Starbucks Anonymous

[islandgirl]

Starbucks Anonymous
by Carolyn Ossorio

"Don't you have a life? I mean aside from Starbucks that is ... Say, why don't you stop coming here for ... I don't know ... a day, and you'd have enough to take your kids to Disneyland or something."

Barista No. 123 puts his palm against his chest, pained by the weight of his enormous wit. "I'll see ya later and that ain't no joke!" He poses his right hand into a makeshift gun and winks, exactly what you'd expect from a cheesy car salesman.

I was stunned by the sarcasm and overcome by strangers staring; nobody appreciates character flaws pointed out in a packed lobby. My reply was a weak, "Ha Ha, you're a real funny guy." I grabbed my drink, not waiting around for him to conjure something predictable like, "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing with you."

Who did this guy think he was? Criticizing me while wearing shorts with tube socks pulled up to his knees? It was clear the relationship had vastly careened off course from affable consumer wanting to trade cash money for traditional goods and services—such as serving my latte—and the pleasant parting "have a nice day."

I will admit I was uncomfortable with his style well before the incident occurred. It just didn't sit right with me that a fifty-five year old Caucasian male should be working as a cashier slash barista at Starbucks. I made concessions out of pity and a secret fear: what dismal economic plan lay ahead for the middle class in this country? It didn't help that I'd just used my credit card to purchase my drink.

I tolerated his incompetence daily because I could see that retail customer service didn't come naturally to him; it had a martyred edge like a Russian immigrant wearing a McDonalds uniform reading Dostoyevsky alone on a park bench. You only had to look to see there was a story there.

Every morning I would cringe at Barista No. 123's attempts at "customer service." He welcomed me with a "Hey, Sandy, let me guess, a double tall mocha?" instead of Carolyn, my actual name, and a double tall latte, my actual drink. "Next time, I'll get it next time," he'd say with a nod. But there never was a next time, always the same. As a consolation prize, as if he were doing me a favor, he would point and ask after the "little guy" on my hip as my bald eight month old daughter sat covered from head to toe in pink.

My name is Carolyn and I am addicted to Starbucks.

There, I said it. I could have just accepted it and went on from there as I had for years. But his comment made me feel small and pathetic, like I was sacrificing my children for the sake of my addiction to Starbucks; it was true, we'd never been to Disneyland.

I pushed self-doubt aside and decided to focus my attention on what was really important: was my business something to be mocked by cheesy Barista employee No. 123?

Such was the domino effect of Starbucks' quest for world dominance combined with our new world economy where fat white men once accustomed to cushy middle management jobs at Boeing now preyed upon unsuspecting housewives with closet addictions to Starbucks they couldn't afford. Who the hell did they think they were? Right then and there I vowed I would never again return to Starbucks.

At least not to that particular Starbucks on Pine Street until I had time to clear my head, think things through, research treatment facilities. Was this something I could treat with a patch?

For the first time, I began to question my relationship with the Starbucks Coffee Company.

As with any other major life-changing decision, I needed time to assess the pros and cons. Was I ready to cut off a long-term committed relationship spanning over a decade based on the comment of one loser? I didn't want to be hasty; why should I suffer any more than I already had?

That's when I realized I had been suffering ... in silence. Sly personal attacks at my expense, a regressed memory flashed back of a drive-thru exchange where a barista I thought was my friend asked if I wanted my usual peanut butter cookie and latte. I was like, "Why yes, thanks for remembering," feeling really special until she responded, "How could I forget, breakfast of champions." I was so far into the depths of my addiction I laughed along with her at my own expense, then tipped her a dollar.

I will admit my life would be much simpler during the interim relationship analysis phase if I was able to use the Starbucks fraternal twin located across the street (not identical due to the drive-thru upgrade in '02). But I've worked enough customer service to know the disgruntled customer angle doesn't work if they see my car obsessively pulling through their twenty-four hour drive-thru next door. I did enjoy walking purposefully across Pine Street to Tully's, and while waiting there for my latte I looked across to Starbucks and began daydreaming of possible scenarios playing out there.

Starbucks Manager: "Did I just see our loyal customer Carolyn walk across the street to Tully's, our major competitor? How can this be? Did we do something to upset her?"

Barista No. 11,626: "I did overhear Barista No. 123 say something really stupid implying that she was lame and addicted to Starbucks. I've worked in drug treatment and, as addicts go, she's OK. And besides, according to the Starbucks Secret Retina Scan Tracking System, her average check is twelve dollars and thirty-six cents and she tips a dollar 92 percent of the time and her subconscious is registering a desire to quit her carb diet again and go back to her daily raspberry scone. Besides, Barista No. 123 is an idiot who wouldn't know how to make a decent latte if Howard Schultz, 'Praise Bean' himself, descended upon us."

Starbucks Manager: "I'm going over to Tully's immediately to let Carolyn know we appreciate her addiction. But not before I terminate Barista No. 123 because you're right, he's an insensitive boob who doesn't appreciate our customers and there is nothing worse than paying almost four dollars for a burnt latte after standing in our ridiculously long lines!"

Walking back to my car alone, I felt sad. Clearly I was on the rebound and it showed. Despite all my efforts not to compare, and despite all their efforts to shamelessly copy Starbucks, Tully's just wasn't the same. It was that difference that kept me looking over my shoulder, desperately searching for someone to care. I was feeling vulnerable; I wanted a reason to go back to what felt right and put this little bump in the road behind me.

It's been two weeks since I walked out on the Starbucks on Pine Street. I'm now driving 15 minutes in different directions to outlying Starbucks on the fringes of my suburb (including a hole in the wall at Top Foods without WiFi) to quench my thrice-daily coffee fix, leaving plenty of time to ponder ... had I been played a fool? Was it all in my head? Had the relationship ever been special? Did Starbucks ever care for me at all? Could I do better?

My parents had never approved of Starbucks, calling it "an expensive habit" and ominously predicting "I'd only get burned." At the time of their warnings, being 19, in college, and in the midst of a passionate love affair with cigarettes, coffee, and a beatnik grunge deal, I blasted Pearl Jam and dismissed Mom and Dad for being not only miserly but stupid. I attributed their obvious lack of culture to their inability to indulge in anything other than obsessing about material concerns like retirement and savings plans.

Of course there was the obvious; they were products of their generation when Dunkin' Donuts was king. I actually felt pity for their inability to "get Starbucks," opting instead for greasy doughnuts, weak drip coffee, and powder creamer.

But now, I see the fruits of their good sense and wonder how it must feel to have the family home paid in full, vested 401K plans, and rental properties generating additional monthly income. I wouldn't come close to knowing. My husband, two kids, and I are now spending over a thousand dollars a month at various Starbucks locations across the city.

Now that I've had time to think it through, I'm actually glad that I was publicly humiliated by Barista No. 123 because it's allowed me to see things honestly for the first time and finally admit that I was in a rut. It feels good to acknowledge that I didn't have the "perfect relationship."

I haven't been happy with my drink for a long time. Out of habit I order the same thing and I don't even like it. I mean I like it, but not like I should. Same goes with the pastry selection. And some of the employees are so critical. In addition to being judged by my habit, they judge me on my inability to order a unique drink. Like that says something about me personally. I can read between the lines and their snotty looks; they think they're so cool with their identical green smocks and black permanent marker pens which they don't even pull out to write on my drink. It's discrimination! I'm boring because I order the same drink? Before I met Starbucks, I was the life of the party. I was always the one to try new things. Starbucks isn't even accountable for their own actions ... they just blame everything on me. Like it's my fault I don't like frappucinos? Any true coffee drinker knows that it's not really coffee anyway, just a younger, hipper version of a milkshake.

I'm letting go of the guilt; why should I have to order a different drink just to please them? Anyway, I can change. Sometimes I go iced instead of hot. But it's my choice! On my terms!

The addiction to Starbucks wouldn't be so bad if I had something to show for it, like a Nobel Prize in Science. I could explain the necessity of my "dirty little habit" because of all the late nights spent in my laboratory concocting a cure for AIDS. My gluttony would be justified because I was such an important person. People always make allowances for crazy geniuses. I fantasize about making small talk nonchalantly at a time when I know everyone's listening, "Yah, I've been working really hard on the Streptococcus Starbuckus Latteus. While working in my garage turned state-of-the art lab, I single-handedly discovered the cure for AIDS ... they let me name the bacteria that will save millions of lives! Anyhoo, these lattes have really pulled me through it all and I thought the least I could do was name the bacteria after Starbucks ... Hey, would you be a lamb and put a sleeve on that quad latte? My palms are a little tender from another all-nighter at the 'scope."

Another thing: Starbucks is a master manipulator. I didn't even know I was being manipulated. After the birth of our first daughter, literally on the way home from the hospital, we stopped off at Starbucks, being inexperienced new parents in need of caffeine. Jan, our Barista with four kids, (who works for Starbucks part-time for the benefits), slyly implied that breast milk was inferior to, say, a steamed soy milk paired with a hint of sugar free vanilla flavoring in my daughter's bottle.

We heard through the grapevine that Starbucks is coming out with a new baby line, including a prototype for a combination titanium and leather bottle equipped with a state-of-the-art baby rattle that plays Baby Einstein Mozart. We had put further procreation on hold until its release ... I don't know what we'll do now.

Like most long-term relationships, money is becoming an issue. Under other circumstances, we could live comfortably on my husband's salary, maybe even save some money for our future. But we can't due to our collective Starbucks addiction. My husband, the optimist, did remind me that by re-using my daughter's sippy cup every day we're saving ten cents and when you multiply that by 365 and then again by 18 years, it really adds up. But then I reminded him that she'd be on solid foods soon and would undoubtedly want a scone of her own and that's a dollar seventy-five multiplied by 365 and again by 18.

Since becoming an addict I've become a slob too, which I've heard is not uncommon. My car is littered with white cups and brown paper bags, cookie crumbs ... the telltale signs of a Starbucks addict. So what if my car is strewn with lids and napkins and empty straw paper and carrying trays? My life is a mess. I need to start working out.

It's been a year since the incident on Pine Street. I've calculated the loss of my business to that store at more than twelve thousand dollars. I used to sit by the phone waiting for Starbucks to call. Sometimes I'd get all dressed up and walk by Pine Street, stopping to press my face against the window glass until it hurt. Even more painful was the realization that Starbucks on Pine had moved on, instead of calling me back to appreciate my business. I finally "get Starbucks." They're busy opening new stores around the world and in the lab formulating new chunky mochachinos for the next generation.

In the end, I finally went back to Starbucks on Pine Street. But I went back on my own terms. I went back for me; I learned from therapy to have no expectations.

Carolyn Ossorio is a freelance writer and can be reached at ossoriop@msn.com.