How To Get To Third Place

Clutching my laptop, I speed-walk down the sidewalk towards a small cafe. It’s cold and rainy, coffee shop weather, but there’s almost no one here. I yank the door open and stick my head in.

“Do you guys got free Wi-fi?”, I shout into the shop. I am able to enunciate this phrase in less than four syllables, just one big throaty boom.

There’s a lengthy silence and then a very soft “No.”

I slam the door shut and speed-walk back to my car. What a bunch of assholes. No wonder they have no customers.

It is absolutely dire that I get an internet connection soon. I’m currently in the middle of the probably the most intense eBay bidding war I’ve been in all month. At stake is a super-rare, near mint Great Gomito Magic Kit from the early 1960s. I have personally appraised its value at a conservative $220. As the high bid surges into triple digits, it becomes clear that I’ll be paying an arm and a leg for this treasure.

I make a mad dash to Starbucks, the largest and busiest one in the area. This time, more than ever, it feels like the absolute center of the universe. From the other side of the building, a man is walking in an exact parallel trajectory to my own. This man is the bizarro version of me. He’s talking on his cell phone as he tears down the sidewalk like a very important bull. If you were to classify our respective walking styles, his would be a “successful power-march”, and perhaps mine could be called “an uncomfortable scurry.” We are clearly from different worlds, heading towards the (0,0) axis that is the Starbucks entrance. I’m trying to time my steps to make it less awkward when he both reach the door. If we both continue at this pace, we will collide and probably recreate the Big Bang.

Mr. Wonderful then takes a big step forward to open the door for me; I guess he saved the goddam universe. This is a classic power-move that he’s pulled, and now I have to leave my masculinity outside.

“Thinks,” I say, instead of “thanks.”

“Sure,” the man says. He’s shorter than I am, but has the confidence of a shiny giant. He looks a lot like Greg Kinnear and probably has a six-figure salary, huge house, hot wife, et al.

As I join the long line at the counter, I’m surprised to see the man avoid the queue altogether. He swoops down to an empty table, his fancy trench coat blowing back like Batman’s cape. He sets up his laptop and makes himself comfortable, that’s when I realize my new predicament. This man has taken the last free table in the store--Damn! Another power-move!

The next customer is served and the line slowly inches forward. A blasé blonde barista steams milk and stares into space. This particular young lady was formerly the subject of some of my wooing techniques. Although she passed the pre-woo screening with flying colors, during the second stage it was revealed that she had a boyfriend. Either she had a boyfriend or she went on a break with a random male, with whom she engaged in aggressive PDA--a clear violation of the wooing process. So ever since, our relationship has been strictly customer-server.

The tempo picks up, and perhaps my luck changes. The store manager explodes onto the scene, personally greeting every customer at once with cheeky corporate friendliness. Loud and robust, he apologizes for the wait and opens a new register to hasten the ordering process. I’m fortunate enough to be a pioneer in this special new line.

“Hi! Welcome to Starbucks! What can I get you?”, he screams into my wincing face. He’s wearing a shirt that’s way too tight, a “Chaz” nametag, and several liters of cologne. Chaz is short with a big round belly, but to his credit, he does pull off the look pretty well. Oh, and he’s wearing a beret. In America.  

I tell Chaz the Manager my usual order: Venti Mocha with extra espresso, extra mocha, extra milk, and extra whip. And it’s ‘for here.’ When he hands me my debit card and receipt, he’s already making intense eye contact and conversation with the next customer. That’s kind of rude, no? Chaz seems to be finished serving me so I shuffle over to the side.

Finally my drink is finished. The barista pushes it across the counter, but it’s in a damn ceramic cup, rather than a regular paper cup.

“No! I need a lid! I need a lid!”, I exclaim. I didn’t mean to scream but I did need a lid. There’s no tables available, just a small leather chair, so I’ll have to manage my laptop and drink within a very confined space. I know it’ll be an inexorable test of my motor skills to not spill my Mocha all over the place.

As I sink into the broken springs of this cramped chair, the coffee shop seems to swell and throb like an allergic reaction. I’m borderline miserable. It takes only a few minutes before my laptop is blazing hot, sitting in my lap. I hate when I don’t have a proper surface for it. I’m worried that using my laptop like this will damage my privates. So I type in this embarrassing medical concern into the Google search bar. “Do laptops damage genitals?”

I move the cursor and over the I’m Feeling Lucky button, but then my gaze is magnetically lifted above the screen. A young girl walks into the shop; she’s nonchalant but still carrying so much grace, she might as well be floating. She’s dressed simply in a collegiate sweatshirt that, underneath her gorgeous, curly dark hair, almost seems like a cocktail dress. If you put a crappy attitude and a housewife haircut in that same sweater, you’d wind up with one dumpy chick.

But this girl is really something else. If beauty were a high-pitched vibration, her presence would shatter every mug and dish in the building. Even the plexiglass frames holding all of the hackneyed black & white photography on the walls--CLINK! BING! CLANK!--they too would burst into pretentious shards of polysynthetic matter. But the reality of the situation is cinematic enough on its own. An angelic sound, the opening chords of “I Only Have Eyes For You” spring through the speakers, pouring sweet syrup on the moment. It turns out to be Maroon 5’s version, the bad taste in my mouth returns.

I’d like to say that the pretty girl made all the other bums in the Starbucks disappear. If she could to that literally, like with magic powers, I would obviously propose to her. But even if she could give the illusion of making everyone disappear, just through juxtaposition, I’d be very happy. But the obnoxiousness of all the patrons is too visceral and superabundant to be ignored. It’s like an insane asylum in here, I feel like a prisoner that’s free to leave anytime. The analytical urge in my curious brain kicks in and I begin a 360° scan of the room.

At the table in the far corner, where I should be sitting, is the temporary office of Mr. Wonderful. He has a drink now because a barista brought it to him as if this were a sit-down restaurant. He sips the specially-delivered beverage while pacing around the table, evidently conducting business on his cell phone. Well that’s one thing he and I have in common, I always pace around when I use the phone. But I don’t have long phone conversations inside a Starbucks, especially so loudly with such big emphatic hand gestures. When he waves his arm around, I feel like I’m going to flinch, even though I’m more than ten feet away.

Also on the far edge of the room, is a young guy wearing a beanie and a striped sweater using a laptop. He looks like he thinks he’s really cool. Maybe he’s doing something fancy, like some kind of poignant journalism. He should be writing about all the losers in the café.

There’s a heavyset bespectacled older man at the next table. He has a laptop, that I’m not even sure he has turned on. This guy couldn’t possibly look more confused; he’s squirming around very slowly with his mouth agape, and occasionally pressing buttons on the computer. It’s as if he’s waiting on one of these youngsters to help him with his computer; I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s at the Genius Bar in the Apple Store.

Another male hipster, a thin Lincoln-esque fellow wearing a corduroy blazer, sits nearby. He’s also incredibly focused on whatever it is on his computer screen. He’s a very familiar stereotype, yet the absurdity of his existence is purely baffling. Who is this person? What is he doing? Why is he here? What’s the point?

Then there’s a young, well-dressed couple with a baby. Both are eating pastries and texting. They’re trying to have their cake and eat it too; they think they can be “dope” and “hip” and also be “parents”. Not on my watch. If I could start kicking people out of here, they’d be the first to go. Dorks.

There’s a strange anomaly in the center of the café: multiple people sitting at the same table, no technology present. Imagine, enjoying the company of another person, as opposed to a computer. I guess some people still do it. The cute dark-haired girl is sitting across from that table, perpendicular to my seat. I’m normally not thrilled about having to enjoy someone else’s company, but hers, I’d really like to. She seems interesting, enough for me to shut down my laptop. But only after I secure the winning bid of the Great Gomito Magic Kit. Last time I refreshed my browser, I was indeed in the lead.

My fascination with the dark-haired girl is intensifying. I should say something to her; I’m waiting for a good cue like organic eye contact or a smile. But I have to bend my head almost halfway around my chair in order to look directly at her, so if we made eye contact that way she would be totally, and justifiably, creeped out. Plus she’s not looking to meet guys, she’s just playing on her phone. Well I don’t know if she’s playing, per se. It’s weird that people always say ‘playing’ on a phone. Most people use phones to communicate, research, or receive information--that’s not playing. And of course, a lot of folks are strictly business on their Blackberries. I’m sure Mr. Wonderful is not playing; this is not a game.

The husky fourteen-year-old boy in the corner is definitely playing a game on his phone. He’s also listening to an iPod and has a laptop in front of him. That’s crazy!

I’m noticing a couple in the café for the first time. Both the man and the woman are tattooed and pretty beefy; large and in charge. They have a middle-aged alternative, vaguely biker look to them, like a suburban Sons of Anarchy-type situation. They’re both focused on an iPad, laughing and smiling but still maintaining an intimidating presence. I don’t want them to look at me, I’m going to start minding my own business.

Everyone in Starbucks is minding their own business. They’re posting status updates to Facebook, which is just a glorified way of talking to yourself. It’s about attracting attention to yourself without the hassle of personal, one-on-one communication. This Starbucks café is like a virtual Facebook (or a reality Facebook?) where everyone operates in one community and focuses completely on themselves. The various ways in which people represent themselves, in dress and in behavior, those are the status updates in the Starbucks newsfeed. How do I unsubscribe?

Is this what Starbucks wanted when they invented the “Third Place” concept? This is supposed to be the third special place in all our lives, along with work and home, in whatever order you choose to rank them. Starbucks, in general, is a lot better than home or work, that’s why people spend all day here. In another time in America, this would’ve seemed irrational, and a bit pompous. But obviously all of us Starbucks patrons have bought in, and that makes us a community. Yet we’re all discouraged from speaking to each other.

This is either a byproduct of antisocial groupthink, or it’s a microcosm of the inept, narcissistic culture that we’ve apparently degenerated into. I’m trying to imagine the ideal concept of community that we left behind in the middle of the 20^th century. A time when we cared about each other. A time when you could talk to your neighbor without the fear of getting dragged into his torture dungeon. A time when you could smile at a stranger without them molesting you in return. There’s only one person in the Starbucks old enough to remember those days, that confused old guy. Now he can’t even operate a freaking Dell. And Lord, it must have taken 30 minutes for him to order a drink. “Uhh what? A small is called a tall. Durr!”

If we could only act like the citizens of a proper community, the way Howard Shultz envisioned. If only we could actually engage one another. I could go up to this man and say, “Sir, do you need help with your computer?”, and perhaps he could tell me some enlightening stories of yesteryear. Like members of a community, inhabitants of the same third place. It seems the only way to truly know the Starbucks brand of happiness is to share it with one another.

Suddenly the whole room is shocked by the thunderous boom of the Frappucino blender. Well actually, no one is phased by the sound at all. But I’m going to take it as a sign: I need to break the ice.

It’s that simple, if I could loosen everybody up, we could get to know each other and stop being such pathetic hermits. I could learn about all of these oblique American lives. I could get business tips from Mr. Wonderful. And most importantly, I could get to know this adorable brunette.

Being sociable is all fine and good, but first I must take care of some eBay business. I plunge down into my laptop screen where the promise of great treasure awaits. The auction has ended, I have won the Great Gomito Magic Kit! It’s all mine!

Of course one good turn deserves another, and it seems that I will soon be a rich man. I’ve been hosting my own eBay auction, and much to my delight, the bids are starting to exceed retail value. The highest bidder will receive the Criss Angel Mindfreak Magic Kit that my mom erroneously bought me for Christmas. She needs to get a clue. Just because I like magic doesn’t mean I like that sleazy, leather-clad goon. Please, I’m an adult.

Now I feel like things are going my way and I can do whatever I want. I’m going to use the men’s room, and when I come out, I’m going to be a new man. I shutdown my computer and leave it on the chair in the meantime, because this is a loving community and I trust everyone in here enough to leave my laptop alone for a minute. No I don’t. I’m taking the laptop into the bathroom with me.

I take care of business and re-enter the café. I look casually over to Mr. Wonderful and nod respectfully. He nods back. Taking the initiative and speaking to somebody, that is the ultimate power move.

“Excuse me,” I say to the young man wearing a beanie.

“Hey,” he replies. He slowly tracks his head away from the computer screen and looks directly at me.

“I don’t mean to bother you,” I say, “But you seem like you’re working hard on something interesting. I’m just curious about what you were up to.”

“Oh well, like,”--he talks like he has a loaf of bread in his mouth--“I’m just looking at my Facebook. And I’m playing this real cool game called Cat-throat. It’s like Angry Birds except with cats and the cats are pirates.”

I wonder why he wanted to come all the way here just to do something so insipid. I guess he just wants to be part of a community. Nothing wrong with that, I’m glad he’s here. Although I wish he sat somewhere else so I could have that seat.

“Cool. Have a good one, dude.” I tell him, and I keep moving through the café.

I slowly approach the pretty girl sitting alone and the obligatory second-guessing begins in the anxiety region of my brain. Thoughts like ‘She doesn’t want to be bothered’ and ‘She’s too hot for you!’ echo in my head like the screams of Hades. ‘She’s going to get up and walk away!’

“Silence!”, I tell my fears internally. It’s all an illusion, I need to focus. Focus. I am tuning those worries out, just as I’m tuning out the Jason Mraz playing on the speakers.

Her dark almond eyes greet me warmly. I don’t think I’m bothering her.

“Hi,” I say to her politely.

“Hello,” she says.

“I’m Lou.”

“Hey, I’m Constance. Nice to meet you, Lou.” Her smile is like a light show.

“Do you like magic?”

“Yea,” she says, nodding enthusiastically. “I love magic.”

For my next trick, I will make this lady fall for me.

The End.