Bucksflies

I happily spent the other day writing in the Starbucks. Once I had my decoy chai latte light water ½ pump chai, I prepared my writing lair. “Joe” the heavy set literaturazzi slash Bucksfly (as I like to refer to him after seeing him only once) was using the main outlet, but I found an enticing overstuffed chair in the corner with perfect access to the other outlet. (And I have to go back to Joe for a moment, as the staff referred to him as Joe because he must frequent the place and they all know him. But isn’t it an amazing coincidence that a guy named “Joe” would, in fact, frequent a coffee haus? I wonder if any Stanley Mugomud’s or Jorge Java’s drink there, too. But I digress…)

Anyhoo… so there I was…
I have my big chair and a tiny table (the size of a Necco wafer) in front of me. I’m ready to write. I plug in the cord, but just as I am about to put down the laptop I see the sticky crud all over the micro table. Simple wiping won’t clean it so I spread napkins all over to create a safe technology layer. I even ball up wads of napkins to act as feet to the laptop and keep air circulating. Ok, now I wait for the muse of scriptwriting to pull up with her half-double-decaf-halfcaf so we can roll.

Wait. I gotta set my drink down and I have learned the hard way that when liquid spills near a computer it actually multiplies in volume by 600%. It’s the well-documented Exponential Snapple Theory of 1995. Before I can write I need to find a safe haven for my beverage. That’s when I spy the small children’s table and set of three chairs nearby. My logic is that anyone would be crazy to drag a child into a Starbucks, so I snatch one of the little chairs and set it up in my inspiration space. As you might’ve guessed, within seconds a woman walks in with her three toddlers to splurge on double shot mocha espresso juice boxes at seven bucks a pop. I ignore them as they wander near the kiddie table and mutter under my breath,“Find your way back to the half-price Valentine tumblers where you belong, kids.” Aside from Joe and me, the place had been empty. As far as I’m concerned, I’m simply using a 3D child’s chair shaped coaster. Fortunately, the mom takes her kids and leaves. Probably off to a tire showroom or a utilities payment center – somewhere the kids would love to spend the rest of their day.

Back to work. Until the battle of the realtor wannabees invade the table in close proximity (they actually quiz each other on encroachment). But I dig my heels in and write. I ignore the interview between loud talking giggly gals and the “parallel to the floor guy” who splays himself out and dangles his extremities over the backs of chairs. I must applaud the Starbucks lady who breezes past me cleaning and, without missing a beat, handles the drive thru on her Janet Jackson (that’s a headset… if you’re nasty). Starbucks lady chirps loudly, "Hi and welcome to Starbucks. How may Brad and I help you today?” (Though we both know that deadbeat Brad is nowhere in sight.) (pause) “One banana mocha frappe...” (gathers trash off the nearby table) “Would you like a shot of espresso in that today?” (as she plucks napkins from the floor) (pause) “Very good.. we'll have that up for you in a moment.” (she breezes back to the front with the timing and finesse of a Mr. Bob Fosse – sans jazz hands).

But my whole point of sharing this with you is to tell you how much I enjoyed getting out and writing in my lair. (I can’t pretend that I didn’t think of screenwriter Diablo Cody of Juno fame who wrote the story in a Starbucks in Target. But she had an uphill battle there as the distracting “Customer in seasonal… who is responding?” blares over the intercom every thirty three seconds – no thank you!) I admit, I nursed my chai for three hours and no one said a word. Though, in their defense, it’s hard to remove someone who is having a bad case of caffeine shakes.