This Is It

This afternoon I sat by Starbucks' front entrance, rather than on the side patio. It afforded me a view of the door, and the people who went in and out of it.

There was the couple in a pill box, a top-up convertible Audi. They went in together and came out a few steps apart, the man holding blended brown drinks. The woman drove. Quickly.

There was the woman who hopped down from her SUV, hopped from the curb to the street and then back up to the store’s curb. In her return path, there was less hopping, because there was a cup with whipped cream as tall as the drink.

And there was the skater boy—who’s a Starbucks employee—and his girlfriend, who carried out two pink frozen drinks, and didn’t look embarrassed in the least.

And now excerpts from Gerald Stern's "This Is It":

...
I crawl across the street to have my coffee at the low counter,
to listen to the noise of the saws drifting through the open window
and to study the strange spirit of this tar paper café
...
I listen to the plans of the three teen-age businessmen
about to make their fortune in this rotting shack
...
I watch the bright happy girls organize their futures
over and around the silent muscular boys
and I wait, like a peaceful man, hours on end,
for the truck out back to start, for the collie to die,
for the flies to come, for the summer to bring its reckoning.

You Park in a Driveway, Drive in a Parkway, and Cruise over a Curb

In sitting outside Starbucks every morning, I see my share of poor driving. The SUV that backed into a light post; cars that pull too far in and scrape the parking block; everyone backing out at the same time; near accidents; one minor accident; and everyday, far too many cars going the wrong way down a one-way aisle.

Part of it could be chalked up to nothing: everyone makes mistakes. The other part could be the morning commute: everyone in a rush.

Today, two cars drove over two different curbs. One happened right in front of me (don’t worry, Louie and I pulled in our paws). As the BMW’s right front wheel breached the curb and pulled onto the sidewalk, the woman behind the steering wheel tightened her mouth into something, an expression I couldn’t interpret. On this new footing, the car rocked back and forth a few times. The woman turned her steering wheel, which turned her tire wheel. The car bumped back down to the street, and as it rocked back and forth a few more times, the woman let out a full-fledged grin of elation.

Perhaps she was hurrying to a morning meeting. It’s possible she didn’t want to be late for a doctor’s appointment. I prefer to think of her as someone getting a minor thrill from driving a little off kilter.

Free To Be...You and Me

Overseen at Starbucks: a toddler in yellow footie pajamas printed with monkeys, sipping a grande milk. When I grow up, I want to go out in public in one-piece loungewear (with or without attached foot protection--I'm flexible) and stare at adults without feeling impolite, and with everyone thinking I'm as sweet as a venti caramel macchiato.

Day In and Day Out

I always see this woman at Starbucks. She’s probably in her seventies, with shortish blondish hair. She wears the same clothes—red blazer, black turtleneck, red-and-black flowered knee-length skirt, black tights, tall black leather boots. She orders the same thing: a venti decaf and a venti whipped cream. I’ve never seen her sip the coffee, but she’s always digging into that whipped cream with a spoon. Everyday, she brings a worn wad of magazines (Time, People, an occasional newspaper section), that she flips through while spooning her whipped cream.

One of the Starbucks baristas is in my Spanish class, so I asked what she knew about this customer. The barista said her name is Beverly. She had a stroke, and doesn’t speak. The baristas know her, and know what to fix for her when she approaches the register. Although her movements are a little jerky she has pretty good motor skills, which allow her to come to Starbucks every day, in the same clothes, where she orders the same thing and reads the same magazines.

Sometimes a routine's constricting. Or at least not exciting. I walk to Starbucks and write nearly every day, no matter how many rejections I receive. It may not be exciting, but it is satisfying. It occurs to me that I should be happy for this routine, to be able to do it.