Gimme A Latte

My daily coffee consumption usually begins at home well before dawn, but every once in a while when the homebrew hasn’t satisfied my addiction, I’ll make a pit stop on my way to work. It’s a tragic morning when I’m out the door before a coffee shop opens, and I find myself at 7-11 or some deserted gas station, knowing full well that the coffee I buy will sit unfinished on my desk until late afternoon, when I shamelessly walk out the side door at work, tossing the half full paper cup into the recycling.

Gratefully, conveniently, and oh so love-uh-ly, there’s Zizzo’s, my choice for early morning java when the other places aren’t yet open. It’s located a couple miles north, near UCSB, set back off the street on Storke Road—not exactly on my way but worth it. It’s the one and only drive-through coffee shop in Goleta—maybe the only one in the county. It also happens to share a driveway and lot with a do-it-yourself carwash for those weekend mornings when I’m feeling ambitious. If I'm early enough, I gladly drive the few miles north to Zizzo’s…before I turn right back around and head south again. I never stop to think that I’m doing exactly what my father says it is: wasting money on both an overpriced drink and gas on the extra drive. Jimmy Crack Corn, Daddy: I love my coffee. Yes, gas is over $4.30 a gallon…but that’s only a few pennies more than my favorite mocha valencia, so what’s the big deal? 

Last Tuesday morning—in what I’m sure was a strange subconscious effort to catch up on my sleep before the weekend time change—I overslept. If you know me at all, my definition of oversleeping is quite different than most people. I don’t sleep much—nighttime is more like naptime to me. I’ve recently been a little better, but on most nights, I probably only sleep four hours…a fact that should not, by any stretch of the imagination, be connected to my coffee consumption. Because I overslept by twenty precious minutes, my quirky morning routine was completely thrown off. I do some odd things in the morning that seem to waste an exorbitant amount of time, but that's a topic for another day. On Tuesday, not only did I miss out on my valued weirdo time, I didn’t have time to make coffee at home, and I really, really needed it. I thought about Zizzo’s but I was already late so I decided to stop at Peet’s. 

It was 5:30 and already hopping as I fell into line behind a dapper but uptight looking man, a fifty-something boojee with a palpable attitude. He looked sullen and restless, frowning and tapping his shiny, tassel-toed loafer. Uh, tassels by the way, are meant for throw pillows and pasties, not mens shoes. No offense, but they really are just a tiny bit sissy-ish. He shifted his weight from side to side. I couldn’t decide if he had to pee, was trying to fight through some hemorrhoid pain, or if he was simply being impatient. As though he had just read my mind, he looked at his phone and sighed, and in one of those ridiculous and overly dramatic, exaggerated gestures, he raised his arm, pulled up his sleeve and checked his watch. He sighed again, this time louder. This must be one freakin’ important guy, this Mr. Busy. He was up next. He stepped up to the counter in his sissy shoes to place his order; the exchange with the barista went something like this:
Barista: Good morning, what can I get for you today?

Mr. Busy: inaudible

Barista: Excuse me?

Mr. Busy: Gimme a large latté!

Me: Oh, wow…

Mr. Busy: Huh?

Me: GIMME?

Barista: For here or to go?

Mr. Busy: inaudible grunt

Me: Mind your manners.

Barista: wink

Me: wink

As my father says, he didn’t have the manners of a dog: “No please…no thank you…no kiss my ass.” Just “Gimme.” Unless 1) you’re saying “Gimme 5” , or 2) you’re a bratty three year old (whose parents aren’t doing a good job, otherwise you wouldn’t be screaming Gimme as you pull on a Tonka truck)—unless you’re one of those,Gimme should not be part of your vocabulary.

So why would I bother butting into some bad mannered tassel toed coffee order? Because that’s what I do; that’s what my father would do and what my mother would have done, albeit with a little more subtlety (my mother, not my father). Mr. Busy could have been nice, polite, patient…but he wasn’t. He was surly, rude and impatient. He tapped his foot and sighed and over-exaggerated his importance, both to himself and anyone who would look.

It was too early in the morning, especially for B-U-L-L-S-H-I-T behavior.  We've all seen it: people being unappreciated and treated badly…just because. Because they make less money? Because their houses are smaller or in the wrong neighborhood or they don’t go to the right schools? Because people like Mr. Busy are so much better? So much busier? So much more important? It’s not only the baristas and retail clerks of the world who are on the receiving end of rudeness; it’s all of us, at one time or another. Some of us don’t recognize it anymore, we’re immune to the sting of rudeness, don’t notice, don’t know better, or don’t mind.

Here’s a young guy starting his day in the dark, riding his beat up bike to the coffee place to get in a few hours of work before he rides to school. It might be raining, he might get a flat tire, he might be sick-but he makes it to work and gets the privilege of dealing with the public. Anyone that has had to struggle with juggling school, work, studying, transportation problems, and bills while trying to maintain some sort of social life, knows what it’s like. It’s hard enough without some dude in a suit and French cuffs barking “gimme” at 5:30 in the morning, grabbing his coffee and never leaving even a paltry tip in the jar. It sucks. It’s a lousy feeling to have the first people you encounter in the morning grunt at you or make demands or complain.

I watched Mr. Busy after he got his latte. I was curious about how fast he’d peel out of the parking lot in his cliché black Lexus. He did—he screeched away. After all, he was busy-busy-busy. “Crazy busy,” an acquaintance used to say to me…with not a minute to spare. Not a moment for kindness or thoughtfulness or a lousy tip...and sadly, not even time for some shoe shopping. 

Gimme a freakin’ break.