Morning at Starbucks

This essay was written in October. Four months after mom died, two months before CJ died.

I’m headed back to Oklahoma today after a short visit in Vegas. CJ has gotten tired of living in Oklahoma and is enthused about returning home and getting his life back on track. Even more importantly, he’s enthused about returning to a place with seven different flavors of high-speed internet access. We stopped at Starbucks on the way to the airport. Over the past month in Oklahoma I’ve found myself having frequent dreams about going to Starbucks. Not doing anything there, just going, getting myself a decent cup of coffee and sitting there enjoying the benefits of blissful consumerism. Yes, I realize how sad that is. CJ hates coffee and isn’t particularly fond of Starbucks in general; he is baffled by both my desire to go to them and my enjoyment of their atmosphere. I think it harkens back to my college days. I have spent quite a bit of time and money at Starbucks over the past few days here, and maintain nostalgic memories of good friends and a simpler life. I have had several lattes and peppermint mochas already this trip, but I want to get one more fix on the way to the airport before I’m shuttered back off to Cushing.

As we pull into the busy morning parking lot, CJ has to park nearly a block away. This Starbucks is at a very busy spot along the route from upper-class Summerlin and the Lakes area down to the Strip and business districts, so there is never a lack of morning customers jockeying for position in the drive-thru lane. For some reason, I’d never really realized how busy this place was, but after months in rural isolation I see it in a new light. It now occurs to me as a testament to the frenzied pace of modern life when people can’t even spare the time to get out of their cars for a cup of joe. Most of the people here this morning are in their business suits on their way to work, with their cell phones attached to their belt buckles or purse straps, and earpieces stuck to the side of their heads to quickly facilitate any business related communication. They remind me of the Borg. I’m startled by the loud screeching of tires as we walk up the ramp towards the front door; a Mercedes has nearly t-boned a Lexus as they both sped toward the drive-thru window. The gentleman in the Lexus leans out his window and glares at the gentleman in the Mercedes. “Asshole!”

“Hey, fuck you!” responds the man in the Mercedes with an appropriately communicative hand gesture. The matter having apparently been settled, the silver Lexus pulls forward as the driver peruses his caffeinated options. None of the patrons seem startled by this exchange, most of them looked amused. I’m suddenly, strongly overcome with the image some wild pack of dogs – like hyenas, or jackals – fighting over the last ham steak of a downed gazelle.