Behind me, a man in his mid-40's with a bluetooth device wedged in his ear is in a conversation with some other jackass standing in a crowd somewhere else talking to himself, too. The guy is going on about his golf game, and how much better it's gotten since he started taking lessons from a golf pro. He's hitting straighter, but as far, so his scores are still around where they were when he was slicing every other ball into oblivion. But he hopes the scores will start dropping soon so he can justify the lessons, which likely cost him as much as he was paying for replacement golf balls. The talk turns to cars and the new penis on wheels he's been test driving. He'd buy it but the dealer's hassling him over the financing, meaning his ex-wife owns his credit score and he can't secure a low enough interest rate to make the payments. I'm fighting the urge to turn around and start mimicking him like a seven-year-old, repeating everything he says just to annoy him because he's annoying me. Immature, sure, but he started it.
Over his shoulder, I see five guys on bicycles roll to a stop outside and unclip their feet from their pedals. They're all dressed in the same bike outfits like they're a road racing team. Their matching shirts have corporate logos all over them creating the pretense they are team sponsors, which is bullshit. The shirts were on sale at Sports Authority and one of the guys thought it'd look cool, so he bought five thus ensuring he'll still be on the "team." These guys talk the bike lifestyle, but they are phony from their padded-ass shorts to their fingerless gloves. Two of them can't even pronounce "Cinzano" correctly. They've been riding the two-lane roads in the foothill getting in the way of traffic since the asscrack of dawn, making commuters who have trouble passing even one of these idiots on a narrow road have to pass five. But these cyclists have the right to use the roads, and nothing's going to stop them as they cruise along in their little peloton, each one taking turns in the lead as they dream about being in "The Tour" or get to fulfill their Breaking Away fantasy.
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From of the cost of your
cup of
coffee, this little girl
gets 3 cents.
Not per cup of
coffee, just for that
one cup. Enjoy your sad cubicle.
|
In the seating area, a man of about 60 is holding court. He's reluctantly retired, telling everyone he could have stayed with the company longer but the guys in corporate, which he says like the "guys" are his good ol' buddies, gave him a retirement offer he couldn't pass up. The actual offer was called "We're downsizing, and you can either get laid off with a severance check and no benefits, or take an early pension." He spends his time managing his retirement portfolio by watching CNN and MSNBC financial programs, hypnotically watching the ticker scroll by, waiting for word that his Apple stock will split yet again. He hopes owning four shares is as exciting as the 2005 split when his one share turned into two shares. He talks about his Facebook I.P.O. buy, and yeah, he paid $35 a share, but he's confident it has potential and that it'll eventually double. He shares his opinions about the stock market ad nauseum to his group, who sit looking at him with the same blank stare his three cats give him when he talks to them. His friends humor him, smiling, nodding and wondering silently which of the two, the old man or the Facebook stock, will ever reach 70.
Yeah, the line's moving. Slowly. I'm next, but a woman of size is holding up progress because she can't decide on the cinnamon roll or the low-fat, reduced calorie oat bran muffin. After a a minute of hemming and hawing, she caves and sheepishly goes for the cinnamon roll with her often used "Oh, maybe I'll just treat myself today" default excuse.
Finally at the front, and being waited on by a very cute girl named Mariann. That's right...so cute she spells her name with an "i" instead of a "y" and dots the "i" with a hand-drawn ladybug. Sure, it looks more like a tick, but she's cute so she gets a pass. She's all perky and eager to take my order, but first she asks me if I want to try one of their cranberry-bran bars in the tray next to the register. They look like shit swept up from the floor and pressed together with rubber cement. While I'm sure they're delicious, Mariann's not that cute and needs some rejection in her life. "No, thanks. Just a large coffee," I tell her. She gets my coffee, sets it on the counter and says, "That's $2.40." Mariann's been handling debit, credit and gift cards, so when I hand her a $5 bill she stares at it blankly until she realizes there is such a thing as cash. Thankfully the register told her how much change to give me back because God knows how long it would have taken before the math skills portion of her G.E.D. test kicked in. She gave me two one dollar bills, paused, and then silently mouthed the math calculation to one quarter plus one nickel plus dime, dime, dime. She'll be fine; she's cute.
Heading out? Not on your life. There are two women chatting up in the middle of the aisle like there's nothing else going on around them. I'm certain at some point in the day either or both will do the same thing in a grocery store aisle, the sidewalk outside a school, or anywhere else a conversation exists that requires someone to excuse their way by/between/around. They move - no break in the stride of the converstation and, of course, no apology - and I make my way to the counter to get some sugar, which would have been quick except for the chemist taking up the entire counter searching for the right mix of sweetener and half-and-half or maybe whole milk or soy that'll make his $5 custom half-caf caramel mocha latte cure cancer. Not waiting, I reach around his lab coat for the sugar dispenser. That's right...bleached white processed cane sugar. The F.D.A. hasn't pulled it from consumption and I'm using it...if I can get it out of the container because it's all clumped together and...
I just wanted a cup of coffee.
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