Starbucks and Sharpies
Starbucks recently announced a return to jotting our names on their cups with a Sharpie and I could not be more pleased with the decision. Not for the marketing reasons the CEO inferred – that the hand-written element builds a sense of community. Like many of you, I missed using pseudonyms and fabrications when the barista asked for a name – but I am mostly happy because now when I am forced to use my coffee cup as a projectile it cannot easily be traced back to me and my account. Can I get a name for your order? “Sure. Mr. Pink.”
I live in a neighborhood known for decades as a pedestrian-friendly shopping district, a three-by-twelve-ish block enclave with a sensible mix of retail, dining, offices and salons that originally didn’t rise above three stories tall – meaning, the snow on the south side of the streets would melt without applying metric tons of salt. Once Denver caved and decided that developers could build whatever they wanted, up to seven stories, the four-way-stop intersections more resemble Death Race 2000. Beautiful people in fancy cars whose time is far more valuable than yours now commit rolling stops (or run straight through at speed) while texting. Regular people in sensible cars delivering food often park smack in the middle of the street without putting on flashers, sauntering into a boutique to deliver sushi from a place just blocks away, the line of cars backing up into the next four-way stop.
The nearest Starbucks is about a mile from my place, so I never drive. I walk, often with the dogs, unless I have a client meeting. I make it part of my 10,000 steps regimen, even if it’s chilly or flurrying. I take several different routes – determined by which sidewalk is closed because a new seven-story building is being constructed – and I end up crossing at many four-way stops on the jaunt. I know from experience that lots of drivers are either stupid or plain reckless. I taught my kids when they got to the age of going out with friends that they cannot cross at any corner without first making direct eye contact with drivers. Crossing mid-block is a death wish. Never think for a second that a car is going straight simply because they didn’t activate the turn signal – that baseline courtesy went out the window sometime during the Bush administration. In fairness, how is a person supposed to click the turn signal when they’re busy setting a fantasy lineup, or placing a trade?
I am relatively new to coffee – and yes, I also frequent other places. When I divorced and began dating, the common denominator of a first encounter was to meet during daylight, someplace safe and well-trafficked where her friends could surreptitiously spy from the corner table or show up 15 minutes later in case an extraction became necessary. They don’t sell diet soda at Starbucks, so I had to find an easy coffee order, and a friendly barista suggested a tall flat white – which remains my go-to. Another fact about coffee I rarely confess is that I can’t take a sip for seven or eight minutes because it’s just too hot. The bane of being a midlife coffee rookie, or maybe I am just not built for hot drinks. As a result, I typically walk for blocks before my first sip. An ex-girlfriend suggested I order my coffee at “kid temperature,” which apparently is a thing, but was far too emasculating for me to consider.
I came to realize that having coffee in my hand was smart when the Cherry Creek intersections became overrun by imbeciles masquerading as drivers. Once I was crossing Third Avenue at Fillmore and was in the middle of the crosswalk – not jaywalking – and a car that never stopped clipped my right arm with its side-view mirror going about 20 mph, nearly spinning me down to the asphalt. In that case I fast walked toward where they were heading and found the car parked behind a retail store – and swiftly kicked off the side-view mirror and threw it in a nearby dumpster, wires dangling from the hole like red and black worms. On several occasions in recent years, when a car accelerated across my right-of-way endangering me or my dogs, I hurled my coffee at their car and kept walking. One of two things happens next: The driver either stops and says something (typically a male response but sometimes a Karen), or they know exactly what they did and shamefully drive away with brown foam covering their windshield. One time I successfully ricocheted an iced coffee through a cracked window and painted the driver, who confronted me with the entitled haughtiness of a guy who hasn’t been punched in the face since grade school – or ever. “Hey chief, did you just throw coffee at my car?” Pedestrians stopped and stared, phones at the ready.
“I threw it into your car. And you know the reason. Get back in your car and stop driving like a tool. Chief.” Come to think of it, I may add Chief as a nom de guerre to my coffee name rotation.