The Heartbreak of Psoriasis

I am a lifelong pedestrian, so I tend to gravitate to whatever book-and-coffee venue is closest. Under normal circumstances, this would be an independently-owned, quirky coffee joint. Currently, however, my erstwhile neighborhood haunt is a giant corporate book and music store with an even more omnipresent coffee franchise nestled inside.  I have a shameful fondness for the iced soy mochas served by this franchise, and though it is a huge chain, I had always believed it to be a pretty decent one. This chain employs fair trade practices, has progressive policies for its employees. It’s not like I’m getting Northrup-Grumman brand lattes or Wal-Mart mochas. Or so I thought.

There is an adorable young woman who works as a barista there, a bubbly yet cool and proficient redhead who remembers my name and what I like to order, every single time. Recently, I arrived on an atypically hot and muggy day, and as I waited in line I noticed that the place was not over-air-conditioned as usual. This was fine by me, as I am one of those people who is always whining about being too cold and hardly ever feel the need to turn on the AC; however, toiling away in a small space filled with humming electrical appliances, ovens and steam-spewing industrial-size espresso machines could make the iciest ice queen sweat. My favorite barista was doing just that, and the poor thing was wearing a long-sleeved shirt.

When my turn came at the counter, I asked her what was up, and she explained that the AC was broken. “If it stays like this for much longer,” she said, “I’m wearing short sleeves, I don’t even care. It’s unbearably hot back here.”

I looked around at her coworkers, who were all wearing short-sleeved shirts, tattoos blazing. “Why don’t you?” I asked her. “Everyone else is. Is it because you are a manager or are they breaking the rules or what?”

“No, it’s my psoriasis,” she explained, showing me her arms. “A customer complained. He wrote to the store saying that looking at my arms made him physically sick”.

Reader, my jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious,” I said.

The barista went on to explain that because of this customer’s complaint, her boss had advised her to wear long sleeves to work at all times.

The fact that psoriasis is neither contagious nor communicable, or that it’s not even controllable for those with the condition is not the most outrageous miscarriage of ethics here. To me, the bigger outrage is that the manager of this supposedly kinder, gentler coffee chain saw fit to penalize-no, it’s worse than that-to create an unfit work environment for this extremely skillful, patient, lovely young person who remembers people’s names, whose smile lights up the entire room, all because one man chose to complain to the management that having to endure just looking at this woman’s (non-contagious, non-communicable) skin disorder during the time it takes to order a cup of coffee was just too traumatic an experience to bear.

I would postulate that  if this man were so easily sickened by people whose arms look different than his, perhaps he should proceed quickly to the nearest magical fantasy coffee world, where everyone’s appearance is tailored to his particular set of specifications. What if someone complained to this manager that he was made physically ill by the sight of blonde women making his coffee? Or men under six feet tall? What should his employees be asked to do then?

If I were the manager, I would have suggested that this man could, oh, I don’t know…not look?

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