Showdown at Starbucks
Anyone who knows me will know that I am in my own world when I write.
Earthquakes, tornadoes and brawling baristas would not disrupt my flow of concentration.
That’s right. Brawling baristas.
In Starbucks the other night, I was typing out the first chapter of my Great Debut Novel (probably destined to be never completed, like so many of my other doomed manuscripts) in a fast and furious fit of inspiration. I was the only customer in the shop, apart from a couple in the corner making lovey dovey eyes at each other over their frappucinos.
Suddenly, a guy started shouting. I looked up and saw a barista yelling at another, his face almost purple and contorted in rage. Without warning, the other barista lunged at him (I could have nearly sworn he was almost flying through the air, like how they do in those kung fu flicks) and started throwing punches. They were a pile on the floor, grunting, kicking and punching all at once, though I couldn’t tell who was doing what to who at any given time.
The couple got up in shock and started towards the entrance, except that the tangled baristas were kind of blocking the doorway. They looked back at me like, What are we going to do now?
I shrugged and went back to typing.
Then a coffee mug landed near my feet, shattering into pieces.
I looked down at it. Then continued typing.
Another mug whizzed past me and hit the table behind.
The couple, or maybe just the girl, made a small yelp.
“I think we should get out of here,” the girl cried out. I looked up again and she was staring back at me.
I hemmed. I hawed.
The baristas, still kicking and punching (but apparently not hurting each other) like little girls, crashed into a table and some chairs near the entrance. This is what happens when men wear aprons.
I sighed and decided to start packing up my laptop.
A third employee finally came between the two feuding baristas. Then everyone started talking at once, I still wasn’t sure at this point what the fight was about. It could have been over whether paper or styrofoam cups are better, for all I know. But they were still blocking the entrance, and all three of us innocent bystanders didn’t think it wise to risk getting caught in the crossfire.
“How are we going to get out of here?” the girl whispered to her boyfriend.
“Where the fishsticks are the bloody security guards to sort these hooligans out?” I said to them, perhaps a little too loudly because suddenly, I noticed the baristas turned to me. For a brief second, I thought they were going to start pummeling me with bags of arabica. And then I realized they were looking at something behind me. Security guards had swooped in (okay, I exaggerate, more like they strolled very casually in) from the other entrance after seeing the commotion through the glass windows.
Thus, I never got to finish writing the first chapter and will not sleep tonight until I finish crafting the last few paragraphs of The Great Debut Novel.
God, I need a cup of coffee.