Borderline latte
I love coffeehouses. Whether they are a national chain or an independent one, they draw a certain, um, kind of people. Maybe that says something about me. It probably does.
Let me just give you a quick spin around the coffeehouse. I’m sitting in my usual spot in the corner, near the power outlet, for my laptop. Across the room is a man about my age, working on his laptop, making phone calls and doing what looks like a lot of business-related stuff. In the corner is a man who originally sat at my table (what was he thinking, I thought, doesn’t he know the rules of table territory?). He spoke with a thick accent and I think, is an immigrant from an African country, as he speaks in an unintelligible language on the phone. He just bought a new laptop and had no idea how to connect to the free wireless Internet. I helped him connect and he smiled, thanking me, and moved to a chair. He walked across the busy street in the cold to get here, which told me he doesn’t have a car, since this is not a residential area.
At the table beside him are a mom, her baby daughter, and her sister and mother, three generations of one family. The aunt of the baby is recording her voice with a phone app that makes it sound like a tiny squeak, and is playing it back to the delight of her niece. An elderly couple have come in and bought coffees and left. Slouched in an easy chair is a young tattooed man, with ear hoops, playing with his iPhone. Finally, to my right, is probably the best-looking man I’ve seen in ages. He’s about my age, all business on his laptop (same style as mine) and has a voice that is pure velvet. I keep stealing looks at him, but try to stay focused on the task at hand: writing about him, me, and the life that continually changes in the coffee house. Before he arrived, a woman was finalizing a job with her new employer as her husband sat near her, proudly beaming.
Most of the staff recognizes me when I come in. One day, while working on something that spurred some deep emotion, I had tears in my eyes. Eric, the shift manager, was busy grinding coffee and looked over. “Robin, everything going OK?” was all he said. “Yes, just fine,” I said, and I knew that he saw me, but he made nothing of it. I do my best to tip each time I come in, not because I want them to see me tip, but because I know how hard they hustle and how seldom they slow down, and they are always cheerful, even with the most difficult or clueless customer. The staff would often ask me what I was working on and knew I was doing student teaching. Their friends come in, and several of them have come in on their days off and sit in the sunshine with their own friends and family, drinking coffee, smoking, and chatting with other regulars who are outside doing the same thing.
I have an old and dear friend who has met me for years at a Starbucks, either in Stark or Summit counties, and we sit and talk. The coffeehouse has a nostalgic pull for me. We would discuss their children, our families, friends, faith and spent a lot of time watching the weirdos who came in. Little did I know, I’d become one of the people I used to watch with great fascination.
Life just keeps moving in a coffeehouse. I often wonder what’s really happening on the laptops of the business folks around me. A woman has just come in, and is on the phone with a high school student, setting up an appointment to fill out some paperwork. While she mixes milk into her coffee, she briskly talks, and a young man stands nearby. When she hangs up, he approaches her. He’s her 4 p.m. appointment.
One of my favorite times spent in the coffeehouse, while doing some paperwork, was in January, watching four young women who were college students, gather to talk. The more they talked, the more I listened, since I discovered they graduated from my alma mater, Tuslaw. I listened as one girl told her friends about her experience with her parents earlier in the day. “It was awful!” she said, explaining she told them she was quitting college. “They made me get my own phone plan, and I had to fill out forms all day long, for health insurance, and car insurance. Then they told me I had to get a job!” I wanted to leap up and yell, “I love your parents, you clueless twit!” But I didn’t. I just kept focused on the screen in front of me. I did smirk a bit in some inexplicable self-satisfaction.
It’s cold in here today, so to add a bit to my freakiness, I’m doing what is a natural habit for me: pulling my turtleneck up over my nose and mouth for a bit of warmth. I do this when I’m deep in thought as well, and since I wear a lot of short and long-sleeve turtlenecks, it makes for an interesting and frequent sight.
Coffeehouses have gone from a fad to an established institution in America, from cities to small towns, like the one I’m in at the moment. While giants like Starbucks fight to stay relevant with their prices and products, they compete with those little expensive pod coffeemakers, a slowed economy, and people who are willing to forego the daily latte to put more gas in their tank. They sell the experience of drinking their products and the hipness of it. My sister and I have gold preferred customer cards, which entitles us to discounts and other perks, no coffee pun intended. That either means we are good customers or wackos. She just gets her coffee to go, and doesn’t stick around to enjoy the life of the shop.
I still have a few hours of work to do, and think it’s time for another jolt of caffeine to keep me focused. I smile at the African man enjoying his brand new laptop, and the old man who’s now flirting with the pretty young barista making his espresso.
However, as I watch the never-ending stream of traffic passing by outside, and the people who come in, grab a cup of something hot or cold, and leave, I can’t help but feel a bit sad. We’re watching the world go by, I fear. But comparing the cold rainy world outside to the steaming hot cup of caffeinated goodness sitting next me, as I am treated with love and respect by my fellow customers and the staff, I think this world is pretty good, too.