In books and movies, coffee
shops are some of the most unique communities. The relationships here are brief
but run deep. A deep-seated need for caffeine, but more importantly, a daily
indulgence, draw people together. It’s a place for friends to meet daily, a la Seinfeld,
and for romances to blossom, a la anything involving Nora Ephron.
Night One
Once at Starbucks, I order a
hot chocolate and sit down, angling myself so I can see the whole shop. I feel
bare without my headphones. Nine out of the ten people in the store have phones
or laptops out. Nobody makes eye contact.
By the
entrance, three girls are standing together, wearing clothes that attempt to
make them look older, more sexually progressive. Their lack of hips say
otherwise, as does their eagerness to bare their skin even when the weather is
chilly. Every bit of clothing is designed to attract attention: glittery
earrings, bright colors, trendy hairdos. They look at their phones more than
they look at each other, but giggle and laugh all the same, louder than
everyone else in the shop. It’s as if they’re depending on others to define
their identity. Maybe if people look at them enough, think enough things about
them, someone will tell those girls who they are and where they are supposed to
go from here.
At the table next to me two female students sit and talk.
One is telling a long story which doesn’t sound very interesting. Too full of
details and technicalities to have any relevance to the listener. The listener
looks down at her phone—it’s apparent she hears stories like this far too
often. She knows how it’s going to end. The talker notices immediately—“You’re
not listening! I’m just about to get to the part where I complain!” The
listener doesn’t pay more attention, but that talker talks anyway. It must be
the nature of their relationship. They leave soon after.
A lot of workout clothes but no one looks like they’ve
come from workouts or plan to workout later. Hair is done, people are clean,
makeup isn’t smeared. It’s more a status symbol here.
An old man walks in. He and his clothes are worn out and
weathered, though clean—a sweatshirt, cargo pants, a camouflage baseball cap. White
stubble outlines his face. He holds a blue hydrangea plant, and sets it on the
counter. Bashfully, he goes up to the girl working and shows her the flowers.
“Lenny! They’re so pretty! They’re so sweet!” He doesn’t talk with them long or
order a drink but instead wipes a few of the counters down, even though it’s
obvious he doesn’t work here. He tells the girls a second time about the plant.
They smile again, tell him he doesn’t need to help clean up since he’s a
customer. Lenny’s an installation, a harmless, quiet soul. He waves as he walks
out.
Two
girls walk in. One has lilac hair, brown at the roots. She’s wearing a cobalt
blue trench coat—excited like every girl that fall weather has finally come and
she gets to pull out the favorite part of her wardrobe. Her friend wears two
different boots—one red, one brown. They’re trying to assert an identity.
They’re unique, and they want to be noticed.
Some people come
in and out so quickly, some linger and soak up the atmosphere.
People have started to notice that I’m staring
at them. I quickly turn back to my computer and open Facebook, even though I
have no intention of looking at it. I quickly blend back in—just another
hipster with a laptop who’s been here for far too long.
An older couple comes in and separate wordlessly. The
man, his hood over his baseball cap, immediately takes a seat and begins to
read the newspaper. He fishes out the sports section. The woman, wearing
fair-isle leggings that would be found in a store designed for much younger
people and a straw fedora that has drifted into autumn fashion, buys the coffee
and then joins the man. They don’t speak. She pulls out her phone and every
once in a while says something brief to the man. He grunts. She gets her
pumpkin spice latte. He doesn’t get anything.
The employees can’t get over the potted hydrangea Lenny
brought. They smile and examine it every time they pass. “He’s the sweetest old
man,” they keep saying to each other.
A larger old woman, sporting a purple tie dye shirt,
hangs over the counter and chats with the one of the employees. This employee
is older than the rest, and something about her face hints at motherhood.
Sharon, I overhear her called. The plump lady is glad to see her. They’re not
as familiar as friends, but it looks like they talk often.
The older man and woman are talking now. He’s finished
looking at the newspaper, and briefly tells her what he read. They promptly go
out, and drive away in a Hummer.
A couple orders and sit down with another young man. He’s
explaining a project to them—a housing plan. They become immediately engrossed,
and don’t hear the employees calling out their drinks. He’s selling it to them.
“It’ll be dark and modern and grey. Really clean. The staircases will curve
around into this room…” The girl in the couple is the only one who responds,
mentioning Pinterest in most of her comments. The guy just nods. They all lean
in uncomfortably close to look at pictures on a phone.
Just after nine pm customers surge in. Movies, concerts,
shopping, and dinner have ended. My presence also becomes less conspicuous.
Students and MacBooks are everywhere. They are all plugged in and charged up,
slouching over their laptops, wearing ear buds as if they’re helmets that will
protect them from the outside world. No one is really doing homework at all,
even though textbooks have been left open conspicuously across the tables. They’re
just glanced at before returning to Gmail and iTunes and Facebook. When they go
back to work, one student uses photo shop, one is writing a paper, and one
writes notes while reading a book—Greyton
and Hall Textbook of Medical Physiology.
An intriguing
woman walks in. She looks more self-assured than anyone else in the store, has
a bold short haircut, and she sits patiently as she waits for her drink. She
doesn’t have to look at her phone. She just watches people. When she gets her
drink she’s polite—she thanks everyone, with eye contact, and says excuse me as
she walks past customers.
A bald, bearded man wearing a UTAH WRESTLING sweatshirt
bursts in, strides straight to the bathroom, and then in a few minutes walks
right back out.
A horrible cover of “Singin’ in the Rain” comes on over
the speakers. It doesn’t stay true to the spirit of the original at all, but
simply utilizes trendy musical features—a repetitive beat, a breathy singer.
It’s my cue to leave.
Night Two
The blue hydrangea plant still sits on the edge of the
counter. It adds a little life to the harshly electric atmosphere and the
forced, sterile “organic” décor.
Two young moms and two little girls come through the
door. The little toddler—perhaps four years old—squeals with delight. “OOooOO.
This is really fun!” She does a triumphant kick into the air. While the family
is in line she picks up every package of coffee and examines it individually.
She picks up an applesauce container—one of the ones with a bottle top so you
can squeeze it into your mouth as you go. She looks at it, licks it, and then
puts the entire top into her mouth.
Some
young guys flirt with the girl at the counter. She gets nervous and
accidentally draws on herself with her pen.
A big white man with a tiny Indian wife come into the
store. She’s pregnant and very far along. With her tiny frame it looks hard to
maintain balance—when she stands, she leans forward and when she sits she leans
back. Her feet are swollen and she doesn’t have her shoes laced up.
Nevertheless she looks somewhat blissful, touching her belly absentmindedly and
looking at baby things on Pinterest while she waits for her drink. The husband
hasn’t ordered anything. From the outside it looks like a quick run to satisfy
a craving.
A sharp looking woman walks in, wearing unique black
clothes. She has an asymmetrical haircut and multiple piercings, and wears an
apron that hints of the job she must have just left—a hairdresser? “Carly! How
are you!” all of the employees smile and talk with her. She starts telling them
an awkward story about her day while she orders her drink. They charge to the
employee account she says goodbye to each of them by name.
An older woman, lanky hair and a shirt that says “Rebel,”
notices one of the employee’s nametags. It says “Chocolate.” “Rebel” asks if
that’s really her name, and “Chocolate” immediately starts laughing. “It’s our
policy here that if someone forgets their nametag the other employees get to
choose a name instead. Last week I was Latisha.”
The plump lady from the night before is here again, but
instead of purple tie dye to go with her jean skirt she’s wearing a pink and
orange striped shirt. The employees smile at her again, and start preparing her
drink without asking for her order. While they make the drink she hangs over
the counter and chats with Sharon, just like the night before. It’s a
comfortable small talk. When her drink is ready, the plump lady and the Sharon
go to the end of the counter, by the hydrangea, and continue talking. When
their break is over, she goes back to work and the plump lady leaves, calling
out “Take care! See you tomorrow night!” The employees begin closing up.
