my local Meijer superstore has 2 main entrances, plus a nondescript, direct entrance for the beloved Starbucks. they tucked the Starbucks oasis into Meijer’s edible yin-yang corner where fresh produce meets the deep-fried eatery.
I like to think of this entrance as my private VIP door for the days when I just can’t muster the energy to ignore New Greeter Lady’s blank expression and mumbled welcome to the superstore. *exhausted sigh*
Starbucks glass doors woosh open, I’m barely a few strides in when an elderly gentlemen--wearing the obligatory military veteran baseball cap--stands from his table, touches my arm to stop me, and whisper-shouts,
"watch my food, I gotta go take a crap!"
and walks away.
Hipster sitting at nearby table, nearly chokes on his dairy-free whatever. I stare at Hipster, he stares at me, then we both stare at the elderly man shuffling away.
I glance down at his table; a slice of pepperoni pizza, cut into pieces, a side of macaroni and cheese, and a bigger than his head "cup" of carbonated beverage.
so... I do what any non-millennial would do; I wait.
seconds turn to minutes, but I do my job. a bizarre pride— a sense of duty, washes over me. I don't look at my phone, I just stand there, on guard. I have no idea why I was chosen by the Elder One, but I will not let him down.
I notice that Hipster can't stop smiling, and I notice that he s l o w l y sips his obligatory six-ingredient cuppa Starbucks. then, from behind his retro thick-rimmed glasses, his beady-little eyes flit to my right.
his smile widens.
the grating sound of the table's chair being pulled back alerts me. as if I'm the Buckingham Palace's Royal Guard, disciplined against distraction, I use my peripheral vision to see a woman sit down at the Elder One's table.
Hipster shakes with pent-up laughter.
"may I help you with something...?" Mystery Woman asks.
I shift into at ease mode to turn my head and glance at the woman, who by happen-chance, is also wearing a white t-shirt, and has longish hair...
from behind me, I hear the whisper-yell of the Elder One, "I'm back!"
he shuffles over to me, notes Mystery Woman sitting at his table, and then squints at me, standing guard, per orders.
through sputter-cough laughter, he wheezes,
"I'm sorry, I'm partially blind--I thought you were my daughter!"
oh yeah, Benedict Hipster Arnold is half out of his chair with side-splitting, silent-as-a-mime guffaws.
I charmingly take it all in stride, while I side-eye Hipster.
my parting comment to Elder One, "enjoy your lunch," drips with sincerity, as I slow-walk toward Hipster.
he is buckled over now; muffle-laughs escape the crook of his arm. I lean ever-so-slightly to whisper the one word that I know will cut him to his non-GMO, organic, non-rBST core...
"karma."
