The Crimes of Coffee Shop Culture

Below is my descriptive essay. This is the rough draft and I've tweaked it a bit but don't feel like finding the final edited copy off my other computer. It contains some elements of fiction (I suck at fiction by the way) but the feelings expressed are true. You may find it similar to my blog "The Coffee Shop Reflections" (in poetry and life sept 2009) in which I expressed similar feelings. This one is more elaborate and artsy-fartsy sort of. I am kind of pleased with it...kind of. I guess. lol

I only hope my professor overlooks the fact that I have fragments and the punctuation is a little outside of the norm. I did it on purpose though because it's sort of poetic and it's hard to be poetic sometimes without using fragments at all! 

Errr... anywho, here it is.

The Crimes of Coffee Shop Culture

I watch the customers file in like simple minded clones, faceless and focused on anything but the counter in front of them.  The chit chat of yuppies on their cell phones, the panic of the underpaid worker frantically trying to get the double shot soy cinnamon latte no whip with vanilla syrup (x2) for the boss man, the wall street investor who needed a pick me up while he made his way to his tiny corner of the world (also known as a cubicle): it was all so automatic. As I look on from my tiny table in the corner of the coffee shop, I observe all the madness of the morning rush, silently sipping my own warm beverage and reflecting on the ironies which seem to drench the atmosphere. 


They are the typical passersby in my eyes, yet I am the fly on the wall to them. They are the busy bees, yet I am the calming buzz which goes unnoticed as I sit and watch them. I come to this shop time to time to warm myself and to listen to the sounds of the homeless man play the guitar for a living right outside the window. It's a welcome escape from my tiny cold apartment down the block which seats nestled between two more shabby brick buildings - typical New York housing.


Joy To The World is this morning's choice of song from the old man outside the window as is fitting for the winter season, and I turn the thought over in my head as I watch another droopy eyed customer tell the cashier that she has made the coffee order wrong for the third time in a row. I cannot feel anything but sympathy for her and think of how she surely must be feeling anything but joy right now in her world which consists of trying not to cry at this very moment.


Another sip and the warmth of the coffee brings a slightly tingling sensation to my nose as I bring the cup to my lips before washing the hot liquid over my tongue and relishing the taste of hazelnut with just a hint of vanilla. I savor the flavors before swallowing. An exhale from my lungs brings the taste flooding back as the tiniest bit of bitterness still lingers on the back of my tongue: coffee breath. I suppose that's what the mints on the counter are for after all.


The plastic, fiber optic Christmas tree at the end of the curvy counter on the other side of the room plays a little medley of synthesizer Christmas tunes as it lights up and spins slowly on its little pedestal. The tree only annoys me actually, considering my distaste for the insincere. I liken it to the people around me suddenly and wonder if there is anything genuine left in this bitter, cruel city. The coffee cup in my hand which promises to be made from entirely recycled paper, the hair color of the blond who is third in line, smacking on her gum as she texts on her Blackberry, the man behind me sitting down, arguing with his girlfriend that the mystery woman is only a friend - are any of these things genuine or sincere?


I wonder about it further as I pull my hoodie over my head and readjust my position so that my cheek lays flush against the cold glass of the window. Its stinging, frigid temperature bites my flesh as I stare down the block at the preacher shouting on the sidewalk. Maybe he is genuine. I doubt it.


Growing weary of the long line of angry Christmas shoppers which doesn't seem to be getting any shorter any time soon, I put in my ear buds in an attempt to drown out their laments of sorrowful complaints in regards to how their latte just isn't latte enough; such spoiled New Yorkers they are. The steady beat drops a deep soothing growl, its sweetness beckoning me. My trusty MP3 player speaks depths of emotions far beyond the shallow words that I can no longer hear and I lay my head on the table and close my eyes as the music's bass line swallows me up like a pebble to the tide.  The clones are gone now and all I can hear is the music and the melody, the heart and the beat, the song and the voice which gives it life. My nerves are calmed and my heart is at peace for escapism is my friend in a world which has sold itself out like offerings to Baal. The colorful world has now slipped into a diminishing shade of grey before blackness seeps into the picture and swallows it whole as dark ink infiltrating pure, untainted water. The feeling is sublime. The best part of the song is approaching - Buzz!


My cell phone in my pocket goes off,  the alarm reminding me, once again, that it's now that time of day. Time to let go of dreams and escapisms. Time to attempt to face reality and try not to let it slap you in the face as it smiles that devilish grin at you, bearing its fangs while it laughs at your boring life. Time to go punch the time clock and earn my dollar to survive in the world among the clones. Among the scoffers, the dreamers, the liars and the preachers. Among the coffee drinkers.

I came here to get warm and yet all I feel is the cold, cruel reality of the commercialism which surrounds me and the loneliness of being surrounded by people. Despite the warm cup in front of me, I still feel the clammy, shallow culture of the automatic actions and reactions of the solid citizens. I stand up and make my way out of the glass door, which is as transparent as all the customers in the shop, before turning down the abandoned, busy street. The falling snow has now turned into a wet, dismal moisture which serves to only make me colder as the vapor wets my clothing.


I make my way past the homeless man. Past the preacher on the corner. Past the brick buildings and commercial signs. Past the cars and cloned, faceless shoppers. The city streets are filled with the comings and goings of city life, yet despite the crowds, they are empty - empty like my coffee cup.