Venti, Chi, Rage, Double Shot

The sun was bright that morning and the humidity oppressive. Clear skies and summertime in Kansas City make everyone sweat like an amphibian. With the sun up so quickly, being late is inescapable, even if it’s 8 am.

My father loves his coffee on the lighter side. Some might call it weak or something closer akin to tea. It is however, in no way a reflection of him. His personality is that of a double shot of espresso. I think he just doesn’t like the thought of his coffee more pronounced than his personality. You can learn a lot from someone in how they take their coffee. It's how they live their life in a nutshell.

Don't believe me? Just go to Starbucks. Regulars know their orders and they say it with confident definitiveness, like a statement of purpose or the Apostle's creed.

In Kansas, one of the local super-markets is named Hen House where an in-house, smaller version of the coffee monolith Starbucks resides. Entering through the sliding automatic entrance doors, immediately brings you to the line. There's always a line. Today, 6 people were ahead of me. All addicts like myself waiting to get their stimulants, orders ready. It's the waiting in line that kills you. It's an itching anticipation.

It was a venti day. Unshowered, glasses on, a mild case of body odor and athleisure attire, I waited in line with the apprehension of a person in a dream.

Then yelling.

“GOD DAMN IT, I HIT THE FREE AMOUNT! WHAT THE HELL?!”

This particular satellite Starbucks had a gallon club. It’s common in grocery stores. You join a coffee club and once you hit a certain amount, boom, a free cup of coffee. Obviously, someone was upset and the yelling snapped all of us waiting in line out of our dazed dream like a glass shattering.

“YOU ASSHOLE! WHERE IS YOUR MANAGER?!”

It was jarring to see someone yelling at 8 am. I wasn’t ready for this. Most of the other customers were just standing there in disbelief and cowardly avoiding the unhinged lady yelling. She waved her receipt in hand like a flyswatter. It was confusing as to why this was such a big deal.

I looked ahead to see a girl, behind the counter wearing the iconic green apron with the siren on it. She was black around mid to late twenties. She had a nice smile, but it wasn’t showing. She was trying to calmly explain to the outraged woman that you needed to go beyond the gallon mark and then, only then, would the next coffee be free.

The angry woman wasn’t having any of it and continued to get louder and argue more.

There’s a point where you realize for a split second that the next set of decisions made will have consequences. Where you’re the one, from that point on, is responsible for the cascading events that happen next. I realized right then and there, I am my father’s son and he doesn’t tolerate rudeness.

I decided to engage her and shouted to overthrow her voice from the back of the line, “Hey lady! What in the world is wrong with you? Just who the hell do you think you are?!”

The angry woman up front, shorter and fatter looked at me like an animal assessing a threat - was I friend or foe? She decided for a moment to win me to her cause by waving the receipt towards me.

“I deserve a free coffee!” She is trying to cheat me out of it!”

Everything she claimed seemed irrelevant.

“I really don’t care," I said. "but am happy to buy you whatever coffee you want so long as you apologize to her. The way you’re talking is uncalled for.”

“Why don’t you just mind your own business! Who the hell are you?!” she yelled back to me.

“I'm the guy telling you you're acting like an asshole! I would love to mind my own business, but I’m the one having to listen to you act like a child. So apologize and let me buy you a coffee!”

The girl behind the counter looked at me. Still expressionless, but a little bit of appreciation for my outcry with an ever so slight smile.

The angry woman with the receipt found a new target for her fixation. Her eyes narrowed at me.

“I’m not apologizing and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up. I’ll kick your ass,” she warned.

“Really?!” I smiled in disbelief. “I’d like to see you try.”

“She’ll fuck you up and I’ll help her!” yelled some woman from out of nowhere. She was holding a baby in her right arm and a Starbucks coffee in left. I was flabbergasted, outnumbered and they both proceeded to advanced towards me.

I stared in disbelief. Heart pounding.

The lady with the receipt got to me first and attempted grab me. I evaded and pushed her hand and body away from me.

It was at that point I said, “Forget it, I’m out of here.”

No coffee was worth this.

Making a 180-degree turn I bolted out the automatic doors. I was driving my mother’s Saab 9-3 convertible and unlocked it. Walking as quickly as I could, the old martial arts mantra of “you win every fight you walk away from.” went through my head.

From behind, I hear shouting, “I just called my husband and he’s going to kick your ass!” I turned, it was the psycho with a baby in one hand and a coffee in another as she and her friend, receipt still in hand, followed me out to the parking lot. This was indeed Hen House - only these hens were angry.

“Yeah-Yeah...” I replied back dry in sarcasm. “I feel bad for him already if he’s married to you.”

That really got them angry. I suppose there was some small satisfaction in it. They continued to advance while yelling.

I got into the Saab 9-3 hatchback convertible and started the engine. I did not feel as tough as I wanted. Conflict like this always seemed to end in a way that is completely unsatisfactory. I readjusted my glasses and looked in the rearview mirror.

The angry lady with the receipt, still in hand, was blocking my ability to reverse. She stood directly behind my bumper and slammed her hand down on the trunk.

"Oh, hell no," I said putting the car into drive and pulled through the spot. I drove directly home, adrenalin up and in no way needing caffeine for energy. There was already a bitter taste in my mouth.

My father was in the kitchen, sipping coffee. My mother was still asleep.

I began to recount my story to him when there was a knock at the door.

It was a police officer. Oakley sunglasses, hands-on utility belt, chewing gum at an accelerated rate and asking if I could step outside for a moment and speak with him.

“Were you just at Hen House?” he asked with accusations authority.

“Yes.”

“May I see some identification please.”

He took my license.

“A lady is wanting to press assault charges. Why did you flee?”

In his mind, I was guilty.

I began to recount the story. Halfway through, there was an interruption on the speaker attached to his shoulder.

“You might want to ask if HE wants to press charges. The video footage makes it pretty clear she assaulted him.”

Later in the day, I had to get lemons. I decided to go back to Hen-House. It is funny how ghosts stay with us. Walking through those automatic doors, was like the trigger that the psycho angry lady with a receipt was still there, just around the corner. It was the gate on the horse track, the ring of a boxing bell, the gunshot of a track race. It’s important to fight those fears and even more important to embrace those fears because that is how you obtain courage. That is how fear becomes courage and then freedom.

Behind the cash register this time, not the Starbucks booth, was the girl that had been berated by the psycho angry lady with a receipt. My heart went out to her. She saw me, and smiled for the first time. It wasn’t so much a smile as a grin of appreciation. It was real, not something forced like when someone says “hello,” or “have a nice day” and it really was a pleasant smile. She closed her register, walked over and hugged me, as if I was an old friend.

“I need both these jobs and I couldn’t afford to get fired. I couldn’t say anything back. I appreciate you standing up for me,” she said.

“I couldn’t just let her talk to you like that,” I replied. “I don’t know why everyone else was just standing around. I felt like the crazy one.”

There was a short pause.

“Uh, would you like a cup of coffee? For free?” she asked with a smile.