Coffee

My morning ritual of coffee and email calls to mind that first rainy February, gray and full of magic, far too distant in the past. I would wake to mornings of water sheeting down the trees outside my window. Fifteen after nine, barely enough time to dress and race down the hill. As it was, I would end up running part of the two mile jaunt down to my first job. I was sixteen and ready to conquer the world. What else do sixteen year olds believe? At that age I was as arrogant as they came. I was an artist, I had managed to evade another tedious year and a half of high school by working with the system, and I had two jobs. So I didn’t have a car or my own abode; those were just details. I had big dreams

10:00 am. Not a minute to spare as I sprinted up the stairs, key in hand. The paper thin door leading into the funky little clothing boutique swung open easily, my finger flicking on the lights absently in routine, a touch here, a touch there. Quick survey, no early customers lurking about the corners outside and a speed racer sprint down the stairs. It was time for Coffee. Since it was free I would drink barrels of it. By 2:00 pm. I was wired and ready to sell lots of espresso downstairs. Lots of espresso. I found great amusement in introducing people to an espresso. A minuscule cup of filtered mud that packed a punch. I often thought it would have made a fabulous art project to capture the expressions of first time espresso drinkers. A bevy of puckered cheeks and watering eyes with shock sluicing down.

A new found ritual arrived, in a day when adolescent boys were no longer taken into the woods. Introduced to the art of being a man, or so it was implied, our town now sported the new espresso revolution. We were happy, innocent, and grateful for this gift, the gift of coffee. So, you’re under eighteen, unable to participate in the social ritual of bar hopping. No problem, let’s grab an espresso.

And so it was. A generation growing up, learning social graces in a hole in the wall espresso bar. Paying dues by paving the way for a new social trend. The espresso bar went through a few moves. Meanwhile, the local bakery took up the sorely missed espresso rituals.

The bakery is a conjunction for minds to meet at regardless of the outside shell that they be contained in. A dignified lawyer engages in a lively convivial conversation with a seedy looking writer. A haggard mother with screaming children enjoys pleasantries with a chic elegant woman. Sunlight flares off a glinting white Mercedes as it pulls into a recently vacated spot. It’s so pristine you could eat off of it. An older gentleman steps out, calling greetings in a well modulated tone to the excessively pierced, chain-smoking lesbians, interrupting their man bashing conversations. It’s no surprise that they return his greeting with equal warmth if not more enthusiasm. That’s how this town is. It’s the nature of this gathering place. A place where opinions hold high court, but the real ruler is that of tolerance.

This town has its petty squabbles. It wouldn’t be a town if it didn’t. That is a town of living breathing human beings. About four years ago Starbucks decided to enter our quaint space. Starbucks, for those not familiar with the corporation, is a huge chain of coffee joints. They are to coffee what McDonalds is to hamburgers. or dare we say what Microsoft wanted to be to computer software. Starbucks has a bit more integrity than one would assume. Their coffee isn’t too horrible, and it’s one of the few jobs available for non-college degree carrying folks that offers benefits. But their practice of opening coffee bars in areas that already have established mom and pop espresso joints isn’t exactly what I’d consider a move of integrity. That’s where this town’s tolerance stops.

For eight long months the war raged. Bumper stickers stating that “friends don’t let friends drink Starbucks” soon plastered many a car. T-shirts with the same slogan soon followed. Town meetings were held at city hall once a month. Everyone had something to say about it, even those that weren’t politically inclined. Who knows how it happened. Promises, money? one way or another Starbucks came to town. Never mind that there was another Starbucks just a few miles away, later yet another one.

Years later, you know who is new in town, who prefers being left alone. You know who has yet to be introduced to the community. You know it because they are sipping their morning java at Starbucks.

In many ways this town is very much like the Mac community. We live, breath, and think just a little bit differently. Perhaps it’s old-fashioned, but we prefer that which we patronize to have a standard of integrity. We support those that have paved the way, taken a chance, and dreamed. Maybe that’s why the Mac community has a ‘love to hate’ feeling towards corporations and little upstarts who mimic our beloved Apple. If the computer world were a classroom, these folks would be the ones glancing at your paper during a mid-term and selling the answers later.

My coffee isn’t just any old coffee, neither is my computer. I have high standards. That’s why my computer is a Mac.