A Fool's Errand

Welcome to the gates of Hell

Anyone who has known me for some time, say, two hours or longer, understands my affinity for Diet Pepsi.  I admit, with moderate shame, that it is a vital part of my existence.  Actually, Caffeine is a vital part of my existence.  Diet Pepsi is my preferred delivery method. Coffee drinkers have tried to convert me, offering a bigger bang and an elevated sophistication.  

I wish I liked coffee. It smells nice. There is a pseudo-intellectual air that goes with coffee drinkers and coffee shops. People read in coffee shops. Work on laptop computers.  The music is a steady diet of momcore, but that’s what Airpods are for. Coffee is also more acceptable socially than a 20oz. soda at 7am. I’m not sure why, but it is. Coffee mugs also allow for more personal expression than an aluminum can or plastic bottle.  

This makes coffee almost attractive

The first and last time I tried coffee was at my grandmother’s wake when I was in second grade.  It was a cold, gray, somber day and the sound and smell of coffee brewing offered warmth and comfort.  The beverage itself tasted like hot water with dirt mixed in. The decision was made, and I’ve held fast since.

In the ensuing years, the coffee industry has branched out, ostensibly to expand market share. It’s not Grandpa’s Sanka or Taster’s Choice anymore. Even a stalwart like Folger’s offers something like fifteen varieties of coffee in various forms. These days, there is coffee that scarcely qualifies as coffee. They’re more like liquid confections.  If I were to give it an honest try, I’d likely find something to my liking.  Then again, I don’t need another liquid vice. 

Since I don’t like coffee, I really don’t like Starbucks.  Starbucks is coffee with amour propre. My animus is likely a product of the time my sister showed me a copy of the official Starbucks guide to ordering, a Cliff’s Notes, of sorts, that she’d picked up from one of their shops. It was a primer on how to order coffee without sounding like a simpleton.  This is because Starbucks can’t be bothered with bromidic terms such as small, medium, large, and extra-large.  Instead, they encourage the use of the more sophisticated terms, short, tall, grande, and venti. 

 It could be that perceived pretentiousness, the cadged language, or the mass popularity. I’m also likely harboring resentment from the few times I’ve stopped at Starbucks for hot chocolate, which unfolds as follows.  

 I’m immediately reduced to a second-class citizen after stumbling through the ordering process, having failed to familiarize myself with the ordering guide and being unable to employ the preferred nomenclature. 

 The guy in line ahead of me rattled off esoteric verbiage as though he was an offensive coordinator sending a play to his quarterback.  The person taking his order scribbles frenetically across the man’s cup.

 The well-read glance up from their out-of-state newspapers to cast disparaging glances my way. The members of the mini-think tank rub their elevated chins and study me with equal parts contempt and sympathy.  “Public university graduate,” their disappointed eyes say.

After paying, I am dispatched to the corner to wait; the baristas can’t be bothered with such menial tasks.  The cashier will mix up my kiddie drink once she clears the line. There are no scribbles on my cup.  There is a smiley face, which I interpret as the Starbucks equivalent of a balloon.

At least with a hot chocolate, I get that fun cup clitellum that makes my drink appear to be potentially dangerous. 

My daughter has become ensnared by the coffee monster and has developed a bit of a Starbucks problem, which I suppose is better than meth.   As she doesn’t earn any income outside the home, her coffee problem is my problem.  That she likes frilly coffee isn’t a huge surprise; she’s always had sophisticated tastes.  She’s been eating oysters since she was three while detesting spaghetti.  She likes sushi, gyros, and Tika Masala, but won’t eat stir fry, tomatoes, or casseroles.  Of course, being a teen, she loves McDonald’s too. At her age, I considered McDonald’s to be haute cuisine. I assume she’ll grow out of it as I did.

 

Recently, she participated in a volleyball tournament with her school team.  Being a day-long Friday event, I took the day off from work to watch.  If only it could have been that simple.  It never is.  

The first match started at 8 am but my day off was impeded before then.  My daughter texted me from the locker room.

 Can you go to Starbucks for me pls

I’ll pay you back.

If there are two places on Earth I have no business being, they would be any campsite and any Starbucks.  I’m equally inept in both locations, though the latter is mercifully shorter-lived. I considered pretending I didn’t see the text, but she is truly her mother’s daughter.  There was a follow-up.

 

Vanilla bean Frappuccino 

and pumpkin cream chai both ventis

 

I realize this would constitute light work for most people and certainly any coffee drinker. To me, however, it was Greek.  Except without anchor words, like “gyro” or “tzatziki.”  A secret mission hidden in layers of subterfuge and code. The Starbucks nomenclature isn’t the only issue, however.  Some blame must be placed with the assault on the English language perpetrated by texters with hyperkinetic thumbs truncating sentences and abbreviating words to almost unrecognizable brevity.

 

At times, I still have the need to be the cool dad, and with my daughter stranded on campus for potentially eleven hours, it seemed like a small sacrifice on my part. The more I contemplated the favor, the more convinced I became that I could whip in and out of the closest Starbucks without incident. Besides, I had another errand to run that day.

 

My wife is an officer in the volleyball program’s booster club.  In essence, this makes me an extension of her.  As work prevented her from attending the morning session, I was enlisted to pick up the catering for the concession stand.  The assignment was simple enough.  Pick up 45 sandwiches at Chick-fil-A at 10:45. Get the receipt.  

 

The Chick-fil-A is a mile from the Starbucks, so I decided I would get my daughter’s coffee while I was out.  How bad could it be at 10:30 on a Friday morning?

 

Whatever confidence I had talked into myself dissipated with a look at the parking lot.  It looked like bumper cars at the county fair with more automobiles trying to turn in.  Most were trying to join the serpentine drive-thru line.  I wasn’t about to place my order through the ordering board.  I parked the car and practiced my order as I walked toward the door.  

When it was my turn in line, I didn’t even pretend to know what I was doing.  I recited the order as it appeared on my phone (I’d checked the pronunciation of chai prior to going inside).  I resisted the urge to turn the phone toward the cashier and let her interpret it.

The order was completed, and I slid down the counter to the pick-up area.  I was sure the worst was over until I studied my receipt. I couldn’t wrap my head around how two drinks without liquor could cost me seventeen dollars. Even at Starbucks.

A person going by the name of Larque was doing the barista heavy lifting in front of me. Larque appeared nonbinary, at least by my limited understanding. Tattoos battled piercings for epidermal supremacy. Larque had three cups at the ready.  This tipped me to the error.

“Excuse me, s–, I think there’s been a mistake.  Hold on a second.”

I returned to the cashier to clarify. “I think there was a misunderstanding,” I began. I could see the cashier reminding herself to be pleasant and patient.  “I only ordered two drinks,” I continued, showing her my receipt.  “This one and this one.”

At least I’d intended to order two drinks.  One had gotten doubled.  Of course, it was most likely my fault.  I’d been about as clear as Lake Pontchartrain after three days of heavy rain. I should have taken the ordering guide seriously years ago.  I should have paid attention.  It’s like algebra.  No, you won’t use it, but your child will.

“Oh,” said the cashier with a cheerfulness as synthetic as a pair of bowling slacks.  “Not a problem. I’ll refund you the difference.”

I thanked her profusely but refused to offer a glance in Larque’s direction.  I could feel the heat from the glare pointed at me. I’d caused extra work and may have come within two letters of misgendering an employee.  When it comes to the gender spectrum, I’m indifferent.  I do my best to be accommodating and courteous, but this was the Seven Bridges of Konigsberg.  I couldn’t detect so much as a clue.  I was providing conversation fodder that would carry them through the lunch hour. It seems the older I get, the more frequently I encounter these Larry David situations.  Except I didn’t have the gravitas of a Prius waiting outside.

The parking lot was only marginally better. Arrows painted on the pavement made as much sense to me as the order my daughter had texted.  It was 9:45 on a Friday morning, the drive-thru line was six deep, and more cars were turning into the parking lot.  Why weren’t these people working?  

The arrows led me toward the rear of the building, parallel to the drive-thru line. A female employee casually pushed a trash cart toward the dumpster without regard for oncoming traffic.  A pair of AirPods helped secure her state of oblivion. Reaching the back of the store, I realized there was no second lane for exiting. I threw the car in reverse, waiting for the girl with the trash cart who paused to address a matter on her iPhone before moving out of the way.

I waited and reversed out in a less than safe manner when I saw the opportunity.  All this

for a beverage you can get free at most tire shops. Unless you ask the counter guy for soy

milk.  In that case, you might get whacked over your venti head with a mounting iron.

An already bad parking situation had further deteriorated by the time I returned to campus.  The closest I could get my car to the door was about three hundred yards, which made carrying a thermal bag filled with chicken sandwiches and two venti coffees difficult.

 

*              *              *              *

 

Returning to the school with two cups of coffee and you would’ve thought I was Nicholas Chavez.  Girls’ heads spun as I walked by.  It’s disgusting and not something I would ever condone, but the perverts that troll schoolyards in white vans have it all wrong.  Forget the candy and use coffee as bait.  A stack of Starbucks gift cards or a Keurig and you’ll be a registered sex offender before you can say “Dirty Chai.”

Like the other girls, my daughter and her friend were pleased to see I'd successfully completed the assignment.  Several hours later, the team would be crowned champions, with the two of them leading the way. I like to thing I had a small role in their success.  Though they had no idea what I'd gone through to make it happen.