Over the years, I have patronized dozens of Starbucks around the country. Each time I enter a Starbucks with family or friends, I catch myself about to say, “Did I ever tell you about the time I went into a Starbucks and…”  They’ve heard it all by now.

Rather than continue to repeat myself, I decided to share a few of the more notable experiences I’ve had in my favorite coffee place. 

Bryant Park, New York.  My coworker, Elias, ordered his usual Grande Pike’s, and told the Barista his name was Bob.  When I gave Elias a questioning look, he said, “They never get my name right, ever.  Bob is foolproof.”  A few minutes later, they placed his drink at the pickup counter.  Scrawled on the side was “Bop.”

Charlotte, North Carolina.  I had an early flight back to San Jose from a work trip.  It was 6:00am and there were already several people in line, sleepy-eyed and bouncing from foot to foot, impatient for their caffeine.  After 15 minutes or so, I was next in line behind a woman in green sweats and pair of dirty Uggs.  She ordered one cup of coffee and handed the cashier a $100 bill to pay for it.  The cashier, a short Latino woman, handed back the $100.

“I’m sorry, I can’t break this.  Do you have something smaller?”  she asked politely.

“No.  That’s it.” The customer said, sipping the coffee.

“Well, do you have a debit or credit card then?”

The woman smirked.  “I am not using a credit card for a cup of coffee.”  Huffy now.

“Mam, I just opened, so I don’t have change for this”

The woman shrugged.  “This is what I have, and I can’t stand here all morning.”  She said, sipping, sipping, sipping.  While we are all waiting, waiting, waiting.

The cashier looked past her at the long line, frowned and told the woman to take the coffee and have a nice day.  The woman stuffed the $100 into her wallet.  Before she left, she gave me a look that said, “can you believe this?”  No, I really can’t.

I watched her go, rolling her suitcase behind her and sipping her free coffee.  I wondered how long that $100 bill had been in her wallet and how many times this had worked for her.

New York, near Madison Square Garden.  As I stood in line to place my order, a man walked in, his hair and skin painted blue.  He sported a blue spandex onesy and blue platform sneakers.  He carried a small dog that was dyed blue.  He stood in line, cooing at the dog until it was his turn, and ordered a Vente iced tea, triple the sweetener.   

Milpitas, California.  After a long walk one morning, I stopped for a Grande iced tea and a scone.  I took a seat at a table near the counter.  Across from me, a man sat with his back to the window, his head tipped back, his eyes eerily half closed.  Despite the summer heat, he was wearing a down vest over long sleeves.  His hair stuck up in coils, a sparse beard sprouted from his chin.  I played solitaire on my phone while I ate my scone, glancing up at the man every now and then.  He hadn’t moved at all.  Was he breathing?  People walked in and out, passing by him without a glance.  After about 15 minutes, when the guy hadn’t moved and I had heard no sleeping sounds at all, I grew concerned.  I asked an employee, Aimee, a young woman with teal hair and a nose ring, how long he had been there.

“He came in right after I got here at 5:30 this morning,” she said, as she wiped down the counter.  It was now 8:30am. 

“Has he just been sitting there all this time?  No one has checked on him?”  I asked.  “I mean, he hasn’t moved at all since I’ve been here.”

Aimee looked alarmed.  “No!” She gasped.  “You mean you think he might be dead or something?”  She leaned across the counter to get a better look, then flagged down her coworker.  “Hey, do you think that guy’s alright?” She said, pointing in the man’s direction.

Her coworker, a skinny guy in his twenties, glanced over and walked from behind the counter to approach the man.  From about a foot away, he said loudly, “Hey!  Hey!  Buddy!”   No movement.  “Buddy, you okay?”  No response.  Now people were looking up from their phones and coffee cups.  “He doesn’t look right,” said a woman at a nearby table, her boyfriend nodding beside her.  “I’m calling 911,” she said with purpose and put her phone on speaker.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Yeah, I’m at Starbucks on Calaveras in Milpitas and there might be a dead guy in here.”

“Why do you think he might be dead?  Did you check to see if he’s breathing?”

“No. But he’s not moving or anything,” said the woman, glancing at her boyfriend.  He shrugged.  I don’t know.

“Please check to see if the man is breathing, and check for a pulse.” said the operator, stern through the phone.

The woman turned to her boyfriend again, smacking his shoulder with the back of her hand.  “Go see if he’s breathing.  Shake him or something.”

A handful of people, including me, were gathered around the man now, in case we had to jump into action or something.  A slit of white eyeball shown under the man’s lashes, his mouth was slack.  The woman’s boyfriend lightly jabbed the man’s shoulder.  Nothing.  He poked his chest and shook him gently.  Nothing.  He pushed his fingers into the man’s neck, checking for a pulse.  All hell broke loose.

“What the fuck!”  The man yelled, arms flailing, the table tipping and then banging down on the floor with a BOOM!  We all jumped, startled, scrambling back from him.  Someone said, “Oh my
God!” and someone shrieked – it might have been me – and the boyfriend who woke the man clutched his stomach like he’d been shot.  “Scared the crap out of me,” he said.  His girlfriend, who had 911 standing by, said into her phone, “Never mind, operator.  The guy’s awake.” and hung up with what seemed like disappointment.  Excitement’s over ladies and gentlemen.

The man, now fully awake and staring us down, pushed out from behind his table.  He pulled at his vest, adjusted the waistband on his baggy jeans, and marched in a huff to the door.  He turned to look back once, shook his head, and left the building.

I retrieved my iced tea and walked home, anxious to tell Ron about my morning.

San Francisco, California.  There are several Starbucks within walking distance from the company I worked for in San Francisco.  My favorite was the one about a block away.  It was a few days before Christmas, and they always did the most decorating for the holidays.  I got to work early one morning, so I decided to drink my coffee in the store, rather than take it back to the office. 

I sat next to a window.  It was a rainy day.  The slick streets were aglow with the reflection of Christmas lights strung from buildings and streetlamps.  People ushered by under umbrellas, a few wearing red Santa hats.  Rain pattered against the window, leaving rivulets of water that mildly distorted the view.  Christmas music played softly from the speaker over my head, cinnamon and vanilla hung in the air, wrapping around me like a blanket.  I hummed and tapped my foot to “All I Want for Christmas,” sipping from my vanilla latte, enjoying the bustle outside the window.  It was magic.  And then a man slammed himself against the window directly in front of me, hands above his head flat against the glass, the side of his face smashed and distorted, his tongue waggling and licking across the glass. 

San Jose, California.  I had spent the morning getting the rest of my Christmas shopping done.  Despite the crowds and the lines, I was very much in the holiday spirit.  I stopped to relax and treat myself to a Peppermint Mocha.  The elderly man in line ahead of me placed his order.  He struggled to open his wallet and pull out the last remaining bills to pay for it.  He laid the bills on the counter and fished his pants pockets for several seconds before coming up with a few coins.  My heart went out to him.  I stepped forward and said to the cashier, I’d like to pay for this man’s order. 

I turned to the elderly man and said, “Sir, I’d like to pay for your order this morning.  Merry Christmas,” and smiled with all the good will and holiday spirit within me.

He looked at me with absolute disdain.  “No!” He shouted.  “Leave me alone!” 

I drew back as if he’d slapped me.

The cashier said, “Oops.”

The man glared back at me from the pickup counter as I placed my order.  I whispered to the cashier, “Did he have enough to pay for his coffee?” 

“Nah,” he said.  “But we got it.” 

Pleasanton, California.  On my lunch hour, I popped into Starbucks for an iced latte to get me through the rest of the day.  When the guy behind the counter asked me for my order, I looked away from the drink menu behind him and faced him directly.  We stared at each other for a moment.  What the?

“Steve?”  I questioned in disbelief.

“Terry?”  He was equally stunned.

He motioned for a coworker to take the register and he came around the counter to give me a hug.  I hadn’t seen Steve in at least 30 years.  We’d gone to the same high school in San Diego, and were friends for a while, but never romantic.  He took me to an Eagles concert once, and we went to a couple movies together. Back then he wanted to get rich in Real Estate; I had no concept at all of what I wanted to do.  He had become slightly doughy around the middle, and his dark curly hair was thinner.  His smile was the same.

We made small talk and I learned that he lived in Los Angeles, and was in the bay area for a Starbucks management training program.  He never went into Real Estate.  He worked for a retail grocery chain for a while, then worked for his father-in-law before he quit.  He had recently separated and had two daughters. 

I started to fill him in on the last 30 years of my life, but people started to crowd in for their afternoon jolt, so Steve returned to the register.  He told me he was going back to L.A. the following day. 

“It was good seeing you,” I said sincerely. 

“You, too.” He smiled. Our eyes lingered for a beat.  I knew you in another life.

I sat for a moment in my car, sipping my latte and staring straight ahead.  How odd to run into someone from my past so many years later and so far from where we’d met.  Serendipity.  I dwelled on that for a moment and then remembered I had a meeting and pulled out of the parking lot.

Bradenton, Florida.  A small group of us were taking a break from work.  We sat at a table sipping our coffee when a bird about the size of a pigeon, but not a pigeon, flew in through the open door.  It flapped around in a panic, dropping downy feathers as it fluttered overhead, from one end of the store to the other.  People ducked and skittered away when the bird came close on its frantic search for a way out.  An employee grabbed a broom to gently guide it toward the door, but the bird clearly saw this as a threat and flew in the opposite direction.  A couple of people stood at the open front door, swinging their arms outside, gesturing to the bird that this was the way out.  When it landed on the counter, a worker tried to grab it with both hands, but it took to the air, flying toward the front windows.  Our fear was that it would mistake the large windows for the outdoors and fly into one, possibly breaking its neck.  After a few minutes, it settled on the floor, turning its head this way and that, maybe trying to get its bearings.  Where the Hell am I?  It hopped on our table for a brief moment, which we all found enchanting, and then casually flew out the door as if to say, just kidding.