Do you folks like coffee? Real coffee, from the hills of Columbia?
The Duncan Hills will wake you, from a thousand deaths.
Dethklok jingle for Duncan Hills Coffee, Episode 1: The Curse of Dethklok
I decided to indulge in the luxury of a large cup of Starbucks (grande drip, venti cup, to the rim with half&half), at the front of my 31.2 mile commute into the heart of The City. My nearest Starbuck's purveyor is embedded in a grocery store, and when I went to pull into the column of parking spaces nearest the door, I found a Porsche Cayenne parked in the middle of the entrance. Having already committed to the turn, I just jumped the curb with my right rear wheel, found a space, and decided to let the driver know that she was in the way.
I approached the driver's side and saw a thirtysomething woman staring off into space. "Probably woolgathering while she waits for someone to come out of the store," I thought, and stood next to the window.
Nothing. My memory says that she was consciously ignoring me, but that's all I have to back up that theory. I waved and said, "Hello?" to the rolled-up window. Still nothing. I sidestepped and waved in front the of the windshield, and the window powered down.
"Yes?" Her lips moved, but she kept staring straight ahead.
"Hi. I just wanted to let you know--you probably don't realize--you're, uh, kind of blocking the way into this parking row." Could I have been more nervously over-polite?
"Okay." Still no change in expression.
I'd been a little irritated before, had resolved to be polite, but now I could literally feel the blood flow being redirected from my brain to my vital organs. I stood there, beginning to marvel at the powers of concentration it must have taken for her to almost completely ignore me. I ventured further: "Are you going to move?"
She ignored me, but I caught a slight head movement. Ah, so... a young girl, eleven or so, emerged from the store in a complete Juicy Couture outfit, carrying a Starbucks cup and the distinctive paper bag reserved for prescription medication. I started for the door to the store; clearly this interaction was over.
Then I heard the girl as she got into the car: "Sorry, Mom. The pharmacy opened late again, and they said that all they had was the generic."
I looked back to see the driver pound the steering wheel with very engaged frustration. Quite the contrast to her earlier study in stillness. "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! What the Hell do I have to do to get real Paxil???? DAMN IT! DAMN IT! DAMN IT!!"
The driver's side window was still down, so I was able to hear the girl offer, "I got you a latte..." as the Porsche screamed out of the parking lot. Hope she didn't spill it.
I went inside, no waiting, scored some over-roasted Colombian, noticed my hand was still shaking when I poured in the heavy milk. Listened to Dethklok, full volume, all the way to the freeway.