Coffee Talk

"It's no trouble..."

A fifties big band song blared from the ceiling speakers as we walked into our local Starbucks. I groaned. This was not going to be conducive to creating a new story, even one with the theme of 'trouble'.

"I had trouble writing my story this week because the music was too old." Naw, I don't think that will work.

Truth be told, I don't usually finish a story in Starbucks; too many distractions. But I will often get a good start on one. Today it was looking like I wouldn't even get started.

Plushette must have seen the look on my face. She came from behind the counter to greet us. Raising her hands in the air, she hollared "Don't blame me." After hugs and howareyas were exchanged she asked "too much?"

"Well, maybe a bit loud..."

"Loud I can fix. Content, not so much. This playlist is coming from regional. We were told that we could not change it. Have to try it for two weeks and keep notes. Anything you want to say for the record?" Miss P. is the manager extraordinaire of our local Starbucks. She is destined for greater things but we'll keep her for as long as we can.

At this point a Sinatra song was playing. My wife said "I think it is a nice change."

Plushette winked at me and said, "I'll turn it down a bit." She went back to work.

All of this happened before I had even ordered. When I went to the register, Caleb had our order waiting. I handed him my card. "What would you have done if I wanted something different today?"

"I'd be drinking two mochas on my break," he told me with a grin.

"Maybe we are here too often..."

"Everyday might be too much. Saturday mornings is just an indulgence." Caleb grinned again. I stuffed two bucks in the tip jar and took our drinks back to the table.

"Maybe we come here too often." My wife had obviously seen the exchange at the counter. "I'll order something different next week." After fifty years, we tend to think alike.

I got my I-Pad fired up, reviewed a few notes and sketched out a story idea in google drive.

"Well, hello. Haven't seen you around for a while." It was Richard, a fellow writer.

I was going to point out it was him who hadn't been to writer's group for the last three months but I didn't. Instead I asked "Did you ever finish your memoir?"

"I did. Printed up twenty five copies and they are all gone. I just put in an order for ten more." Richard has a large family. I didn't ask if he was charging them for the copies. "I really appreciate your help," he told me."I gave you a shout-out in the acknowledgements."

I helped him with some editing and pruning. When he approached me about this, I asked him about his deadline. He told me he wanted to finish it before he died. Since Richard was eighty six, I gave it top priority.

We chatted a bit more and Richard moved on.

I reached for my cup but it felt suspiciously light. "You drank it all," my wife told me. "And I have been done for the last ten minutes."

"You wanna go?" I asked.

"I can wait while you work on your story. It's no trouble."

I looked at what I had written on the I-Pad. "Naw, this is crap. I have another idea but I'll work on it later. Let's go do your shopping."