He Called It Starbuck. Everything I See Is Not Him.

My dog needs a haircut terribly. In an effort to find a suitable groomer I find myself trekking halfway across the county because I like the sound of the woman’s voice.

I decide to work from a Starbucks while I wait.

As I pull up to my Googled location, I resent its convenience. It is a Starbucks I remember going to with my father because an auto parts supplier was in the same strip mall. He always called it Starbuck. He was helping repair the car he convinced me to buy, swore he could fix, and helped me sell a few months later.

I hold a shred of hope that some employee has worked there long enough to remember the man with the moustache. Any Starbucks we went to, my father didn’t have to utter a word to order. Someone would have the cup ready for him by the time he reached the counter. As if it were all part of the ceremony, my father would then hand me the cup, tell me to pour out almost half of the coffee, replace with cream and then hold the jar of sugar upside down for a slow count of 10. Think about it.

I enter. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe silence. I allow myself to be angered by everyone in the establishment, as if they are chatting and drinking lattes in a mausoleum.

Most are seated in pairs. The first, a couple? No, co-workers. He is wearing a polo shirt with an indistinguishable logo and gets up to order. She looks uncomfortable, and is typing an email furiously, darting her eyes over her shoulder to time his return.

To my right, two older women speak a guttural foreign language. They must be family members, their resemblance striking right down to perfectly plastic-ed noses plopped back upon their mottled faces smothered in make-up. One wears a musty wig and shoulderpads heartbreakingly visible through her sheer sequined shirt.

Another pair of women are talking over each other about their wayward families, trading war stories as far back as last Thanksgiving. They insist on forcing the lithe, tan blonde heading out the door to chat with them because she reminds them of someone. The blonde hoping to quickly satisfy their curiosity is squirming for her smoke break. The women refuse to excuse her as they exchange glances over her tattooed midriff.

I look away just in time to catch a man in full golf attire conducting a vigorous readjustment of his package. Business on the green today? I forgivingly neglect to take obvious notice.

Shortly thereafter I decide I must leave because I desperately need a paper shredder.

I read in my car instead.

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