Number One Pusher

I parked the car in the already crowded lot and began walking toward the strip mall. The ubiquitous green sign beckoned in the distance. Time was pressing against me; I prayed there would not be a line. A car cut in front of me and came to a stop in a red zone adjacent to the mall. A woman jumped out and began running toward the Starbucks while her companion waited, smoke billowing out of the tailpipe, doubly full in the cold morning. A man walking toward the storefront quickened his step, then broke into a jog to beat her to the door. She looked frustrated and offended.

Inside, the line was ten deep. Expectation rattled and buzzed in the eyes of the patrons who waited. The woman who had run in front of me was tapping her foot impatiently. The man who had beat her to the door sighed deeply and rolled his eyes.

“Double tall macchiato for Jim,” the barista called out. A man in a suit hustled to the counter to receive his blessing. I thought how there should be a separate line for people who just want coffee, not some specialty drink. But this thought had no relevance to my situation other than the fact that I wanted my coffee immediately.