?
No way. That’s what you have been up to since the last time we’ve met? Nice. For me, I’ve since graduated college, started working an actual full-time job making teen kiddos happy—well most teen kiddos, and applied to different graduate school creative writing programs; I did not get into any of them. Anyways, I’m glad you’re able to have coffee with me.
Oh isn’t it such a lovely place? I just love the ambiance here. The name tags and pronouns for the baristas are a nice touch. The greenery letting their vines down from this brasserie hanging in mid-air. The lighting bouncing off the bronze of the said brasserie. That one guy over there reading Hemingway. Another one grading papers with a red Sharpie. And of course, you have Laufey playing in the background.
What do you mean it’s pronounced LAY-VAY?
Oh, it’s Icelandic. I didn’t quite get that, ha-ha. Anyways, I’ve summoned you over to this lovely place to share with you some exciting new coffees. Tell me more about your preferences. Are you into: Cappuccinos? Americanos? Lattes? Irish?
Cool, right on. Pretty much anyone will drink anything that’s caffeinated: Rebels, Ghosts, Celsius, Jameson—you name it. Anyways, I’ve heard from my father that caffeine triggers some adenosine receptor thingy shits. He told me that this stimulant is both water and fat soluble, so it can easily cross this “blood-brain barrier” to wake us up.
You know? It reminds me of that time when I went to this IB high school my freshman year. We were preparing for this personal project in my Dig Comm class.
Brew One: Japanese Coffee
So my mother forced me into this school. You know how school districts offer these “student-choice” programs that attract attention to gifted people as well as those parents who want to send their kids to some fancy elegant school?
Yup.
My mother wanted to do better than traditional high school. Most freshmen were having Texas-styled homecoming events dazzling with Friday night lights, dances, and high-schoolesque romances on the football field; I received quite an educational experience of international prowess and excellence instead. “Student-choice?” Ha! More like “Parents-without-their-child’s-consent-choice.”
My first period was the freshman-level digital communications class. It was pretty easy. I enjoyed getting to know some close friends in that class, such as the table mate right next to me who was really into the fine arts: super sweet and talented girl. Mrs. Palmer, our teacher, was super chill and really nice. The way she dealt with late work was the most relaxed grading policy I have ever witnessed in my schooling career. No point deductions, and we’ve had until the end of the marking period to turn things in. I kid you not, I went from a zero during the first progress report to a 99 at the end of the third grading period.
During that spring semester, our teacher introduced us to the Middle Years Programme’s curriculum of the Personal Project. As an IB student, you would be required to complete a personal project in order to receive a diploma from the organization. A sort of diploma that is recognized by international universities by the way. So if you wanted to get into Oxford, going into the IB program might do you wonders. I only wanted to get into UT or Texas A&M at the time. Anyway, this Personal Project gave students an opportunity to explore any topic that they wanted to learn more about and present it to an audience.
So you think it’s fun, huh? Nowadays, I would say it was nice for the school to offer its students the opportunity to teach something new to others. In fact, it was similar to Passion-Based Learning back in my middle school. Imagine that, but on workload steroids. Honestly, I genuinely did not really know how I felt about the project. I really wasn’t looking forward to spending another year at a school that my mother chose.
At one point during my time at the IB school—outside of school hours—my mother and I struck a deal: if I maintained an excellent academic performance and good conduct and what-not, I could disenroll from the IB school and go to the one I was actually zoned to. This was my opportunity. I can finally leave and go to the school I’ve wanted to experience. And I was quite an academic weapon back in my day. I could pretty BS the planning phases of the assignment just for a grade.
On a typical rainy A-day, I’d get on Bus 93 to get to the school. I’d be seated somewhere in the middle rows of the bus and plug in my Beats headphones into my iPhone 5c—listening to the melodious beats and masterful masterpieces of Drake and Justin Timberlake. I would get off the bus and head over to the dining hall—yes, this was an international IB school, so they went by the British-naming conventions. I would wait in line to get Pop-Tarts or cereal for breakfast, behind some hooded guy listening on his earbuds—chanting a song of “having broads in Atlanta” and “twisting dope, lean, and some fanta.” Anyway, I’d get my breakfast and walk outside the courtyard to convene with my friends. The first period bell would then ring, and that’s when I would get to my digital communications class and start BS-ing on my Personal Project. Can you figure out what my project was about?
Coffee.
We had to choose some sort of topic that interested us and it had to fit some guideline—which I can’t quite remember, but it had something to do with research and service hours. I’d figured to choose coffee since that’s my beverage of choice when it comes to going to school. Remember those retail Starbucks Frappuccino glasses that you see in the check-out aisle of Target? Yeah, now I know better not to accept pro-genocide coffee.
Anyways, working on my Personal Project planning for “next year” required me to conduct research on the different varieties of coffee and the different brewing processes. I perused through many sources on the different aspects of coffee—such as the Columbian cultivation process of the bean, and the beauty of Japanese coffee art curated by baristas in cafés. You see? There was the international aspect of the assignment. I’ve even figured out that the brewing process could make or break the entire coffee experience. Researchers at the Universidad de La Sabana concluded that extraction time, water composition, temperature, pressure, particle size, and the coffee/water ratio affect the extraction process and flavor—pretty much essential factors to consider if you’re serving some Gordon Ramsay-like coffee connaisseur.
Once I had completed the introductory research phase, it was time to come up with actionable steps and goals to fulfill my coffee project:
Step one: Learn how to speak Japanese fluently by the end of June.
Step two: Fly over to Japan, and talk to the local baristas on their artistic coffee craft.
Step three: Fly over to Columbia, and speak with the coffee bean cultivators on their process
Step four: Cultivate my own coffee beans upon returning to the United States.
Did I do any of those things? Hell no. I disenrolled and moved on to the same school where I dissed that band director and his lackey—if you recall from my Breakfast Tea.
Well, there you have it. Quite a great way to start our civilized conversation, amirite? At this lovely coffeehouse?
Come to think of it, the idea of a coffeehouse pretty much evolved over time. It all started in Europe, during the rise of the Enlightenment. Did you know that?
Yes, I’m talking about that historical phenomenon from your world history class. You know: Voltaire, Montesquieu, Rousseau, Hobbes? Des Lumières, c’est ça. British history writer, Tom Standage, asserts in his History of the World in Six Glasses that coffeehouses served as a venue where ideas are exchanged among different intellectuals; they were essentially the intellectual version of beer halls.
Anyways, this Voltaire guy. He’d be chilling in such an environment, surrounding himself with other people sipping on coffee and building off of ideas exacerbated by the Northern Renaissance. His Lettres philosophiques served to critique the French government at the time of Louis XVI’s reign; that consequently fueled the sentiments of the Third Estate—that’s to say, the majority of France. You think that wasn’t enough? French philosophers, Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, co-authored the Encyclopédie, which fueled the fire within the French population. In reality, that written work was intended to be a promotion of perceiving the world in a secular and rational lens. Pretty much, add criticism to the French government and reject the idea of “the divine right of kings,” you’ll have heads rolling.
You know, fam? Now that I think about it, perhaps I have had a sense of that Enlightenment sentiment myself. Remember the time when I told you about that one guy who dicked at me for being mistaken as a Doordash side-gig hustler at my old chicken job? Huh. I haven’t told you about Felicia yet.
Brew Two: French Coffee
Of course, not that I’m gonna waste any time flaming on this particular person. But at the same job where I was a cashier, there was this one particular manager that struck such a dissonant chord to everybody.
I was doing my undergrad in English, right? During the spring and summer of ‘21, I provided exceptional service and handled monetary transactions between the business and the clientele. I was very good at it too; most people loved my attitude. I would usually work night shifts during that online spring semester and during the summer, from 5pm-12 midnight. It was a pretty okay job for an undergraduate student. It wasn’t enough to live on my own, but considering that I had supportive parents and lived in an off-campus student living apartment, I made pretty decent money.
So there I was, arriving at the restaurant five minutes before my shift would start. I press my finger onto the NCR cash register monitor and clock-in. I usually had a co-worker or two standing next to me, remaining on standby for a rush. I mean, sure, I’ve worked alongside many different cashiers of different backgrounds, but they would often come in-and-out in such quick succession. It was quite a high turnover rate due to: the nature of the job, new career developments on the employees’ end, or Felicia’s ‘tude.
Sometime during the month of July, we brought this guy on-board. Mid-thirties, bald, dark-complexion, tattoos on his sleeve, and has served some time. We’ll call him Carlos. He was a pretty chill guy, and was a really great help in the restaurant. Oh boy, it was quite a relief that we brought him on board—they had me working six nights a week in eight hour shifts. And mind you that we were not guaranteed that sacred fifteen minute dinner break—all thanks to the neverending rushes and closing procedures.
Sometime during his third week of work, he and I were on point at the registers. It was an hour into our evening shift. Other than a few customers waiting for their to-go orders, it was slow. As I was standing at the register closest to the wall, Carlos next to me was tapping up a response on his messages app.
Felicia walked by and told him, “Hey look, I don’t want you being on your phone right in front of the customers. If you need to check something, you can stand behind the fridge and do that. But otherwise, put your phone away. Not in front of customers.”
Felicia went back to her bag preparation station. Eyebrows furled into a dirty look on Carlos’ face; it seemed like he was contemplating on something. He approached Felicia. “You know, Felicia,” he proceeded to take off his cap.
Ah no! Not another one. I stood there, shook at the situation unfolding before my eyes.
“I feel that you’ve been talking to me like shit,” Carlos took off his button-up shirt, slamming it onto a cart next to Felicia. “And well… I’m done.”
He stormed out of the front door, and came back in with his second, mint-condition store-issued uniform, and slammed it down on the cart next to Felicia. “It was a pleasure meeting you, David,” he smiled at me on his way out.
“You too, Carlos. Have a good one,” I bid my farewell to him.
Of course, it felt quite like a disadvantage watching him leave. His departure meant we were short a team member, which meant extra weight I have to pull. So Felicia and I took over the registers for the rest of the night shift. I had to do front of house closing duties myself; Felicia had to do her usual managerial closing duties. But honestly, looking back at the situation, I don’t blame him. It was really Felicia’s attitude that drove him out. If anything, I’m glad that he revolted against that manager with a ‘tude. Hmm, something must have sparked the Enlightenment inside him.
If I had to attest to Felicia’s attitude, she could have treated her cashiers a lot better. There was this one time when I tried to apply my guest recovery skills to a customer who was unsatisfied with the quality of the chicken.
I picked up the phone at the register, and gave my default “Thank you for calling the Felicia chicken place” spiel to the receiving end of the call. The customer described to me that her chicken pieces were undercooked. I gave her my customer-service quality apology and started the process of guest recovery. Mind you, I had done something like this before and I never had an issue with it. I grabbed the guest recovery notebook and jotted down some details. Towards the end of the call, Felicia snagged the notebook—which I assumed she was getting started on correcting the issue. Again, I apologized to the customer and promised that we would correct our mistake.
Felicia pulled me aside, “David, we need to talk.”
I went up to her in the back-of-house area to see what she needed. She commenced the conversation in the ugliest bitch-tone I have ever heard through her black face covering. Through her black, rectangular-framed glasses, her eyes widened in such horrid ways that told me she was experiencing a violent period. “That is not your job. Whenever a customer has a problem, you need to let me know,” I could feel her violent negatory head shaking deep inside my core.
In attempts to maintain grace and professionalism, I started to profusely apologize, “oh sorry about that, Felicia. I’ll keep that in mind next time.”
Nevertheless, she continued serving a slew of hot steaming shit at my direction, “that is NOT your job. You tell me next time. Do I make myself clear?” I nodded yes. We both parted ways and proceeded with the work day.
Okay. If I made such a mistake that would only cost like $20 on our end, would it really be necessary to shit on me like that? Oh my God, I don’t think $20 is a lot for an international multi-billion dollar company. I was trying to help that customer, and I had been working at that place for a few months by then. Yet, she decides at that moment to fucking reprimand me. Wow, give me a break.
Oh, so you’re asking me if I ever revolted against her? Not quite. I wasn’t going to let this one ugly incident keep me from doing my job and throw me back to unemployment. Of course, if this kind of mistreatment was consistent every day, then okay I would have left earlier. Besides, not every night do I have to deal with Felicia, as she and another assistant manager would often alternate between nights. At least the other co-workers were cool.
It was around late October that year when I decided to put in my two weeks’ notice. It wasn’t really because of Felicia, but rather, the job was kinda tiring me out and I felt that I needed to move on to different ventures. I have seen people come and go, so the original group of cashiers that I started off with were gone at that time along with the second and third wave of cashiers. I was oddly surprised and proud that I surpassed all of them. I persisted throughout the spring and summer seasons, and a bit into the fall when I was finally returning to school in-person. Anyways, during that two week period, there was this one particular moment that almost blew up right in front of my face.
One Thursday night, I had a group of girls come into the restaurant as a group. One of those girls came up to my register to order something for dine-in.
During the order taking, that girl told me “for the fries, I don’t want the seasoning on there. Instead, can I have a side of parmesan instead?”
On the Aloha POS system, I rang up the fries without any of our seasoning. Normally, whenever the customer asks for parmesan as an alternative for fry seasoning, we don’t charge extra for that seasoning to be on the fries—at least that’s what I thought four hours into my night shift. Mind you that she also did not ask for ranch in her combo, which is a detail that is very important to know. Personally, I didn’t want to charge her extra for the parmesan cup on the side if it was intended for the fries, since it was basically a substitution for the seasoning from my perspective. Besides, my brain was too tired to try and figure that out. I went ahead with the transaction, advised that her order would be ready in eighteen minutes, and went to the back to write a “side of parmesan” message on the ticket.
Felicia caught my attention, “David, you know that we charge for parmesan, right?”
I stood there for a moment. I looked at the ticket and remembered that she asked for no ranch, so I responded with “oh, but she asked for no dip.”
Felicia verified the ticket. She defused herself with an “okay.”
Oh my god. I went back to my register relieved at the fact that she did not blow up on me and write me up.
I was determined to finish strong. Besides, I only had like a week left in that job, so why at that moment? Again, there wasn’t a revolution at that moment. But what if she did blow up in my face?
Let’s say that the ranch cup was on the ticket. She probably would have told me this: “Seriously David? You didn’t charge for the extra side of parmesan? That is unacceptable.”
“I thought we don’t charge for that on the fries.”
“No excuses! You know better. I’m writing you up.”
I would have stood there mortified. Then the thought of fuck your write up would have slowly crept up to my head. I would have been enlightened enough to start a revolution on my own and quit. I would have gone out on my terms.
At one point during the girls’ dinner date, I would have come up to them, “Okay ladies, how are you liking the chicken?”
“Pretty good,” one of them would nod their head obliviously. “I just love the parmesan on the side.”
“That sounds great. What’s the occasion?”
“Nothing. We’re just hanging out.”
“Nice. Anyways, guys—ladies, allow me to be transparent with you,” and I’d let it out. “Now, just so you know, this is totally not your fault. I don’t blame you in any way whatsoever. But just to be transparent, while I wrote on the ticket that you wanted parmesan seasoning on the side, the assistant manager yelled at me for not charging you extra for that. I was thinking that I didn’t need to charge you for that side cup since it was intended to be like an alternative seasoning for the fries, you know what I mean? So I decided to write it on the ticket. The assistant manager, Felicia, gave me a very harsh, pissy reprimand. Again, I’m not upset with you, nor is any of this your fault. I just want to be transparent with what has happened behind the scenes.”
I would have taken off my face mask, and my uniform. “Hey everyone, if I can have your attention for just a moment. I just want to be clear and transparent with you that the assistant manager doesn’t treat her employees well and her attitude was pretty awful. This is absolutely not your fault or anything like that, but I just wanted to be transparent with you on what has been happening. With that said, I’m done. Have a good night everybody.” I would have gathered my things, stormed out of the restaurant, blocked Felicia’s contacts, left the Groupme, and celebrated with my roommates.
Oof. If only I had that opportunity to flame that wretched, sass-talking manager. That would have made for a great revolution. Anyways, what really happened is that I left on the last day as planned, took my non-slip work shoes and threw them in the restaurant trash bin, and turned in my uniform to the other AGM. And get this: Felicia also had plans to leave the establishment; I left the day before she did. But then again, it wasn’t her that made me leave. L.O.L.
Well, there you have it. Such an Enlightened experience—albeit theoretical. But hey, who gives a crap? Most of the philosophers at that time weren’t probably expecting to spur a violent revolution against the oppressor. Like did Voltaire ever think that his ideas would have led to Louis XVI losing his head in front of thousands of spectators? All of this discussion of social contracts and theological rejection were all meant to be civil. Historian Thomas Brennan would even agree with me, as he asserted that “the point of cafe society was conversation, the polite but pointed discussion of ideas, news, and literature,” that promoted the “spread of civility” among our society (Brennan).
Oh right. Saying “parenthesis ‘Brennan’” each time I parenthetically reference an academic scholar is a force of habit. Anyways, as you see the cafe around you, we have these different types of people engaging in civil discourse either by traditional speech or through the use of modern-day mediums like text and Tiktok.
Speaking of Tiktok, it kinda feels like the Gutenburg printing press of the 2020s, don’t you think? We have our phones, right? Which could easily give us access to all the media that we want and need. Something as trendy as a stupid Fortnite dance and coffee place recommendations. That’s how I learned about this hypothetical coffee place that we’re in right now.
You know, I try getting into some trends myself. Hehe. I feel that they facilitate in establishing a sense of connection among different people. Yeah, I suppose these trends bring people together. I, as a substitute teacher, try implementing this kind of creativity into the classroom.
Oh yeah, that’s a great question. It all started after finishing my undergrad career.
Brew Three: Nitro Coffee
I was a fresh college graduate. A B.A. in English with a creative writing concentration: 3.90 GPA, summa cum laude, and a graduate of my school’s honors program. I was an academic weapon. I prioritized different assignments for each class, read some materials and synthesized whatever I’ve absorbed and learned from them, and persevered through different commitments I had going on in my career. I got shit done.
A month after receiving my diploma, I was still working part-time at this particular pizza parlor for which I had worked for the past seven or eight months; it was a job that I had months after leaving the “Felicia” chicken job. Well, I had been trying to leave since I received my undergraduate degree and I wasn’t really scheduled a lot at that job. To give you an idea on what my hours look like: it’s four to five hours a week for $10.60 plus tips—and they would let me go an hour or two early sometimes. For a twenty-two year old recent college grad living alone, that wasn’t enough. I had to figure out how to leave that job.
Don’t get me wrong, the people at my old job were super great to work with and were like a beloved family—they still are.
One morning, my close friend, Damian, came over to my place to take a shower and conduct his morning routine; he had a maintenance issue with his bathroom. Once he finished, we had our usual conversation in the living room.
“So I just applied to be a substitute teacher,” Damian told me. He had been one before somewhere in Houston.
“Oh really?” My head tilted; eyebrow furled. “That sounds great. Did the applications open back up?”
Prior to working at the Felicia chicken store and ‘Za Place, I was a contract tutor for a remote tutoring company. I mostly had mentored students in math—whether it be the SAT and Calculus, or for the fifth grade STAAR math exam. It wasn’t until the middle of the virus pandemic when that tutoring company went defunct. Pretty much, I was quite familiar with the education industry.
“Yes. As soon as I saw that the applications opened back up, I gathered my three references and signed up. I’m waiting to hear back from HR.”
“Huh. You know, Damian, I’ve always considered becoming a sub last semester, but it’s just that I had that American Literature class in the middle of the school day.” I had to sign up for a three credit-hour MWF class that ran from 10-10:50 am. That was one of the credits that I needed to have to graduate.
But now that I’m not doing anything Monday through Friday, I figured I’d give this subbing thing a try.
I started applying for the job. I drafted my cover letter, and updated my resume. I came into contact with three professional references: the general manager of my soon-to-be-former place of employment, my high school Speech and Debate coach, and one of my favorite English professors from college. Then I received the next steps from the HR department, put in my two weeks for ‘Za Place, got fingerprinted, worked my last shift at ‘Za Place, and finally went to the orientation. This is the moment I went from “David” to “Mr. David.”
I started off the first day at Abraham Lincoln HS where it was an on-level sophomore chemistry class. I had started off each period with my usual spiels:
“Okay everyone, if I can have everybody’s attention pretty please?” I held a ballpoint pen and a clipboard with the attendance roster. “My name is Mr. David, and I will be covering your chemistry class for today. Just to tell you a bit about myself: I’m an alum at the Honors College where I studied English with a concentration in creative writing. So I like to write stories both fiction and non-fiction. It seems like you’ll be doing mole calculations today. Now I may not be Heisenberg—neither Werner nor Walter—but all I can do really is facilitate your classroom experience today. As for the attendance for today… I don’t take attendance.”
The students looked at each other in awe. Huh? Say what? was probably running through their minds upon hearing my words.
I continued “Well, I don’t take attendance the plain, boring way. Rather, I like to ask questions—” kudos to my college writing composition professor for the idea. “As I go down the roster, when I call your name, name any country in Europe. No repeats or hesitation. Does that sound good?” From there my reign of fun and excitement in the classroom had commenced and flourished.
So pretty much I have implemented fun, clever ideas that still manage to fit in the regular lesson plans. As a substitute teacher, I did roll call in the most unusual, complex ways possible—attendance trivia, musical trivia, Jeopardy, Name the New Pet, Chilis menu order taking, administered joke quizzes, and various different attendance questions such as if you were to visualize yourself in an animated art style, what would it be?
You see, fam? Most students think that I’m a “w lit sub,” even if one of the attendance ideas involve administering a joke quiz to a group of tech theater students that I’ve covered for a few days:
“Okay guys, so this random attendance quiz will be the attendance activity of the day. There’s ten multiple-choice questions. Usually you would need a 70 to pass an assessment, right? I’ll be nice and lower the ‘passing’ score to a 60. You may be wondering, is the quiz hard? I don’t know. Maybe? Maybe not? I can’t confirm nor deny. Oh yeah, and if you make below 60, I’m going to have to count you absent,” I really didn’t. I only said that for dramatic effect.
Also, I was given an opportunity to legitimately teach students something. For instance, I gave a bonus lesson on Vampire Weekend’s Oxford Comma to a group of juniors in their Language and Composition class.
“Okie-dokie, everyone. As we listen, consider how Ezra Koenig makes use of different rhetorical techniques to convey his message,” I had my powerpoint projected onto the screen, showing the rhetorical triangle. “Okay guys, have your lyrics ready. We’re listening to the song now.”
Who gives a fuck about an Oxford Comma?
I’ve seen those English dramas too. They’re cruel.
Okay fine. I didn’t play the explicit version of the song, L.O.L. Yeah, I know. As much as I wanted to point out the powerful rhetorical choice of the F-bomb, I had to respect the teacher’s request to keep it clean. She did give me an opportunity to teach my favorite song to my favorite subbing students, so kudos times a hundred to Mrs. Kay for allowing me to do so. Besides, it’s not like I wanted to land in hot water again.
Again? Well. This one is quite a long story. Why yes. Speaking of trends and viral things. I’ve wanted to do something very cool and fun with the students at this science class. However, it didn’t go as planned. This was months back.
At the beginning of the school year, I had found this website online where it could generate an AI voice from written text. It had many voice options, such as the Ghostface voice that you’d hear on Tiktok. I figured that it looked pretty trendy. And that’s when I had the idea. I typed up a paragraph of what I usually say to the students at the beginning of class:
All right, everyone. If I can have your attention pretty please? the Ghostface voice would have said, through my portable Bluetooth speaker. Pretty please put your phones away. Eyes on the speaker. Literally.
Good morning everyone, how are you doing? Beat. Good. So this year, Generic Independent School District is currently experimenting with AI-automated substitutes, so I will be your sub for today. Pause. Nah, I’m just kidding. Give it up to your real sub, Mr. David. I would then pop out of somewhere to make a grand entrance and start the class like normal.
I felt like this was a clever way to get a class started. The students would have probably loved the idea. So one day, I saw on the sub job website that a science teacher was going to be out for two days: Thursday and Friday. And she just so happened to be a teacher from Woodrow Wilson High School—my top favorite school to visit. I accepted the job.
Thursday morning, I arrived at the school. Holding my black lunch box, wearing a gray backpack, and donning my district-issued ID badge on my belt loop, I approached the reception desk to sign in. I signed in, received what I considered to be the best sub folders I’ve seen in my career, and headed to the environmental science classroom.
Upon arriving, four senior students had already been waiting on me to unlock the classroom. I opened the doors and got in. We settled into our classroom about twenty minutes before the first period bell was set to ring. I set up my disco light ball, placed my Bluetooth-enabled speaker in the middle of the classroom, and connected my iPad to the speaker so that I could play Spotify music while hiding from the students in order to make my surprise grand entrance. Upon completing the set up, I turned to the four students, “okay guys, for the purposes of my clever joke, would you mind pretending that you didn’t see me?” The students nodded in agreement.
I looked around the room to figure out where I could make my grand entrance. All I could find was the desk area. So I sat down on the floor and scooted myself underneath the desk while I had my iPad controlling the Spotify music for the passing period. A couple minutes have passed as I lay awkwardly underneath the desk on my iPad. Kid Cudi’s Enter Galactic (Love Connection) was playing through the Bluetooth speakers as the disco light ball twirled its lights all over the dim classroom. At one point, I noticed a middle-aged person walking into the desk area; she peered underneath the desk area.
I put my finger on my lips in a shh gesture before taking a second to realize that it was a neighboring teacher from the dim lights. I immediately tried explaining, “oh. it’s just that I’m trying to joke with the students.”
“This is unacceptable,” the neighboring teacher nodded in disapproval.
Unacceptable. Wait, did I just get reprimanded by another teacher?
Whoops. I understood that this was an awkward situation, so I tried finding a way to provide context to that teacher. However, my idea was a bit too complex to explain right on the spot. I did not expect to cause a disruption when I had this whole thing planned.
I got up from the desk area. Twenty-ish students witnessed what just unfolded. The teacher stated “we honestly thought there wasn’t a sub here. You could have given the office a hard time trying to find someone to cover this class.”
Shortly after the first period bell, I greeted the students like normal. I then had to explain to them what I was going for.
“Okay guys, so about what just happened—um, allow me to explain.” I explained the whole set up and the joke that I was going for. “But yeah. Apparently, the neighboring teacher didn’t seem to like that idea, so I guess I’ll have to cut that for the rest of the day.” The rest of the school day went like normal.
On the second day of that subbing assignment, I checked in, got the folder, and went to the classroom like normal. I started each class with a dank meme projected onto the screen.
“Okay guys. As I go down the roster, when I call your name, what is one affirmation that you would tell yourself for this year?” I asked the seventh period class that day.
ringringringringring. The classroom phone rang.
“Okay guys, if you could give me one moment please.” I picked up the phone and answered. “Mrs. Frizzle’s class, Mr. David speaking.”
A cheerful “Hey, Mr. David,” came out of the other end of the line. “So by chance, could you find someone to cover your class for a moment? You’re needed in the VP office.”
I peered at the collab teacher and said, “yes, I have a co-teacher for this period.”
“Awesome,” the lady said. “have him cover your class for now. Just come on down to the office.”
“Yes, of course.” The call ended from there. I went up to the co-teacher and asked him to finish the attendance for me. I then told the students, “okay guys, I have to go see the VPO for something. Mr. Beast is going to be in charge while I’m gone.”
The students’ eyes widened; oohs projected through their hand-covered mouths.
I tried calming the crowd with a “no worries, guys. I’m not in trouble. Just finish the attendance activity with Mr. Beast while I’m gone.” I left the room as I glanced at Mr. Beast, confused on how to do the attendance.
I made my way to the vice principal’s office lobby, where I was directed to meet up with the substitute coordinator. The room was surrounded with a beige coat of paint and the wooden desk was in front of the door. Black foam-cushioned seats were oriented on the side of the desk for some reason. The coordinator, who donned a black face covering, held some piece of paper that was a print-out of an email. I assumed that I was called-in to hear about a student in one of my classes.
“Hey, Mr. David. How are you today?” We shook hands.
“I’m doing good, thanks for asking. What about you?”
“I’m doing good. I’m the substitute coordinator for Wilson High School, so I oversee the substitutes that cover for our teachers. So it has come to my attention that yesterday you were hiding underneath the teacher’s desk before first period, and that you had a disco light ball and music playing during that time.”
“Oh yeah, so about that,” I nodded in confirmation, “I was trying to start class in the most creative way possible. It’s kind of a long story, but I just so happened to find a text-to-voice generator website where I had written text on there in which is something that substitutes would normally say whenever they start class. I was trying to be creative and engaging with the students, so I was trying to hide under the desk in a way where I would pop up and make my grand entrance.”
“Oh right,” the coordinator nodded. “So on the sub plans, did it specifically say anything about a disco light ball and hiding underneath the desk?”
“Well no,” I flustered. “It was like my own creative thing that I wanted to implement in the class. I did not expect to cause any disruption or concern with y’all or anything like that. It was only supposed to last the first few minutes of class. Anyways, sorry about that. I sincerely apologize if I caused an inconvenience or concern to y’all. I didn’t know it was gonna be a problem.”
For a moment, the sub coordinator took a moment to reflect on it before telling me in a soft-spoken voice, “okay. I believe that you will talk more about this to HR.” We ended the conversation from there.
I finished the school day like normal. As the last school bell dismissed the eighth period students, I wished them a great weekend as if I would see them again. Then I went into the teacher’s computer where I checked my emails; I received one from an HR representative with the subject line Concern at Wilson.
Mr. David,
Wilson HS just contacted me pertaining to a concern that they have with you. Could you please give me a call? You won’t be able to substitute until you have made contact with me.
I got out my phone as soon as I could. Dialed the number in the email and tried to get my situation straightened out. I tried two or three times, but I got no response. And since it was a Friday afternoon, and the fact that there’s the weekend, I had to wait till Monday to contact her again.
So yeah, pretty much, I was formally reprimanded by the HR representative. I was told not to sub at Wilson again; at least I was able to cover other campuses. I suppose I learned a lesson the hard way. Since then, I’ve been doing pretty decently as a substitute teacher. In fact, I was able to help out and actually teach a bit in some classes. I’m a creative and engaging sub, yes. But I’ve learned to not go overboard on that creativity such as being in a hiding spot to make a surprise grand entrance.
This has been quite an interesting conversation. Three coffees of differing tastes. We discussed the science behind coffee making, the history associated with coffee, as well as how caffeine fueled creativity within all of us. Starbucks, Dutch Bros, Seven Brew, any local coffee spot—they make our whole lives easier while keeping us sober.
You know, I gotta ask you this: would this lovely hypothetical café exist if it wasn’t for coffee?
I wonder what this place would have possibly been if it wasn’t for this legal stimulant of a drug. Anyways, I’m pretty sure I’ll still be brewing things, whether it be coffee, tea, or whatever. My life doesn’t stop here, and yours doesn’t either, amirite? Anyways, what do you have brewing in your life? Spill the beans. 🙂
Works Cited
Brennan, Thomas. “Coffeehouses and Cafes.” Encyclopedia of the Enlightenment, edited by Alan Charles Kors, Oxford University Press, Oxford, UK, 2002, http://www.oxfordreference.com/display/10.1093/acref/9780195104301.001.0001/acref-9780195104301-e-137#acref-9780195104301-section-448. Accessed 19 June 2024.
Cordoba, Nancy, et al. “Coffee Extraction: A Review of Parameters and Their Influence on the Physicochemical Characteristics and Flavour of Coffee Brews.” Trends in Food Science & Technology, vol. 96, Feb. 2020, pp. 45–60, doi:10.1016/j.tifs.2019.12.004.
Evans, Justin, et al. “Caffeine.” StatPearls [Internet]., U.S. National Library of Medicine, 29 May 2024, http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK519490/. Accessed 19 June 2024.
Standage, Tom. A History of the World in 6 Glasses. Bloomsbury, 2006.
Vampire Weekend. “Oxford Comma.” Spotify. https://open.spotify.com/track/0ful4PHfTIxzXiZSZsXQ0H?si=m_PnKjjrTqisu8bNkTtH5w
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