Sassafrass

Things I've Seen at Starbucks: The Grabber

First, let me set the scene.

Me: Completely loaded down with a big old geeky laptop backpack and a look of irritation that could not be erased that thing was so freaking convenient and so did not match my boots. Also carrying a silver leather tassle bag, also loaded down with all the necessities shit I insist stashing in there even though I never, ever pull it out to use, but rather pull out and ask, "Why the hell is this in here?" and then promptly put it right back in the purse. Also toting a cute little empire trench coat to fuel my hot-cold-blazing hot-fuhhhreezing tendencies, especially when sitting in the window seat or directly under the fan (Hello! Air con in a retailer in February in Chicago? Who are you, you satanic hot drink pushers?). Teetering through the 'bucks with my maybe-too-full beverage of choice in one hand and everything else in the other hand.

The Grabber: Approaches. Dyed to the end-of-the-color-spectrum black hair, slicked back, surely with pomade he's had in some dented up tin in the medicine cabinet since 1977. Short, stocking, wearing an beige button-down shirt with brown pinstripes and a collar that gives itself away in its pointiness that stretches a little long on the shoulders. Brown polyester pants, snug. Black belt, cinched. Black shoes, shiny. Slung over his shoulder is a faded, rectangular cotton bag produced at some point by airlines, when they were generous and gave out things like pretzels and full cans of Pepsi.

Now, I'll spill the beans.

We meet: Not so much in spirit or even acknowledgment, not even in conversation or in a glance.

Things I've Seen at Starbucks: Dude, REFILLS!

Maybe I'm a little slow on the uptake these days, maybe I've been too busy contemplating whether I will have a giant steaming mug of Joy tea with eight packages of honey and a splash of milk or I'm going to really crank it out with a whatever-they-have-ready-to-go coffee to thunk into a hypodermic needle and mainline with a too much half-and-half.

I have been spending a lot of time in Starbucks lately, working, staring into space, seeing how many of my Gmail contacts have finally gotten their previously soooo 2007 selves on Facebook. That means, I purchase my fair share of overpriced coffee drinks. So how - HOW?! - did I not know there are cheapy refills?

Could it be because the 55-cent refill on any size (you read that right) regular coffee isn't posted anywhere? Not even in fine print where the kiddie-sized drinks are hidden?

Perhaps because the baristas who know my name and drink and bring me the little samples of pumpkin bread laced with little perfect dollops of whipped cream don't offer me in to those kinds of insider tips?

Maybe because I've been too busy feeling exotic and interesting for ordering four different kinds of coffee beverages rather than just asking if I could spend all the change buried in the crevices of my laptop bag rather on a 2-cent "bold and elegant" java du jour?

I suppose it doesn't matter (see? all that therapy really is helping me release the insignificant details!) and that the important thing is that I heard the gruff old grandaddy behind me in line order up a refill, saw him plunk down his 55 cents and smile smugly, knowingly while I added another paper cup to the collection on my table.

It doesn't matter because today I confirmed that I can, in fact, order up a refill as long as I stay in the store and bring back my paper cup. I even smiled gratefully as the sweet barista told me that there is a two-hour time limit but (shhh...) they never set a timer. Now, I'm ready.

With my steadily sipped down venti Komodo Dragon and my quarters neatly stacked beside me, I am ready for a little Starbucks usurping. Viva la refill revolution, my friends! Viva la venti!

Things I've Seen at Starbucks: Make that PASSED OUT FROM

Attention middle-aged men in to get your four-shot frappucinos with extra whip and double sprinkles who want the rest of us in Starbucks that you are stopping in between high-powered entrepreneurial-type meetings in which you move and shake yourself to local celeb status worthy of tall, slender, peroxided arm candy when really you've just emerged from the basement full of damp-smelling orange carpet where you did a bit of day trading while intermittently watching Drew Carey on the Price is Right:

Please, please, please lay. off. the. Drakkar Noir. Walgreens is not doing women, nor the general population who happens to be trapped in between doors and closed windows with moderate-at-best air circulation, any favors by selling gift packs of this cologne to men like you. I kid you not, three - THREE! - men have come through the doors in the last hour reeking of Drakkar. It is almost like they're outside taking drags on one Camel Lite and then hits off of the last bits of an old eau de toilette.

Sure, in the early 90s, I may have snuck my boyfriend's bottle of Drakkar Noir* and sprayed the inside lining of my pink fake fur jacket and my gym uniform t-shirt with the stuff so I could dream up the (*cough*) smell of him from zero-period school newspaper workshop through ninth- period PE hell. In those days, my grrrls and I may have even swiped as many samples from department store counters as we could to dab at our wrists and between our itty-bitty perky teen boobies while we drooled over Marky Mark, wept to PM Dawn lyrics and danced in synch on platforms to (mom, look away)Fuck You Like An Animal.

But seriously, today? This side of the millennium? For a maple scone and pumpkin latte? In that horrible, violating, cringey quantity?

Do the neighborhood a favor, boys, and tone the musky stuff down. Waaaaay down, like all the way to the dumpsters behind Jewel where the old bread and landfill worth of plastic bags might just mask the smell. At least while I finish my coffee a few blocks away.

* Note that this review was clearly written by one of this Drakkar-dipped dudes, as evidenced by the highly descriptive "real, real good."

Things I've Seen at Starbucks: Or at least heard

Please God, someone get Amy Winehouse's Rehab out of my head. And please, Starbucks corporate, take it out of rotation on the mix that plays over and over and freaking over while I am trying to make this place my warm, cozy fortress of solitude professional office environment. Well, an office environment where the people bring me samples of whipped creamy coffee drinks and little pieces of cut up walnut pumpkin muffins. It lacks the recap of Brothers & Sisters and Amazing Race, but I am learning to deal with that.

What I can't deal with is The Nose Picker. Oh, and the woman who must be some kind of administrator at the YMCA down the street and comes in for extended breaks, hones in on any seat within inches of me at my most studious moments and talks loud enough for the old ladies in swim caps doing modified breast stroke laps in the pool to hear her. I just do not need to know any more about the beautiful red and white wedding her husband planned in the mid-90s and why she doesn't really need him anymore. Rather, doesn't need him for anything except for [insert semi-whispered double entendre alluding to things you do not need to hear a former softball player in a denim skirt and low heels talking about]....nahnahnahnah [then insert covering ears and singing Rehab to myself for full-on avoidance of anything further]. I swear, if the Nose Picker and Y Lady ever come in at the same time and go to work on and with themselves, my little , fragile universe may just implode, leaving only droplets of Awake tea and shreds of Post-It notes from my denigrated laptop.

For now, I will just put my head down and try not to acknowledge my co-workers the patrons. I will order a yogurt parfait for lunch, bulldoze through some blogging and hope it doesn't come to that. No no no.

Things I've Seen at Starbucks: Halloween Edition

It has been relatively and surprisingly quiet at the 'bucks today. But now, as I finally click off of Facebook, Gmail and my many other open tabs, a pair of young men dressed up in costumes are stirring cream into coffees. I am sitting in an overstuffed chair next to a gentleman with an unkept and overgrown beard who regularly comes in and spends the day napping and reading the paper. I watch them discuss the evening's plans casually over sweetener and sugar.

One is wearing a large zebra-print brimmed hat with pink fur trim, a loud suit and an entitled walk. The other is dressed in a white uniform with a tilted cap and tight pants. I look over at the gentleman next to me and smile when I realize he's seen them, too.

There is a pause and then the gentlemen says loudly, "So a pimp and a sailor walk into a Starbucks..."

And I can't help it, I laugh out loud. As loud as he's said it. With that, it is time to turn off and turn my attention to my own costumed boy, waiting patiently for candy and his buddy Sammy and his mommy and trick-or-treating to begin.

Things I've Seen at Starbucks: The marriage counselor

Last week, I was sitting in my Starbucks "office" and trying very hard to focus my attention away from the knot in my stomach and tears just a short trigger away and on work. Instead, I was playing a lot of Scrabble on Facebook and going over and over the words to put into a post.

Then a man sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs in the corner. Over my laptop, I could see him fidgeting, taking quickly-studied looks at every person in the shop. He tried to get my attention and I half-smiled and went back to staring at my screen. He didn't let go.

"Hey, are you a student?," he asked. And of course, that made me laugh.

"Oh noooo," I responded with more courtesy than sincerity. "I am working."

He went on to ask me what kind of work I do and other questions I couldn't really duck from such close proximity. I answered. Vaguely, but I answered. And then the big question was hurled over at me.

"Are you married?"

Why does this feel like such an intrusive question from a stranger? He probably couldn't see the rings on my hand with the computer between us, but it felt like a leap even still. I answered yes and a flood of thoughts about where I am in my my marriage and how that made the question feel even more difficult to answer rattled behind my calm and confident response.

UPDATE: Coffee Beangate

I did the do-gooder citizen thing and wrote a strongly-worded letter to Starbucks yesterday. Rather, I filled out the little online form for "concerns" about my Witness-like encounter with an old woman, four bags of coffee beans and an apathetic barista.

OK, Witness, minus the thick black stockings and bowl-cut bangs hacked off with some giant handcrafted scissors. No need to add further drama to this crime.

I was explicit about my concerns (in more or less these words):

Starbucks shoplifting shocker

I've set up office in Starbucks. At least this month since I've prepaid for wireless access and desperately need a change of scenery from my dining room. I've spent long days there in the last few weeks and yesterday, I camped out at one of the three outlet-ready tables near the front of the store.

It was relatively quiet and although there was a short line of people getting early afternoon coffees, there was only one other person seated in the front with me. A young man was studying a large textbook intently next to the door and I was engrossed in my own Facebook Scrabble game blog posting. I looked up when a very old South American woman ambled in. She was wearing a woven long skirt, enveloping jacket and her hair was pulled back from her golden face in a tight bun. She looked at me and I recognized her as the woman settled into one of the big armchairs one day last week. She looked me up and down and limped into the heart of the store. I went back to work. The music was loud and I was making extra efforts to concentrate in my final hour at work.

And then I heard a strange metallic rustling behind me and I glanced over my shoulder. There, the old woman stood with her skirt hiked up completely, stuffing pound after pound of Starbucks coffee under her skirt!

UNDER HER SKIRT! She must have found a hiding place for four or five large 2-pound bags of beans from the display shelves just beyond the counter. WHAT!?

She looked right back at me and I turned away, my heart pounding, my thoughts pounding, "What do I do? What do I do?"

The adrenaline and nausea filled me up. My inner good grrrl was pummeling any apathy I had. And I looked over at her again and then the young man studying just to see if anyone else witnessed this scene. Then the lady slowly turned, craned her neck to check out the rest of the store and ambled back out. I began breathing deeper. She eased into a large old sedan parked just in front of the Starbucks and I reasoned with myself. Perhaps she needs the money. Perhaps she has some kind of problem. Perhaps there is more at work here than lifting $60 or more dollars worth of house blend.

And then an older man, not quite as old but still gray and retirement age, and better dressed, emerged from the line with two grande coffee drinks and a muffin tucked into a bag. He stopped at the cream and sugar station, opened the coffee lids and began mixing in half and half. I was still confounded but calming down when I saw him motion to the car where the old shoplifter sat, swallowed up by the velour seats and probably the pungent smell some kind of fair trade dark roast victory.

He seemed to be trying to answer her a glass door and car window away without much luck. He looked as confused as I felt. She was waiting for him. And he had at least ten bucks worth of goods! WHAT!?

And then -- and this is the freakiest kicker of them all -- as the man went back to work with his little wooden stick stirrer, the old lady ambled BACK IN TO THE STARBUCKS and calmly, slowly, with measured confidence, took her coffee from his hands and fixed it up to her liking. THE PERPETRATOR CAME BACK IN.

At this point, I just could not sit still and watch this CSI: Starbucks episode unfold for me any longer. I got up, moved past the line of customers and walked over to the barista as he paused in between making espresso drinks.

"Ummm, sir?" I said in a loud whisper. "That old lady over there just stole a bunch of coffee. She put it in her skirt and she is standing RIGHT THERE. Seriously."

He cocked his head to the side like I just told him a joke in some Slavic language. I repeated myself, this time slower.

This time, I added in, "THAT LADY right. over. there. Stole a whole shelf's worth of coffee. Just now. I didn't know what to do. I had to tell you."

And then this young man (or maybe even still a boy) in the branded baseball cap and green apron, probably paying for books and pot and five dollar baskets of wings with his earnings (or possibly hockey player cards and Matchbox cars, who knows?) and having no idea why he really needs all the insurance benefits anyway, shrugged his shoulders and stared back at me.

"Oh well. There's really nothing I can do." And then he went back to his cups and Sharpie marker.

WHAT!? Don't they train their employees on this kind of situation? Sure, I get that he was just too young or underpaid or lazy or overwhelmed by mocha frappuccino order calls to step out from behind the counter. Sure, there is probably not much he could do. But still. Still.

There was nothing left for me to say so I went back to my table. The old woman put the cap on her coffee, looked me over once again and she and the younger old man left, slid into the light blue sedan and slowly, slowly, pulled out and drove away. The young man studying was standing up at the window and looked at me with the face I'd seen on the barista and knew was smeared across my own expression. Our mouths were open but nothing more was said or done. He peered out at the empty parking space and then sat down.

My heart was still racing at the strange surreality of the whole scene. I yanked out my laptop plug from the outlet, threw my stuff into my bag and my empty coffee cups into the trash and walked past the now-quiet counter and out the back door. I just couldn't be there anymore.

On the way home, I thought about how glad I was that Lil E wasn't there with me. He would surely notice my panic and ask lots of questions that I would, of course, have to answer as honestly as I could. While that is a lesson that will inevitably be opened up, I wasn't sure how to negotiate it all myself, let alone explain it to a three-year old.

I was witness to a simple shoplifting incident. It has happened before. But I felt like the whole thing was so weird and so upsetting, maybe because no one responded to the blatant nature of it all. And even though it was, after all, just a heap of overpriced coffee, the pound-pound-pounding of my heart said it was much more than that. At least to me, sitting there at 1 pm on a Tuesday afternoon.