“No foam havin’ people.” says the blonde barista. The two people in line — married, she’s white with pink hair and he’s black with a pointed beard — have just returned from Chesapeake, getting to the store thirty minutes before it closes. Like myself, they’re regulars here…but more regular than myself I presume, especially with the way they carry on conversation with the two people working tonight.
They’re both loaded with tattoos up and down their arms. Two particular ones stand out most on him; a hand of cards with unreadable cursive text overhead, and a flaming skull that appears to be staring right at me. On her left calf there appears to be a woman in a cape holding a gun, above which its a woman in daisy dukes and cowboy boots.
The two of them know the employees well, going back and forth with stories of their children and significant others and friends — someone named Katy (Katey? Katie?) is going to Africa sometime soon for a study abroad program. Laughter, and lots of it, erupt from both sides of the counter. Among the topics discussed are people being shot at, a guy masturbating outside of the store, and what kinds of coffee the man likes.
Oh yeah, that’s happened more than once. A homeless guy also peed on one of their windows in broad daylight.
In his hand is a large iced white mocha, something he’s never had before. He’s taken aback by the drink, unsure of whether or not he likes it. Between now and the time I leave, he’s taken maybe a few sips of the drink so I guess he doesn’t like it. His loss, I love white mocha.
Now they’re back to discussing foam in coffee. Apparently the woman was recently at a Barnes & Noble “Starbucks” (they don’t take gift cards, so they aren’t a real Starbucks) and asked for her drink with no foam, only to be served a drink with extra foam. “That barista was kind of a bitch,” she starts, “which is why I should have just come here!”
Oh, man, now they’re talking about a restaurant I used to work at. Apparently one of the employees was there last Sunday twerking, though she vehemently denies doing such a thing. “I had a few drinks!” she says, which meets laughter from all parties. They discuss making plans to go out as a group, bouncing different locations back and forth. “This place has a great Southwest burger!” clashes against “The appetizers here are perfect!”, but they all agree that they should get together.
But it’s five minutes from closing time, and I have to start making my way west for the night.