On this warm, sunny, school-should-be-out-but-isn’t-yet day, I did something out of the ordinary and went for an afternoon iced coffee at my neighborhood Starbucks. (By out of the ordinary I am referring not to the iced coffee itself, rather that I am partial to the McDonald’s version thereby making it my usual stop and by neighborhood I mean three minutes by foot from my front door.) Upon arrival I took my spot in line and vaguely noticed one woman directly ahead of me (with the perfect summer handbag)and, in front of her, three men, all the same height – one bald, one curly and, um, thinning, and the closest to the counter, a full head of wavy hair. Among the din of the cafe were two Chinese men chatting in their native tongue, the spirited arrival of a woman who appeared to be a great-aunt (as opposed to a grandmother) kvelling over the young mother and her children who had, apparently, grown “like wildflowers” since the last time she’d seen them and the familiar sounds of a person on a cell phone. The latter was, truthfully, the last sound to register on my radar. Interestingly, it would turn out to be the crux of this story.
The line was not moving swiftly, but it didn’t strike me as particulary slow, either. Not so, however, for the baby’s-bottom -bald, wide-necked gentleman with the tightly groomed goatee who, seemingly inexplicably, began barking at the “skinny-ass” fellow (which is how he would later describe himself) dropping F bombs left and right and proving that sometimes you can indeed judge a book by it’s cover. Stuck between the two happened to be my neighbor, Jimmy who, I think it is fair to say, is a Starbuck’s regular. I watched as he stayed in position without so much as turning his head to see what was happening in his left ear. (It was an impressive showing, actually.) At this point, which should come as no surprise, I was straining to hear what exactly the ire was over and was waiting, excitedly, to see what was going to happen. “Skinny ass”, in an embarassing (for him) show of bravado, abruptly snapped his cell phone shut (ahh, the culprit!), flew around and literally did a self chest thump and, if I recall correctly, vigorously smashed the fist of his left hand into the palm of his right muttering something about “bringing it on”. Jimmy, who was stuck between the two, um, gentlemen, continued to wait patiently in line wondering, I have to believe, what was happening around him.
The androgynous barista asked mustache man to “chill” while the only other person behind the counter collected his order in the hopes of getting him the hell out of the store. Interestingly, he requested a hot drink of some kind, with an ice-cube in it (to cool things down?) and finished his order with a pleasant thank you. Hmmm.
The line proceeded to dwindle and all our orders were filled without incident. (I secretly hoped they would comp all the drinks as a way of apologizing for the unpleasant experience. Oh, who am I kidding, I love shit like this!) Jimmy, still ahead of me on the queue, turned to leave with his iced latte and I, of course (what are you, new to my blog?) inquired as to what salaciousness I had missed. With a shrug of his shoulders he said something about someone having a bad day . (Yeah, actually I did have a bad day, but how did he know. Oh, wait, this isn’t about me. Damn.)
With things back to normal I added the requisite milk to my too bitter coffee (which is why I prefer the more pedestrian version found at McDonald’s) and was standing directly next to skinny-ass guy. I resisted the urge (this was hard for me) to delve deeper into what had happened and kept my focus on the milk container which has, on more than one occasion, emptied its entire contents into my coffee cup before I could stop it. So it was over. Not so fast…
I walked outside with my perfectly appointed iced coffee and heard the unmistakable sound of mustache man, clearly in someone’s face. Again. Imagine my excitement when I saw that they men had carried their spat onto the sidewalk. Still in one another’s faces with a lot of finger wagging and f-bombing I planted myself right there to have a listen. Apparently, skinny-ass man was on the phone when he stepped up to the counter to place his order. The androgynous barista was trying to confirm the order (which was, I gather, more complicated than a cup of black coffee) but was unable to get his attention as he was involved in whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying. That was more than mustache man could bear so he not-so-gently requested that he hang up the f-ing phone. (That is where the embarrassing chest thumping came in). As they were rehashing and looked to be prepared to re-enact the offenses of the afternoon skinny-ass guy seemed to soften and offer up his point of view. He expressed his dismay at mustache man having gotten so angry despite his having hung up immediately upon becoming aware he was holding up the line. (I know, one could argue that it should have been obvious that he was holding up the line, but I kind of felt for him. Keep reading…) As the two men continued to invade one another’s personal space and draw attention to the themselves on the sidewalk, skinny-ass guy said, “look, we’re all struggling, we all have stuff on our mind, we’re all tired from all the crap of life and I’m just a skinny ass guy trying to survive” and, much to my surprise, mustache man’s entire bulk softened, he placed his tremendous hand on his opponent’s shoulder and said, “it’s cool”.
I turned around and headed home when I saw them walking, side by side, bantering gently to one another and parting ways with a gentleman’s handshake. I want whatever they are drinking.
p.s. For those who I know are wondering, I certainly did ask the woman where she got her bag. Might just pick one up…
