The Starb*cks Thing

Like many poor souls melting away in the valley, I like to get out of my suffocating abode for some solace in local establishments that provide air conditioning. Usually it’s private owned small businesses. Today, however, I chose to go commercial–corporate–etc. etc. etc. Just for a couple of hours, at least.

I never realized how many MacBooks live in Starb*cks. Typing and scrolling ideas and concepts and looking over their shoulders to make sure other MacBooks aren’t staring at their original ideas—although more than likely everyone is typing/writing down the same conversation in the café. Eavesdropping is the number one hobby of writers, after all.

I am not hating. I was one of those MacBooks today.

We MacBooks glistened under the dim lights, we glowed, we pretended to hear music when in reality we were writing down the words spewing out the 40 year-old teenager’s mouth:

“Aw man! Aw man! You said the perfect thing! I was talking about your drink, and you thought I was talking about your ass! You’re such a woman” he said out loud.
“Okay, my mistake,” she responded as she sucked the last of her frappuccino.
“You said the perfect thing! You are such a woman!”

And the MacBook’s clicked together and looked through their peripheral vision at the details of his attire. Lakers jersey, black gym shorts, Jordans, and a backwards baseball hat that was stamped with the name of a trucking company. What an interesting human being, thought my MacBook. Plastic keys of black and glowing highlighted letters compiling one idea after another—make believe thoughts of this absolute stranger, whom I lovingly named Jaque.

It must be a Starb*cks thing.


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