Coffee Culture

Coffee was clearly on the minds of several fellow Madisonians, I noted this morning as I entered Starbucks to find an unusually long line for the mid-morning time. Undeterred, I claimed a place behind a white-haired gentleman and contemplated the menu board above the counter. This is an odd habit that I have. Inevitably, I will order the same beverage that I order each and every time that I visit. Also inevitably, I will examine the drink options in detail before placing my order.

Having reviewed the menu, noting with special interest the seasonal drinks currently available, I settled back unto my heels. The line was progressing at the rate that one might expect – say – grass to grow. Unfortunately, the fatigue that I felt was my Achilles’ heel; I could not afford to "make a statement" with an attention-drawing departure. I was certain that my energy would fail me completely before I could reach the next Starbucks, which was doubtless at least an entire block away.

My attention span, influenced by lack of sleep, shifted from topic to topic at an accelerated rate. After a moment, it settled soundly upon the gentleman in front of me in line. Initially, I had not paid him a great deal of mind, but I now realized my mistake. This fellow was most interesting. He was quite a bit taller than me, probably over 6 feet in height, and his hair – a silvery white with some bits of gray – did not appear to have been combed. It stood out in several oppositional directions, creating an effect that – on a much, much younger person – might have been trendy. Unfortunately, he did not have the correlating attire to pull the "deliberately grungy but uncaring" look. His shirt, a long-sleeved, pale blue button down, was tucked neatly into his jeans – in the front. The back of the shirt was obviously not bound by the same rules of etiquette. It hung loosely over the man’s black belt, drawing attention to the saggy rear of his too-large denim pants. His pants were loose enough to pool on the floor, blocking my view of his shoes. This I lamented for a bit, as I was most curious about them.

In his right hand, the man held a Starbucks gift card. In the left hand, he held what appeared to be the envelope that had housed the card. By now, he had reached the register and had been addressed by the cashier, who – naturally – wanted to take his order. It was at this point that things became even more interesting. For reasons that were not initially clear, the fellow stepped away from the register and began moving to the left. The two cashiers and I watched, a bit confused until he stopped in front of the bakery case.

"What are these?" he asked, pointing to the platter labeled "blueberry scones."

"Those are blueberry scones." responded the cashier, communicating something via eye contact with the employee next to her.

The gentleman proceeded to work his way through every item in the case, questioning the identity of each baked good, clearly suspicious of the veracity of the written labels. By this time, the cashier had begun sending me messages via the E.Y.E. standards of communication. I was responding in kind, my head jerks and squints assuring her that my patience was endless. As far as I was concerned, the morning had just perked up considerably.

At the end of the refrigerator case tour, the man selected two blueberry scones. An interesting choice, I thought to myself. I, personally, would have gone with the pumpkin or cinnamon chip, but to each their own…

Still positioned in front of the case, a distance of at least four to five feet from the employee helping him, the man began another series of questions.

"So, that’s $3.70 for those, then?" he asked.

The two employees both answered at the same time, one asking him to repeat himself and the other affirming his total, with tax. The gentleman, clearly confused, must have decided that the problem was that they had not heard him well enough.

"T-H-R-E-E S-E-V-E-N-T-Y?" he shouted loudly, causing people seated at tables in various parts of the café to look up.

"Your current total is $3.70, with tax." the cashier answered, exchanging yet another meaningful look with her comrade.

"Hmmmm…." He considered the case, pointing his finger mid-air in the direction of the baked items, scanning them over and over as he struggled to make a decision. It appeared quite likely that his gift card was in the sum of five dollars, and that his goal was to make his total the same. Unfortunately, I could see – even from where I stood, still in line – that all of the items would put him over that. Finally, he mumbled something to the girl that – sadly – was not the one taking his order.

As his transaction was completed, and he loudly voiced his pleasure at paying a mere twenty cents total, I mused upon the encounter that I had witnessed. I had so many questions… Where did he get the gift card? Why would you go to a coffee shop and not get any coffee? Was he going to eat all of those things by himself?

At the end of the counter, there was a chest-height counter designed to hold beverages that were waiting to be picked up. After placing my order, I moved down to the counter, where the white-haired fellow had positioned himself. He stood, his scones and cookie in bags next to him, reading a newspaper that he had pulled off of the selling rack. The paper was open in front of him, covering nearly the entire counter. This was, I thought, bizarre. We were surrounded by tables and chairs, simply begging to be utilized, yet he stood in the one spot not intended to be used in this manner. Even stranger, the employees were ignoring him completely.

My beverage made its scheduled appearance, and I accepted it from the barista with a smile, reaching around the man’s pilfered newspaper.

"Have a nice day." she suggested as I stepped away.

"You too." I replied, and meant it.