12 December 2010

Star Buck

I knew I was going to be late, again, so instead of risking an accident on a major New Jersey highway - cue defensive driving film strip, "Blood flows red on the highway" (click here and forward to 8:40) - I stopped at the Starbucks along the way. Glancing behind the counter, I see my barista: six feet tall. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Cargo shorts. Did I mention it was December in the northeast? I texted my co-worker to ask if she wanted anything she responded with something that sounded like the "Will you Sleep with Me?" song made famous by Patti LaBelle. Great.

Buck: Can I help you?
DeeCue: Yes, can I get a tall black and uh, a vanilla, frappalattemochachino...iato? Is that something?
Buck: Oh, really.
DeeCue: I think?
Buck: Not for you, I'm guessing. I'll make it and if it's wrong you'll just have to come back tomorrow and let me know. (Smirk.)

I was in love. Looking back, I should have taken into account that the guy, rather, kid looked like he was 18 (10 years my junior) and worked at a Starbucks. But this was true love, people. True love knows no bounds. True love is blind. True love overlooks the fact that the potential for dating a boy is not as likely when they have to get up at 4am and sell vanilla flavored anything.

Instead of being a man and asking him out when I saw him again, I posted something on Craigslist Missed Connections to this effect:

Route 1 North Starbucks Barista

Hey, don't know if you read Craigslist but figured I could give it a try. You are my barista and have been wearing khaki cargo shorts lately despite the weather. I think it'd be cool meeting up if you are interested. I usually come in at 6am, shirt and tie guy. Can I get any more vague? Hit me up.

And sure enough I get a response:

Hey, a girl I work with called the store last night to tell me about your post on craigslist; which I found quite lucky because I don't use the website so I would never have found it. Anyway, I think I know who you are, and if I'm right, then you're cute. Sadly, I don't always work mornings. In fact the next time I'll be there in the morning is next Friday, aka Black Friday. I'll be in tomorrow night, but I don't know what your schedule's like. If you don't see me, you can just ask if Martyn's around. Or you could always slip me a card with your number on it the next time you see me.

I hope to see you soon,

I should have known: who spells their name with a "y" when it clearly doesn't belong there? Nonetheless, being an equal-opportunity dater, I forged on. I met him for coffee, of course, and started dating thereafter. We had our moments. I asked him to come into the city with me. Ever the romantic, I walked him in circles and eventually got to the tree at Rockefeller Center. I also cooked him dinner, stopped by his job when he was working closing shifts, and wrote him a poem (no comments). Even still, there were many revelations of an ill-fit. When I first made out with him, he reeked of sour milk - occupational hazard I suppose. Another evening, I asked him out to dinner.

Buck: Where do you want to go?
DeeCue: There is this bar in the city, down on Bleeker I want to go to. They have beers from around the world and I'm sure we can find a cheap place to grab a bite also.
Buck: Oh, I don't drink. [beat] Anymore.

Listen: I can respect someone who doesn't drink because it's not for them. But to not drink anymore? That's fishy. Maybe I am being totally insensitive to the plight of an alcoholic, but bear in mind: at the ripe old age of 21, Martyn was a recovering alcoholic and [wait for it] a recovering coke head. Can I pick them or what? Everything was piecing together before my eyes. His college career was in question and it all made sense: he failed out and had to pick up all over again, hence the job as a java-jerk. Ugh. He wasn't totally open with me nor did he ever initiate wanting to meet up with me.

In my subconscious cry for an out, I pissed him off twice. The first time resulted in me getting belligerent drunk, making fun of the fact he went to therapy, and driving drunk into a concrete median. The second and last time I forwarded his call to my voice mail. In my defense, he was angry I didn't call him at 6pm on the dot because I was on a conference call for work. On his message, he said I was immature for not answering his call, so good luck with turning 30. Come on, give me a break.

Point of the conversation: Cute gets you three dates; then you gotta bring something to the table - maturity, for one.

- DeeCue


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