'Here he comes, yet again,'� I looked to her fellow barista, Sam.
Sam smirked, 'Wonder what he is getting today?'� knowing full well the answer to her question.
I waited for him to approach the counter, drink already made. The time it took for him to set his briefcase down and head over to the counter was usually enough time to get the drink out.
'The usual today?'� I asked.
He nodded his head, forking over a five dollar bill. He smiled, left his change as tip, and took his drink. Every day it is the same routine. Now that it is cold, a plum turtleneck and specklely gray wool coat are necessary. He wobbles up to the counter, wearing the same worn black belt, black leather top shoes, and orders that telling drink: a small caramel apple cider. His ashy brown hair is parted to the side, in an-almost-old-man comb over. His eyes are warm enough, slightly engaging, with a grayish twinkle. Every day he comes into this coffee shop, orders the same drink, and sits in the same chair, looking out the window, watching all the people go by. He must be about forty years old, but his elf-like stature makes him appear younger than he actually is. His quiet demeanor was somewhat eluding; so we just handed him his drink. We called him Cider Mike. We never knew his real name.

***

Starbucks is the icon of American consumerism. Stocks are soaring, and your own personal Starbucks is popping up right in your neighborhood. It is said that in one year there will be a Starbucks for every 10,000 people. Some over-eager, young corporate buck has done the marketing research, determining exactly the number of people who will wait happily in line for their double tall lattes. A well thought-out company; it is no wonder they really are my third place. It is not work, it is not home, but it is something.
The swishing of that oak door every day, hearing that very friendly hello, music lightly tapping the eardrums, high-back bar chair pulled slightly out from the rest, waiting for me; my retreat. A place I can be anonymous without being anonymous. The baristas know my usual, and therefore I know they don't mind getting me a cup of ice water along with it. I am nice enough. Nothing too complicated or decaf in my order. On some days I get an oatmeal cookie to go with my piping hot cider. That however, is a special kind of day. I use the term special very sarcastically. Days when I need an oatmeal cookie are usually bloody. I work at a design company just down the street. Some days, it is pretty cut throat, staring at a computer screen all day long. Not my favorite kind of day, but one shouldn't complain.
Starbucks is polite. They operate under the 'Just Say Yes'� policy; their mantra is warm, never invasive. I see the same cute girl baristas everyday, their hair tucked neatly under their hat, and I don't have to know anything else about them. Eye contact only when handing me my drink and never in casual conversation, their arms flitter about getting the line of drinks out in assembly type fashion. Entirely fascinating.
We live in a world of isolation where proximity assumes a role of intimacy. I am okay with that. High school was awkward for me, as I was, as coined by my history teacher, 'socially inept, the loner.'� I've never done well with people. It is something that I probably shouldn't have relinquished myself too so soon. I try to not think about when I gaze out the 9' by 12' window that feeds every person's fascination with voyeurism.
After a while, however, all the people look the same, and it becomes easier and easier to lump people into categories. Pearls, the hair brown or blonde, (colors just interchanged) and smoothed with a flat-iron or round brush, trendy bag in tote. I have nailed the cookie-cutter college girl. I wish had nailed them in other ways, but as I said, most people just don't engage with me. Besides, I'm not attractive, anyway. The guys come in a similar fashion, their name brand fleeces back, by popular demand. About sixty percent of those who frequent the main drag of this nowhere town are embodied by these two types of people. The others come in brighter colors, and no, I am not just referring to their clothes: various homeless looking for either for sixty cents to get that can't-live-without-it hot dog, or to peddle flowers as the only pretty things left in this world, hip music lovers with fun shoes and even darker clothes, business folks in ties and cuffs, and of course, all those lovely dogs. Each fits in a category. I have become very good at lumping. If I didn't live inside my head so much, perhaps I would get to know people, and be able to see how each was different.
This made those that stood out even without knowing them all the more interesting to watch.
One guy in particular struck my fancy. He, too, came into Starbucks everyday. He preferred a toffee nut latte, but I forgave him for it. It was such a girly drink for such a manly guy. For a guy, he was kind of short. He had blonde hair, the moppish kind, but not in typical young college boy fashion for it was haphazard and careful at the same time. He wore a wool coat in the winter, his a pea coat of the darkest black, finished not with a turtleneck underneath, but a cozy and modern gray scarf. I couldn't help comparing myself to him. Little hints of his blue shirt underneath peaked out, his blue eyes, therefore, popping. He was kind of thick, meaty, and every once in a while, he would let his stubble go, out of control. It added to his appeal. He was the guy who came into Starbucks and got a hug from those same tucked baristas who avoided sincere eye contact at all costs. I envied his way with women. One day he sat down right next to me. He was a warm guy, likely with warm thoughts and convictions. Again, in heavy contrast to my own. It is likely that he thought that since we saw each other most every day, we should put names to faces. He was the genuinely curious type, and there aren't too many of those left. It was odd, but I didn't put it past him. He knew almost everyone else who came in this store, anyway.
'Hi, I am Jason,'� he said.
It overwhelmed me in a way that was surprising. I looked at him, blinking.
'I see you in here everyday, man, what's your story?'� he said.
After sometime, my hand tapping on the bar not good enough an answer, I replied, 'I don't have much of a story. I am a quiet guy, I keep to myself.'� This obviously was not satisfactory to him, and his eyes got squinty, trying to discern why I was so awkward.
I continued, 'Sneak, my Doberman, is probably my only friend. And what about you? Why did you pick today of all days to say something to me?'� My head was screaming to those squinting eyes that I was just this basic forty year old, unassuming and why did he have to come in and ruin those nods of recognition, nothing more needed? I gave him a hard look, dead in the eye.
He thought for a while, pointer finger holding up chin.
'I dunno,'� He then continued, my little confession inspiring him, I suppose. 'You just seem to have a rhythm about you, a routine, and I guess I just saw myself in that. Why not? I get tired of talking to the same people everyday about what paper I am writing and what beer is my favorite. I am sorry if I offended you.'�
'I guess I don't know either. I am so confined to a routine that I do not understand why people would step out of theirs,'� I said, rather curtly.
'Makes sense, I guess. Fair enough.'� He stressed the e on enough. This meant that he was surprised at how the conversation had turned out.
He knew that my last comment was indicative of me not wanting to engage with him any longer. At that moment, I wished was less awkward. Soon, the only noise saving silence was the sound of his chair scraping hard against tile. He was a good guy, I could tell. He told me, 'Well, hey, it was great talking to ya. Now I know what your voice sounds like, even if I don't know your name. One less mystery right?'�
Only he could have saved a conversation like this. 'Yeah.'� I said, and watched as he nodded, confidently, tucked the chair under the table, and headed for a cushiony chair in the back of the store. I stared out the window a while more, playing back the conversation over and over again in my head, trying to see how I could have managed to talk to him longer. Mustering some unknown confidence or grief, I couldn't tell which, I walked to the back of the store, and handed him my business card.
'You know, I don't have any friends. I am sorry that I marked your curiosity with such disappointment. If you are ever interested in getting together for lunch, over coffee'�'�
He picked up where he knew I could not finish, 'You know what, I just might do that. You work in graphic design? No kidding. That's awesome. I am in a band that could use some marketing, advertisement. That would be great to talk about over lunch.'�
I replied, somewhat overeagerly, 'Anytime. Call me when you aren't busy. I know you students have quite the social life.'�
With that, I walked out of the door, its closing made me giddy, like a school boy. A new lease on life. Or something like it. In all actuality, the door's closing was symbolic to my excitement for our meeting, and for the events that were about to unfold.
My feet made the proper clip clopping noises as I beamed down the street. I never made a mistake in my step. Sometimes, if you listen really carefully, you can hear those with professional shoes scrape with a klutzy step. My walk was slow and steady, like everything that I do. It had just rained, the dark and light creating a misty, blearing scene that I identified with. I climbed in my car, and sat looking straight ahead, for quite some time.
When I reached my townhouse, I got my knife collection that I hid in a mahogany box right under the steps to my back porch. I blew off the crumbles of dirt that topped the box and walked up the steps and through the screened door. I entered my house, letting my eyes adjust to the dark, and sat on the deep red couch. I opened the box, and looked at the six pointy knives, each one shined close to perfection. I closed it again, excited that I would be able to use them, yet again. My inability to make friends made little conversations like what happened today few and far in between. I always made sure they stayed this way.

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