“Closed,” read the sign on the coffee shop window. I looked inside. Tables were overturned, milk cartons were crushed and splattered, and a carpet of spilled coffee beans covered the tile floor, which had been suddenly evacuated. A note below the sign read, “Sorry folks, we’re on strike. Love, the baristas.”

And then I heard them: murmuring chants. “Coffee’s all that we got left, pay us more or thirst to death.” The deafening sound of marching soon came over the rise and I saw them. Hundreds of aprons — mostly green — motley shirts and a forest of picket signs heralded the throng. They had apparently left their posts in haste. From Seattle’s myriad drive-thru espresso stands, a bevy of lingerie-clad temptresses had arrived and were sashaying about.

I read a few signs. “No labor union? Nonfat venti chance!” I watched them march past, stained with coffee grounds and steamed milk, as more decaffeinated customers gathered outside other sloppily closed cafés. These zombies had bags under their eyes. In lieu of liquid stimulant, they licked their lips. But the baristas weren’t working, and the denizens of Seattle watched with heavy eyelids as history unfolded before them.

On I-90, dozens of pileups, caused by sluggish motorists halted traffic for miles in either direction. Drivers lazily shook their fists, but soon eased into mid-morning naps on their dashboards. A traffic helicopter flew erratic patterns, nearly missing the Columbia Tower, and Steve Pool nodded off against his green screen on live TV, his head sandwiched between Everett and Bellingham (44 and 39 degrees Fahrenheit, respectively).

This fateful day could soon arrive. Coffee fuels Seattle’s economy. It’s not online book sales, software, or biodiesel that drives us. The substance of our progress is the brown liquid supped from thousands of mugs across our city. In the shadow of Amazon.com, Boeing’s lordship over the skies, and Microsoft’s global dominance, their true inspiration lurks. Coffee provides the white-collared masses with the impetus to tirelessly man their desks.

But we’ve forgotten the baristas, and we’ve trodden upon the aproned backs of our espresso jockeys in our quest to make Seattle a cultural hub. According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, as many as 10,000 people are employed in coffee service in the Seattle area. They earn a median wage of about $9.50 an hour, including tips. This means that beyond our state’s minimum wage of $8.07, they’re earning no more than a dollar and change with every hour of coffee-inhaling, customer-pandering labor. Waiters earn an average of $12 an hour for a profession that is comparable in stress and job-specific knowledge.

Companies like Starbucks have a responsibility to offer competitive wages and treat employees fairly. In an effort to shorten lines, Starbucks removed the credit card tip function on their receipts years ago. The week’s cash tips are collected, averaged out and redistributed like loaves of stale bread in Soviet Russia. Not really encouraging when all that smiling service you did at 5 a.m. goes to benefit the sulking evening crew. If they let customers tip in every way possible, and didn’t collectivize their “tip farms,” they would do much to aid struggling baristas.

And when the intention of a company is to give quick caffeine injections rather than savory experiences, the stress on a barista increases. Customers get demanding and picky when they find out they can have anything and have it exactly how they want it. Have you ever heard customers asking for specific latte temperatures? While you’re sandwiched in line between power-suited, cell phone jerk and Nike-worshipping, Bellevue Mom, the last thing you want to hear is a haughty fool pining for specific numbers of flavor pumps in his drink. It’s not chemistry, it’s coffee, and you need to let the barista do his or her job. If this person is you, make your own drink.

In order to avoid citywide chaos, we should take steps to treat our baristas better. Tip like you mean it. Let Starbucks know how you feel about its blind eye toward tipping, because it hurts baristas. And when you’re handed that warm cup, realize that someone lovingly made it for you, hunched over a wheezing espresso machine. Look them in the eye and sincerely say, “Thank you.” Smile and get out of the way so the cell phone jerk can grab his nonfat, double tall, light-whip, 170-degree, two pump, sugar free, hazelnut mocha.

[Reach columnist Jackson Rohrbaugh at opinion@thedaily.washington.edu.]