How Starbucks Saved My Life. Michael Gill

       How

       STARBUCKS

       Saved

       My Life

       The Riches-to-Rags Story of a Man Who Had It All, Then Lost It All, And Found It Again

Michael Gates Gill

       Dedication

       To my children,

       with gratitude for

       their understanding hearts

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1: From Drinking Lattes to Serving Them Up

Chapter 2: Reality Shock

Chapter 3: One Word That Changed My Life

       Chapter 4: On the Front Lines—Ready or Not

       Chapter 5: Open Wide and Smile—You’re on Broadway

       Chapter 6: The Million-Dollar Punch

       Chapter 7: Turning Losers into Winners

       Chapter 8: Fired—Almost

       Chapter 9: Crystal Takes Me to the Bar

       Chapter 10: Exit Broadway

       Acknowledgments

       About the Author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       1 From Drinking Lattes to Serving Them Up

      

“The humble improve.”

      —a quote from Wynton Marsalis, jazz musician, published on the side of a cup of a Starbucks Double Tall Skim Latte

      This is the true, surprising story of an old white man who was kicked out of the top of the American Establishment, by chance met a young African-American woman from a completely different background, and came to learn what is important in life. He was born into privilege on the affluent Upper East Side of Manhattan, she into poverty in the projects in Brooklyn. He once had a high-powered advertising job and now had nothing; she came from the streets and now had succeeded—so much so that she was able to offer a stranger a chance to save himself.

      This is my story, and like all surprising stories, it starts with an accident.

      MARCH

      I should not have been anywhere near the location of that transforming experience. But on that particular rainy day in March of last year, I could not resist the urge to go back in time.

      Have you ever wanted—when life is too hard to bear—to return to the comfort of your childhood home? I had been the only son of adoring if often absent parents, and now I wanted to recapture some sense of the favored place I had once occupied in the universe. I found myself back on East Seventy-eighth Street, staring across at the four-story brownstone where I had grown up.

      I had a sudden image of a crane hoisting a Steinway grand piano into the second-floor living room. My mother had decided I should learn to play the piano, and my father had thrown himself into the project. Nothing was too good for his only son, and he had rushed out and bought the biggest, most expensive model. After the purchase of the huge Steinway, the problem became how to get this magnificent instrument into our home, a hundred-year-old house with narrow, steep stairs.

      My father had been up to the challenge. He hired a crane, and then had the men raise it up to the second floor, where, by opening the French windows, and turning the piano on its side, they could just make it fit. My father had been terribly proud of his accomplishment and my mother delighted. Of course, I had been secretly happy to be the reason for all this unusual activity.

      Today, as I gazed at the stately building that had once been my home, I thought of how much all of that extravagant effort must have cost. How far I had fallen from those happy times. I had come a long way from my childhood, when money was never mentioned. I was now nearly broke.

      Turning away from the comforts of the past, I looked for some comfort in a latte. One of my last remaining treats. A Starbucks store now occupied the corner of Lexington and Seventy-eighth, where during my childhood there had been a pastry shop. In my depressed daze, I did not notice the sign in front reading: “Hiring Open House”—not that it was the kind of sign that I would have noticed anyway. Later, I was to learn that Starbucks has hiring events at different stores every week or so in New York. Managers from other stores in the area come in to interview prospective employees. Looking back now, I realize that the good fortune that had left my life returned the moment I chose to step into the store at the corner of Seventy-eighth Street.

      Still in my own cocoon of self-pity and nostalgia about lost fortune and family, I ordered my latte and made my way over to a small table. I sat down and did not look at anyone nearby. Staring into my interior space, I tried to make sense of a life that seemed to have completely gotten away from me.

      “Would you like a job?”

      I was startled out of my reverie. The speaker sat at the table right next to mine, shuffling some papers with professional dispatch. She was an attractive young African-American woman wearing a Starbucks uniform. I had not even looked at her before, but now I noticed she was wearing a silver bracelet and a fancy watch. She seemed so secure and confident.

      I was struck numb. I wasn’t used to interacting with anyone in Starbucks. For the last few months I had been frequenting many Starbucks stores around in the city, not as places to relax or chat, but as “offices” where I could call prospective clients—although none were now answering my calls. My little consulting company was rapidly going downhill. Marketing and advertising is a young man’s business, and at sixty-three, I had found that my efforts were met with a deafening silence.

      “A job,” the woman repeated again, smiling, as if I hadn’t