The exact date in 2013 isn’t important–all that is relevant is that I went on a coffee break by foot to a Starbucks where the door was partially blocked by a young man with a soft belly hanging over his belt and a cell phone glued to his ear. He does not move, or acknowledge me. I could squeeze by, or I could say, “excuse me,” or I could stand there and listen to his conversation. But he speaks in a language with the words spit out in a rapid-fire monotone. I squeeze by.
I leave by the same door with a grande. He’s still there, same M.O. Another squeeze. I walk a few feet to the street crossing. This is one of the busiest intersections in the Bay Area. Run, don’t walk when it’s your turn. I trot when it’s time —out of the corner of my eye I can see a car ready to run me over. I can feel the driver’s grip on the steering wheel. I imagine him muttering, “Move it, asshole.”
Once on the other side, I am approached by a couple who don’t make eye contact with me. One person says, “there was nothing on TV last night.” I can’t hear the response.
As I near the glass door entrance to the office building where I work, I see on the other side, a young woman in janitorial clothes pushing a large trash can towards me. I open the door for her and she smiles.
Inside the elevator my allergies catch up with me and I sneeze—coffee erupts from my cup. An hour later I notice the stains just above my left and right knees. I toast the day and take the last gulp.
Fast forward to today, I no longer go to Starbucks: (1) I’m retired; and (2) the pandemic put me in the mode of brewing coffee in my kitchen. The downside of the kitchen is that I don’t have physical encounters with characters. I make up for this reduction in human contact by walking my dog where I will meet other dog walkers. Rarely is coffee involved because mid-morning dog walkers have already had a cup or two at home. Peace,
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