Friday, 01 August 2008

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  One Week at Starbucks

  I’ve decided to make the most of my chosen career.  While I already have the degree that is necessary for me to do what it is that I do, I’ve decided to pursue further “credentialing” (although that term is not entirely accurate).  I will not reveal what it is that I do for a living.  I will simply say that it involves being around dorks and eyeballs.  To accomplish this goal, I will need to do extensive research and write several papers.  And, because this was a late decision on my part, I will have exactly one week to complete my first report.  This is a daunting task, but I am up to the challenge.  And, I have nothing else to do for the next seven days.

  The main problem that faces me right now is that I cannot get any work done at home.  There are two reasons for this: (1) I don’t have a desk, and (2) I’ll just end up watching television.  So, I decide to do my work at the place where all unambitious writers go to find inspiration:  Starbucks!!

  Day #1

  I find a Starbucks in a quiet neighborhood in Burbank where horses and Range Rovers can be seen traveling side by side on the street.  I notice that there are only two electrical outlets in the entire store for me to plug my computer in.  Luckily for me, the only empty table in the store is next to one of these two outlets.  I stake my claim to the table.  I feel like a winner, even though there is no contest to be won.  I feel like I’ve accomplished something, even though I haven’t accomplished anything.  Paradoxically, I also feel like a loser, because no one seems to care about what I have or have not accomplished.  I don’t understand my emotions.

  I lay out all of my notes and textbooks and open my laptop and prepare to type my ass off.  In two hours at the store I accomplish nothing that is relevant to the paper I am writing, but thanks to the magic of wireless internet, I now know how to cook a perfect rib-eye steak.

  Day #2

  I’ve been at Starbucks for about an hour and I’m making substantial progress.  I’m currently three pages into my report, which is a 300% increase from yesterday’s production!  I consider slowing down because at this pace I might actually turn in the report early rather than at the exact deadline, which isn’t very exciting.  I like to live on the edge.  I create my own adventures.

  I see a group of three men and three women sitting on the other side of the store.  These people are all in their mid-20s and they seem like they are having a fabulous time.  I immediately think of the cast of Friends hanging out at Central Perk and how I like to make my life relevant to that show.  I’m not as stupid as Joey or witty as Chandler, so I suppose I would be Ross.  But, that group already has Ross, so I suppose I wouldn’t fit in.   Maybe I could be Gunther, but I don’t work at the coffee shop.  Maybe I could be Mr. Heckles, but I don’t live downstairs.

  Maybe I should get back to writing this damn paper.

  Day #3

  I’m at Starbucks but I don’t want to be here.  I haven’t eaten dinner and I am remarkably famished.  However, I won’t leave until I write at least two pages of work.  I just can’t stop thinking about going to In-N-Out and eating everything on their damn menu.  I can’t stop thinking about how delicious their burgers are, how potato-y their fries are, and how thick their milkshakes are.  I can’t stop thinking about how the rest of the country despises California because we have In-N-Out and they do not.  I can’t stop thinking about how arrogant New Yorkers are and how they think the entire world revolves around Manhattan.  I can’t stop thinking about how much I hate New Yorkers and their accent and their way of life.  I can’t stop thinking about how much I hate the Yankees and the Jets and the Rangers and Regis Philbin.  I can’t stop thinking about how I can’t stop thinking about everything else other than this damn paper.

  I can’t wait to sink my teeth into a fucking Double-Double.

  Day #4

  After 2 days of blazing through countless journal articles and textbooks and churning out pages and pages of written text, I’ve finally hit a block.  I can’t write anymore.  At this point I have so much to say, yet I have nothing to write.  I have plenty of work to do, but I don’t want to do it.  I’m beginning to get sick of eyeballs.  I’m sitting at this table with no inspiration.  I want to go home and play Guitar Hero (which, ironically, hurts my eyeballs).

  But, I don’t.

  Today is notable because it is the first time this week that any of the Starbucks workers asked for my name to scribble on the cup.  I’m tempted to say, “I’m Batman,” because nothing is more amusing than hearing, “I have a double-tall-iced-caramel-macchiato for the Batman!”  I immediately think about the plausibility of Batman being a “regular” at Starbucks.  He seems like someone who needs to stay up late at night, and I would assume that coffee would help him do that.  I wonder what his favorite drink is.  It would probably be something dark and brooding, like that stuff they call “Sumatra,” but whatever. 

  However, I don’t say that I’m Batman.  I tell the girl my real name, and she doesn’t seem amused. 

  I wish my real name was Batman.

  Day #5

  I can’t stand this paper.  I’m knee-deep in eyeball literature.  Everything I see reminds me of an eyeball.  I can’t stand eyeballs anymore.  I’m beginning to question the benefits of completing this paper.   This paper will have no effect on my yearly salary.  It will not help me make a car payment.  It will not make me more attractive to the opposite sex.  This paper is ruining the quality of my life.  My apartment, which I usually keep very clean, has turned into a depository for fast food paper wrappings.  My hair is messy.  My face is unshaven.  My eyes are bloodshot.  My breath smells like Espresso Roast.  I’ve had three shots of espresso, yet I am still extremely tired.  I consider proposing the use of a needle and syringe to inject espresso from the machine directly into my medial cubital vein, but I doubt that the Starbucks “shift leader” would be open to that idea.

  I’m 15 pages into Satan’s Manifesto.  And while this is substantial progress, this day will end in disaster.  All of the tables next to the two electrical outlets are taken.  I’ve been exiled to the solitary table next to the bar and trash can.  If this were hockey, I feel like I’ve been sent to the penalty box.  If this were grade school, I feel like I’ve been sent to the corner of the room.  My laptop is running on extremely low batteries, and it will die, and it will be tragic.  No one at the “outlet tables” seems to be leaving soon.  My computer is sad.  I look at the employee (whose name is either “Marcy” or “Allie” or “Johanna”) at the bar with a worried look.  Although she feigns indifference, she knows that my computer’s minutes are numbered.  All I can do is keep this lame jou--

  Day #6

  I have just finished the final paragraph of this paper from hell (21 pages!).  All I have to do right now is proofread it and make a cover page.  No one in this store seems to know how happy I am today.  Happiness seems overrated if no one is there to acknowledge it.  Even though this is a monumental day for me, to everyone else in the store it’s just Sunday.

  This is my sixth consecutive day here and I’m beginning to wonder if the employees have noticed.  I wonder if they consider me a “regular.”  Perhaps they do not, because they have yet to figure out what my drink is.  For five consecutive days I’ve ordered a “tall-iced-caramel-macchiato.”  (And I feel like a douchebag every time I say that out loud.)  The fact that no one has noticed that that is my drink kind of annoys me, and I don’t know why.  I want to be a regular like this guy they call “Robert” who comes in every day.

  I get to the counter and see a familiar face.  Marcyalliejo says, “Iced caramel macchiato?”  I’m floored and elated by her recognition of my existence.  I feel that I’ve finally graduated from being a casual customer to being a “psychotic coffee addict.”  I don’t know what to say.  I panic and say, “No.  I’ll have a tall drip.”

  I am a tall drip.  I have no redeeming social skills.

  Day #7

  I have no idea why I’m here.  The only work I need to do is to attach this paper to an email, which I suppose I could do at home.  But, like I said earlier, I’m an unambitious writer, and Starbucks seems to attract many unambitious people like me.  Right now there are three other goofballs here with their laptop computers, and, like me, they’ve been here all week.  The British guy to my left is working on his latest screenplay, the teenager to my right is listening to music that is bleeding out of his earbuds, and the young man in front of me keeps looking over his shoulder as if to make sure I’m not looking at whatever he’s doing on his computer.   I intently stare at my own computer screen and pretend to not know that he’s checking out girls on MySpace.  These are the people I hang out with.  Misery loves company, I suppose.

  I leave $10 in the tip jar as an expression of my gratitude to the employees who provided a hospitable environment for me during this brutal week.  However, no one sees me do this, which makes my gesture seem rather pointless.

  This is my last day here, although I know that it is not.

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