truth

Tony works behind the counter, behind the cash register, and in front of people. He is always there, as if that lonely branch of Starbucks, one of so many downtown, is his life. As if that little corner, nudged to the side by a diner and a parking lot, is all he has.

I sip my latte (half-and-half, a dash of cinnamon and a pinch of sugar) as I wait for my daughter’s ice skating class to finish. I sip and watch.

So many people pass through this place, though only one at a time. Never have I seen a couple, a group of young teenagers, or coworkers stop by. No, Saturday mornings from ten to eleven is a private time for me, Tony, and all the other lonely souls that walk through the throng of municipal downtown San Francisco on a Saturday morning.

We have a mutual understanding of no cell phones, no laptops; only the painfully comforting sound of brewing coffee and turning of pages. We are all willing left-behinds of the hustle-bustle. We are all wanting, and Tony completes us all.

There is the surly business man (white mocha with a dash of cocoa powder) in his stout suit with balding hair and an overpacked brief case. The old Vietnam veteran (coffee, black) with the needle thin scar down his left jaw. The curvaceous African-American woman (caramel frappucino) with her two large grocery bags from Safeway. The young nurse (Earl Grey tea, soy milk and brown sugar) looking exhausted after her night on call.

We are in our sanctuary, this off-the-street Starbucks. We embody the typical scene of a coffee shop, and we are in an oasis that only the silence of soft music can contain: oneness. We are each other’s safety, calm, mindful loneliness that only strangers can give. We take advantage, and are taken advantage of.

That’s what we come here for.

The wrongness, the sin, the taking.

The rightness, the virtue, the offering.

I settle back into my chair, and that is when I realize that I had to unclench my toes. As my little wooden chair groans, an inauditory sigh of relief resonates through the room.

A moment of peace.

Only a moment, and we are released.

From stress, duty, normalcy, boredom, from the reality that ties us down.

Only a moment, and the bell above the door jingles; an intruder in our place. With a shrug to us (or maybe himself?), Tony sets out to brew the perfect cup of coffee. Again and again.

Just for us.

Or because that’s his job.

I glance down at my watch to see that I’m already late to pick up Taylor. I gather my bag and my coat, take a last sip of now-cold latte (half-and-half, a dash of cinnamon and a pinch of sugar) and throw it out without another glance.

As the bells call out their never ending goodbye behind me and the misty wind hits my face, I briefly wonder what kind of coffee Tony drinks.