aka: this entire blog post might be half-full of shit
I walked into work on Friday afternoon to a sight that (almost literally) took my breath away: The store was nearly out of Allen’s Coffee Brandy. The next delivery isn’t until Thursday.
Naturally, I asked my boss, “What the hell?” I mean, he couldn’t honestly expect me to work two busy weekend shifts without any Allen’s in the store. It’s like punching the clock at Burger King and being told by your manager that, unfortunately, your customers will have to do without their Whoppers. Or, to use a better analogy, it’s like being a nurse in the pysch ward and being told by the attending physician that, unfortunately, your patients will have to do without their meds. Until Thursday.
“It’s not my fault!” he said. Then he proceeded to tell me the following story, the facts of which I cannot confirm. I’m going to tell you his story anyway.
It seems the founder (or inventor, or something) of Allen’s Coffee Brandy died recently. He was pretty old, and his daughter had long since taken over the business, but she was understandably broken up about the passing of her father. To pay tribute to him, she commanded the troops to cease production of the Champagne of Maine until after his funeral. Since Mainers buy the crap by the bucketful every day, it didn’t take long for distributors to run low. And that means it didn’t take long for stores, including the one I work at, to run out.
I’ll admit it: the story sounded a little hinky to me. Like something a short-sighted distributor might tell the manager of a convenience store to excuse the lack of Allen’s Coffee Brandy in their recent liquor order. I did a google search when I got home from work on Friday night and found nothing remotely resembling the events described by my boss in the news. It still didn’t stop me from repeating it to irrate addicts – I mean customers – on Friday and Saturday night. I even managed a tear or two and a lilt in my voice at the retelling. It did nothing to tug at the hardened heartstrings of would-be Allen’s consumers, though. Never in all my years of working shitty customer service jobs have I been exposed to the kind of verbal abuse I withstood this weekend. I even had to call the cops on one occasion.
Next time we run out of Allen’s, I want hazzard pay. Or a can of pepper spray.