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My Father Never Drank Coffee
By Scott Robichaud
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- My father never drank coffee, so it was really important I drink coffee. After ordering my coffee, I
called him long distance and said, now what? My dad didn't know, so he said get some cream. I'm a 25
year old man with cream, so I ask my dad, now what? He didn't know, so he said get some sugar. Now I
am a thirty year old man, not sure if a grande mocha java is exactly what I need. -
Welcome to suburbia. Welcome to white-bred, upper-middle class slash upper-upper
class, suburbia. Welcome to your Rockwell-ian postcard. Only the elite, the upper crust, need apply.
It's Sunday afternoon. The soccer moms, in their BMW's, in their PT Cruiser's, in
their SUV's (all leased,
of course), have returned from the grocery store. Now they flock downtown, with their husbands, trying to fool
everyone into thinking that they are a happily married couple instead of a statistic. All are in uniform. Men
in their Hilfiger Ski Jacket, collar turned up. Women in their turtlenecks, under a vest-jacket. Same pair of
glasses, same Jennifer Aniston haircuts.
Here I am - the thumbprint on their picture postcard. Downtown suburbia. Gone are the
mom-and-pop restaurants
and coffee shops. They have been usurped by Starbucks, Timothy's, and by trendy 'Central Perk' knock-offs.
I head into Planet Starbucks. Everyone is prim and proper - no leg goes un-crossed,
each used napkin is carefully folded. Behind the counter are your typical anti-establishment, depressed and
over-privileged, bodum-monkeys. They are carbon copies of one another, although they try so hard to look
different from everyone else. Behold - the dis-infranchised, employed by the mecca of franchises. I ask one
of the monkeys (the one with only seven piercings) for a large coffee. She looks at me like I have just asked
her if she's ever walked in on her parents having sex. I realize my mistake and re-order, this time a 'grande'
mocha java. Right now I can't decide who I hate more - the 10 cent millionaires around me, or the dick from
Seattle who decided that people would rather order something 'grande'.
I pay and leave fearing assimilation. I continue my tour of the quaint and pretentious.
I walk by, what it seems, the same person, fifty times. I'm enjoying my mocha java - grande. I reluctantly admit
to myself that it isn't half bad. It must be the grande.
Coming Soon - Adventures in Suburbia, Part II - Attack of the Café Clones
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