Getting Coffee

Every Saturday morning, I am off to do the grocery shopping at my favorite neighborhood market. I always try to go before mid morning sets in so I don't have to deal with the hordes of clueless aisle-blockers and vegans getting in my way as I merrily smell nectarines and squeeze the artichokes to see if they squeak. The first thing I do is get a small cup of mostly-decaf coffee.

I hate getting coffee because I am the person who just wants a small, no frills cuppa. And I am always, always, always in line behind about 70 people ordering complicated lattes by the fours. It totally riles me up. And inevitably, the espresso jockey is solitary and slow, while the huddling masses waiting small eternities for their gallon-size sugar bomb espresso drinks are demonstrating just the kind of being in public behavior that makes my liver want to crawl out of my body and eat their heads.

This morning, when I arrived on the scene, I knew it was going to suck because there was a line at the coffee counter and the decaf carafe from the self-serve station was missing. I decided to go find a muffin to eat, but I had to maneuver past the coffee line. The guy in the back of the line was one of those people I hate being in line around, because he is listless, he is silent, and he never gets what he wants or his change is all wrong or some such thing which causes him to stand and stare at the customer service person for a half an hour while the rest of us watch our children grow up, our hair turn gray, our lunch hour circling the drain while this guy puts his 62 cent bagel on a credit card. This guy, he also WON'T MOVE when met with the plea, "Excuse me." I finally just pushed past him and imagined how it would feel to kick him, hard, in the kidneys. I went and got myself a muffin (blueberry) and perused the greeting cards for awhile, keeping an eye on the not-moving coffee line and the empty spot on the self serve cart. Finally, I just decided to get in the fucking line and get me some goddamned coffee. Guess who was still at the end of the line? You guessed it. Mister Zero Charisma. While standing in line, I can see that the decaf pot is brewed up and ready to go, but Slow Barista has no time between 32 oz pear dolce de leche macchiatos to bring it out. Meanwhile, the store is filling up with vegans and hippies and families. Arrrrgggghhhh! And worse, I see Ted, the gay dessert counter guy who never doesn't tell me about all of his ailments in great detail, as if I have nothing better to do than to listen to him talk about the headache he had yesterday that was so bad even percocet wouldn't make it feel any better and he had all these cakes to decorate. Ted had been absent for several weeks due to some foot surgery. I had been enjoying this autumn reprieve from the play by play about his poor health. Zero Charisma then orders 6 lattes. I just about die right there. Slow Barista finally asks Ted to bring out the decaf. "I'd love to," he replies, except you know he doesn't love to, and also he is walking about as fast as a slug, because he has a cast on his leg. "Hey Ted!" I exclaim. "I'll get that for you," I say cheerfully, as I grab the carafe out from his gloms and take it to the self serve station, where I quickly serve myself. Ah, I think, finally! Only now, Ted is standing next to me, telling me all about his surgery, and how much his foot hurts, and how long it is going to take to heal.
"Well, Ted," I say, "It sure is good to see you. Gotta go!"
Why? Why is it so hard to get a plain cup of coffee? Why? Why?