I like to think of Queequeg as a peculiar apparatus that was cleverly designed to seek out and shred every trace of dignity a man can hide. The apparatus has three parts: The Till, The Office, and The Crucible.

The Till, or register, requires me to swallow an endless series of minor humiliations from a firehose of zealous customers. They will not hesitate to degrade me over a nickel or dime overcharge, and would rather etch the mistake into my forehead than acknowledge my humanity. To them, guilt is beyond any doubt.

The Office— the supposed refuge from our customers teems with the rotten-sweet smell of bananas, stale coffees, and syrups. My addiction to caffeine is well-nourished, while my soul starves slowly and quietly.

The Crucible is the bar, which isn’t, as you might think, fueled by coffee, but rather fear and frustration. The apparatus feeds an endless stream of unmade drinks at me, with cryptic and constantly changing recipes. The transparency of my surrounding allows customers to get a truly pure look at my suffering.

The apparatus was carefully designed and maintained faithfully by the culture it has created. For the first six hours I feel nothing but pain, but after a short reprieve, I can finally purse my lips in concentration and understand— at last— its meaning.

Would you like a sample of my dignity?