Things I've Seen at Starbucks: The Grabber

First, let me set the scene.

Me: Completely loaded down with a big old geeky laptop backpack and a look of irritation that could not be erased that thing was so freaking convenient and so did not match my boots. Also carrying a silver leather tassle bag, also loaded down with all the necessities shit I insist stashing in there even though I never, ever pull it out to use, but rather pull out and ask, "Why the hell is this in here?" and then promptly put it right back in the purse. Also toting a cute little empire trench coat to fuel my hot-cold-blazing hot-fuhhhreezing tendencies, especially when sitting in the window seat or directly under the fan (Hello! Air con in a retailer in February in Chicago? Who are you, you satanic hot drink pushers?). Teetering through the 'bucks with my maybe-too-full beverage of choice in one hand and everything else in the other hand.

The Grabber: Approaches. Dyed to the end-of-the-color-spectrum black hair, slicked back, surely with pomade he's had in some dented up tin in the medicine cabinet since 1977. Short, stocking, wearing an beige button-down shirt with brown pinstripes and a collar that gives itself away in its pointiness that stretches a little long on the shoulders. Brown polyester pants, snug. Black belt, cinched. Black shoes, shiny. Slung over his shoulder is a faded, rectangular cotton bag produced at some point by airlines, when they were generous and gave out things like pretzels and full cans of Pepsi.

Now, I'll spill the beans.

We meet: Not so much in spirit or even acknowledgment, not even in conversation or in a glance.

More like, we pass in the Starbucks, each confidently
headed in our own opposite direction, each focused on all we have to
(ahem) handle.



While my arms are full of gear and baggage, his hand is  -- let me
pause here to think of how to type this with some kind of decorum
you've all grown to expect and appreciate from me -- his hand is full
of himself.



And when I say himself, I mean, his hand is completely down the front
of his pants, grabbing, holding, adjusting. He is what one of my
grandmothers always referred to as "rearranging the furniture." But,
friends, it is clear, even as I pass him by with my mouth agape and  my
eyes burning from the polyester pawing, that he is not just moving
aside...say, an ottoman or scooting a chair up the table.



Oh no, The Grabber is pushing the sectional couch to the other side of
the house. With one hand. While walking through a coffee shop. Carrying
a flight bag. In public.



He didn't see me while was pulling out the six-foot china cabinet to
sweep up the dust bunnies in his pants because he was too focused on
getting where he needed to go. Apparently, with goods in hand.



It all only lasted a moment. One very disturbing moment that somehow
seemed to taint the taste of my venti Komodo Dragon with too much
half-and-half and a few extra packets of raw sugar.



And as oogied out as I was to witness The Grabber in action, I felt
even worse for the barista who'd be placing her perky little palm out
to accept the coffee money he'd offer from the depths of his wallet or
change purse or...wherever he seems to keep the important stuff.

Comments

[selfmademom]

I just don't know how you can work and keep your concentration in places like that! Disgusting, and great point about the Barista. Here's hoping they keep some Purell behind the espresso machine.

[Ang]

Now, you would not see that at Stumptown Coffee Roasters in Portland, Oregon. Instead you might get a hot lesbian in tight Diesel jeans staring from at you from afar(uhh, i like that part!) or a hipster boy in his carharts and striped beanie reading a rusty novel. Jess, you still got that Oregon grrl in you! Come visit...Little E would love the local punk kids scene! We could sip on REAL coffee and look at the pretty scenery:)