"Don't you have a life? I mean aside from Starbucks that is ... Say, why don't you stop coming here for ... I don't know ... a day, and you'd have enough to take your kids to Disneyland or something."
Barista No. 123 puts his palm against his chest, pained by the weight of his enormous wit. "I'll see ya tomorrow!" He poses his right hand into a makeshift gun and winks, exactly what you'd expect from a cheesy car salesman.
I was stunned by the sarcasm and overcome by strangers staring; nobody appreciates character flaws pointed out in a packed lobby. My reply was a weak, "Ha Ha, you're a real funny guy." I grabbed my drink, not waiting around for him to conjure something predictable like, "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing with you."
Who did this guy think he was? Criticizing me while wearing shorts with tube socks pulled up to his knees? It was clear the relationship had vastly careened off course from affable consumer wanting to trade cash money for traditional goods and services—such as serving my latte—and the pleasant parting "have a nice day."
I will admit I was uncomfortable with his style well before the incident occurred. It just didn't sit right with me that a fifty-five year old male should be working as a cashier slash barista at Starbucks. Especially odd in San Jose in the mid 90’s when jobs were a dime a dozen. I made concessions out of pity and a secret fear: what dismal economic plan lay ahead for the middle class in this country? It didn't help that I'd just used my credit card to purchase my drink.
I know I have an excessive personality. No question. So when someone makes a comment about something in my life that seems to be excessive, I usually just stop it. (Usually). So I broke up with Starbucks. And Barista No. 123.
It was rough, but such was the domino effect of Starbucks' quest for world dominance combined with our new world economy where fat men once accustomed to cushy middle management jobs at Lockheed Martin now preyed upon unsuspecting housewives with closet addictions to Starbucks they couldn't afford. Who the heck did they think they were? Right then and there I vowed I would never again return to Starbucks.
As with any other major life-changing decision, I needed time to assess the pros and cons. Was I ready to cut off a long-term committed relationship spanning over a decade based on the comment of one loser? I didn't want to be hasty; why should I suffer any more than I already had?
That's when I realized I had been suffering ... in silence. Sly personal attacks at my expense, a regressed memory flashed back of a drive-thru exchange where a barista I thought was my friend asked if I wanted my raspberry scone and latte. I was like, "Why yes, thanks for remembering," feeling really special until she responded, "How could I forget, breakfast of champions." I was so far into the depths of my addiction I laughed along with her at my own expense, then tipped her a dollar. Yes, I pay people to mock me. (By the way, Kristi, I owe you a dollar for last night).
I will admit my life would be much simpler during the interim relationship analysis phase if I had been able to use the Starbucks fraternal twin located across the street, but I've worked enough customer service to know the disgruntled customer angle doesn't work if they see my car obsessively pulling through their twenty-four hour drive-thru next door. I did enjoy walking purposefully across the street to Tully's, and while waiting there for my latte I looked across to Starbucks and began daydreaming of possible scenarios playing out there.
Starbucks Manager: "Did I just see our loyal customer Lisa walk across the street to Tully's, our major competitor? How can this be? Did we do something to upset her?"
Barista No. 11,626: "I did overhear Barista No. 123 say something really stupid implying that she was lame and addicted to Starbucks. I've worked in drug treatment and, as addicts go, she's OK. And besides, according to the Starbucks Secret Retina Scan Tracking System, her average check is twelve dollars and thirty-six cents and she tips a dollar 92 percent of the time and her subconscious is registering a desire to quit her carb diet again and go back to her daily raspberry scone. Besides, Barista No. 123 is an idiot who wouldn't know how to make a decent latte if Howard Schultz, 'Praise Bean' himself, descended upon us."
Starbucks Manager: "I'm going over to Tully's immediately to let Lisa know we appreciate her addiction. But not before I terminate Barista No. 123 because you're right, he's an insensitive boob who doesn't appreciate our customers and there is nothing worse than paying almost four dollars for a burnt latte after standing in our ridiculously long lines!"
Walking back to my car alone, I felt sad. Clearly I was on the rebound and it showed. Despite all my efforts not to compare, and despite all their efforts to shamelessly copy Starbucks, Tully's just wasn't the same. It was that difference that kept me looking over my shoulder, desperately searching for someone to care. I was feeling vulnerable; I wanted a reason to go back to what felt right and put this little bump in the road behind me.
It's been four years since I walked out on Starbucks. I've calculated the loss of my business to that store at more than twelve thousand dollars. I am now drinking freshly ground gourmet stuff at work in a different part of the country, and not so gourmet previously ground stuff from the island store in the morning. However, today, a co-worker brought me coffee. Starbucks coffee. A triple venti Carmel Macchiato, for heaven’s sake! What? Does he hate me? Now I am second guessing my righteous break-up with the coffee dynasty – was I a fool? Was it all in my head? Had the relationship ever been special? Did Starbucks ever care for me at all? Could I do better?
The addiction to Starbucks wouldn't be so bad if I’d had something to show for it, like a Nobel Prize in Science. I could explain the necessity of my "dirty little habit" because of all the late nights spent in my laboratory concocting a cure for AIDS. My gluttony would be justified because I was such an important person. People always make allowances for crazy geniuses. I fantasize about making small talk nonchalantly at a time when I know everyone's listening, "Yeah, I've been working really hard on the Starbuckus Latteus avec Talleccus Strawiccus. While working in my garage turned state-of-the art lab, I single-handedly discovered the cure for AIDS ... they let me name the bacteria that will save millions of lives! Anyway, these lattes have really pulled me through it all and I thought the least I could do was name the bacteria after Starbucks ... Hey, would you be a lamb and put a sleeve on that venti latte? My palms are a little tender from another all-nighter at the 'scope."
In the end, today’s Starbuck’s relapse will just have to go down as a one-time indiscretion. A lapse in judgment. It’s really over, and I was just weak. Forgive me.
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