“Hi, what can I get you?” This clerk—I can’t say the word “barista” without rolling my eyes somewhat; though now that I’ve written “clerk,” the word “barrister” also comes to mind for some reason—she seems so sincere, like she’s actually interested in what I want to drink, and wants to help me out. I like that. It’s Monday morning, and caffeine and a smile go a long way to ease me into the workweek.
I take a moment to look up at the board. I narrow my eyes, practically squinting, feigning indecision. I don’t know why I do that; maybe it’s a subconscious attempt at masking my caffeine addiction with an innocent pretense, as if to say, “What, me? Oh, I’ve never been in a Starbucks before. Let’s see, what do y’all have here?” I already know exactly what I want. The words, now routine, roll off my tongue: “I’ll have a grande caramel frap.” Ha, “frap.” I speaka their language.
I peruse the shelves of logo mugs and packaged coffee, and wait while my drink is assembled. Do I want whipped cream on that? I don’t wait for the end of the question. I drop the pretense: “Yes.”
“Soul Man” is playing over the sound system. Other days the music has been more sedate, more jazzy—one morning, the girl working the coffee machines asked her co-worker to “please change the music,” calling a particularly slow song “depressing”; when the music changed, she thanked her, saying now she didn’t have “to stab herself with a plastic knife”—but today the music is, well, soulful. My shoulders start moving to the beat. “I’m a soul man…” The girl at the cash register is grooving too, and turns to smile at the coffee-machine guy. They catch my eye, and now awakened from the stupor of the Monday-morning doldrums, we’re all having a little party, all caught up in the groove.
Drink in hand, I take a sip and ride the cool, sweet rush. Another day, another grande caramel frap. I can stop anytime. Really I can.