The Starbucks Incident
When I drive, I travel from point A to point B. I go towards a destination, gather what I need, and retreat. I do not dilly dally, make detours, leave gaps for surprises. Thus, after acquiring my Thai food, I took my preplanned route to Starbucks. Everything was calculated, everything was predictable as it always is. No distractions, intrusions, strategic incertions. Boring is the baseline, boring is what I expect.
I ordered a drink, nothing fancy, nothing special; a normal drink. So normal was it, that I can’t even remember the name. It was a fruity drink with a lot of colors. It had purples and blues, pinks and oranges. The lady on the speaker sounded artificially chipper, a conformed construct of corporate America. An abused worker, underpaid; depressed into enthusiasm. Prodded forward by rent and beaten by bankers; harassed by high interest rates, crushed by car payments, laid flat by student loans. A systemic voice, one which greeted customers to exhaustion. “When the enemy is exhausted, wear him out.” Sun Tzu once said.
I was talking on the phone with my sister. We were rattling off our paranoias. Scheming and strategizing, making subversive plans about how to repel the East Coast’s advances. Evade traps, circumnavigate systems, avoid disagreeable people. A conversation of intensity, a conversion of existential realities. “Try this, do that,” I said, “block this, negate that,” she continued. A glimmer of green eyes kept making contact. I repeatedly looked into the driver’s mirror ahead. My imagination I concluded, yet I kept looking; she kept looking too. An odd experience to be sure, so I dismissed it. I dismissed it again, then a fifth and sixth time.
The woman pulled forward, paid for her drink, and began to drive away. Shifting my car into drive, I moved forward, credit card in hand.
“No need, the woman in front of you paid for your drink.” The barista said.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“She paid for your drink.”
“Who?”
“The woman in front of you,” she said, then smiled.
“Why?” I asked, puzzled.
“I don’t know, do you know her?”
I paused, “No,” befuddlement hung on my face.
“Did you want me to run your card instead?”
“Umm… I guess not, since she already paid for it,” I said, head in knots.
“Well, have a good day,” The barista said.
Driving away, I realized that my essay had collapsed upon itself. “Human Behavioral Patterns of the West Coast vs. East Coast,” had been disproven, torn to pieces by a random act of kindless.
Unbelievable, I thought, aghast. What do I do now?
Hello! We’re D.J. Hoskins
We are Davena and Jason Hoskins, co-authors of 40+ books and siblings who write under the pseudonym D.J. Hoskins. Three years apart and in our twenties, we have been fascinated by stories from a young age. Davena is a student attending Pembroke College, Cambridge, and Princeton University, and Jason attends Georgetown University.
