As if I could

If I could talk sense into someone, I wouldn't waste time on a random celebrity. That would be like trying to pick up the ocean between thumb and forefinger. I'd rather talk to someone who, in fact, wants to listen. That strikes out about ninety-eight percent of the customers who visit the drive-through Starbucks that employs me currently. I'm old enough (which is sad, considering I'm not yet 30) to remember when coffee shops were homey places that instigated conversation and quality over speed and quantity. If you're smart, you'll take the former over the latter, and make your to-go coffee at home (here's a hint: French press. Better coffee, every time. Google it).
I worked in a coffeeshop in Nevada where one could hold an actual conversation with a customer and learn something interesting. I don't vouch for the cultural depth of Nevada, because last I lived there, it didn't much exist (unless you like rocks. There's lots of rocks. And bull riding, and wind and fires and sage). However, into that little shop would walk some of the most interesting people. Some were drunk, stumbling in through the glass doors looking for something to kill the afternoon buzz they'd found in the bar two stores down the sidewalk strip mall. Not much culture out of them, unless the ferment in light beer counts for something.
Some were friends of the owners, who dropped by on occasion to admire the brown flagstone floor and the coyote mural painted across two walls, and drink a caramilla (pronounced cara-mee-ah) made to order by yours truly.
One of my favorite customers was a wiry, pepper-haired man from San Francisco, with a Van Dyke also peppered gray, tapering over his narrow chin. I have no recollection what he was doing in the desert when he could have stayed by the sea, but nevertheless. He introduced me to Coltrane, even brought his CDs in so I could listen to them while I worked. He knew his coffee, and I was just learning what riches lay below the corporate-glazed surface, so we had plenty to talk about. He came to the jazz nights, when we had live music playing and the whole store was a hum of bodies amidst the high walnut tables cast in the yellow glow of fan-shaped wall sconces. He liked lattes steamed extra hot with the shots poured in last: Upside-down. I began to drink my lattes upside-down, and I learned to appreciate the nutty bite of espresso, perfect tamped, hot and dark in the first sips, smoother and lighter with the last. I learned more from listening to that man than I ever would have debating brewing technique and music theory on a forum.