Why I Drive Miles Out Of My Way To Go To This Starbucks.
Jon Snow works there. Or...his twin.
Yes, I am that shallow. I first noticed Jon (his name is actually Alan but he is forever Jon to me) several years ago when I started rewarding myself for getting through chemo by getting a pricey Starbucks coffee. This was in 2015. I would have one day of chemo and then rest for a week. I knew that approximately 12 hours after treatment, I would be sicker than a dog for days, so.....bracing myself...I would grab a coffee. My chemo clinic was way out in the western part of the city, so I would stop at a Starbucks out there.
That was where I first met Jon. He was a freshman in college then and the new guy. I would cruise into the drive thru and this lovely deep British voice would say, "How are you doin' today?" He sounded sincere, like he really wanted to know. I would always say that I was fine, even though, of course, I was far from it. I would give my order, usually a Maple Pecan Latte or a Chai latte and he would say, "Sounds lovely. See you up there!"
And there he was. Jon Snow incarnate. A small man, probably about 5'8. Lovely black curls. Eyes as dark as coals. And then, just to mix it up...a totally goofy smile. But, great teeth. Of course. He'd lean out the window, smiling, to take my card or money, look up at the sky in appreciation and gaze directly into my eyes and make small talk. Very small talk. Because Starbucks is always a hopping place. No time for dilly dallying. But, he always made time to ask me at least one question.
Had I seen anything interesting that day?
What was my favorite color?
Was this my favorite season and if not, what was?
He'd manage to listen carefully and respond accordingly. He never once failed to smile at me. Once he asked me my name and because I ALWAYS make up names when I go to a Starbucks, I said that my name was Grace.
The next time I went through the drive thru and gave my order, he said, "Grace? Is that you, dear?" I was shocked. He had remembered my fake name. I laughed sheepishly and said, "Sorry. I made that up. My REAL name is....Gretchen." When I got to the pick up window, he smiled that charmed smile and said, "Ok...Gretchen. Or is is Amelia? Cassandra? Claire? Bella?" We laughed and I told him that the beauty of Starbucks is that you get to be anyone you want to be and that I was also guilty of lying about my name on airplanes with strangers.
"But, what do you say when they write your fake name on your cup and you go on into work?" he asked, his dimple making a rare appearance, although I somehow just knew he must have one. "Do people think you are a little pickpocket, stealing Gretchen's drink?"
You just had to hear him say the phrase little pickpocket. He made me sound like some Audrey Hepburn type of woman, gliding around Manhattan streets. I was temporarily speechless and because we couldn't sit there forever, I didn't have time to answer.
Later, as chemo wore on and I looked worse for the wear each time, he caught on that I wasn't well. He never once said anything, but it was in his eyes. I had gone from having a full head of hair to wearing a scarf and I had no eyebrows or eyelashes. I stopped bothering with makeup. I mean, what was the point? Blush only made my pale skin look worse. I had no use for mascara and the lines around my lips made it difficult to wear lipstick.
My stomach was so delicate that I ordered chai lattes all the time. Nothing else would stay down, no matter what. He called me a different name each time I wearily pulled up.
I'd hear his "How are you doin' today?" and when I would order my chai, he'd say, "Miranda, is that you? Catarina, is that you? Shalimara, is that you?" Each time, the name would get more fanciful and then he would make me laugh by saying, "Or is it Grizelda today?"
We were friends. Little by little, in one minute increments, I learned that he was an international student, not from England but Amsterdam. He liked America just fine but had little time for socializing. He learned that I was in treatment for breast cancer, married to a woman, and was holding down a full time job.
Eventually, I beat cancer. On my last day of treatment, he suggested that I try a different drink, one that might work just as easily on my stomach: a caramel apple latte. He speedily gave me a trial drink and I loved it and that became my new drink. After treatment, I still came to that Starbucks several times a week even though it was way out of my way. Our friendship grew. I knew that he worked the noon to 3 window shift and all day every weekend inside.
My cancer returned, this time in the form of leukemia. I didn't tell him about it but since all my hair fell out again after it had grown back in full, he did notice. The first day I wore my dreaded cancer scarf, he handed me my drink and said, "Here you go, Cassiopeia." I looked into his eyes and they were brimming with tears. I couldn't talk, so just handed him my card and nodded.
We went on. He is now a senior in college and I have beaten cancer once again. Or, I hope so. He says that he hopes to find work at the United Nations once he graduates. He has a friend who works there. But, he now has an American girlfriend, a sophomore at his college. Life is complicated.
Except for us. I am Grace, Gretchen, Lavinia, Bettina, Cassiopeia (actually he knows my real name by now but we never use it) who always orders the caramel apple, the white mocha with soy, eggnog latte extra hot with one extra shot, or the chai. He knows my favorite color is dark forest green, my favorite season is Autumn, and my favorite movie is Spencer's Mountain. I know that he likes pastel colors, especially his girlfriend in pale pink, his favorite season is Spring and that he has no favorite movie but likes The Sopranos and Shameless.
We've never once discussed Game of Thrones.
Yes, I am that shallow. I first noticed Jon (his name is actually Alan but he is forever Jon to me) several years ago when I started rewarding myself for getting through chemo by getting a pricey Starbucks coffee. This was in 2015. I would have one day of chemo and then rest for a week. I knew that approximately 12 hours after treatment, I would be sicker than a dog for days, so.....bracing myself...I would grab a coffee. My chemo clinic was way out in the western part of the city, so I would stop at a Starbucks out there.
That was where I first met Jon. He was a freshman in college then and the new guy. I would cruise into the drive thru and this lovely deep British voice would say, "How are you doin' today?" He sounded sincere, like he really wanted to know. I would always say that I was fine, even though, of course, I was far from it. I would give my order, usually a Maple Pecan Latte or a Chai latte and he would say, "Sounds lovely. See you up there!"
And there he was. Jon Snow incarnate. A small man, probably about 5'8. Lovely black curls. Eyes as dark as coals. And then, just to mix it up...a totally goofy smile. But, great teeth. Of course. He'd lean out the window, smiling, to take my card or money, look up at the sky in appreciation and gaze directly into my eyes and make small talk. Very small talk. Because Starbucks is always a hopping place. No time for dilly dallying. But, he always made time to ask me at least one question.
Had I seen anything interesting that day?
What was my favorite color?
Was this my favorite season and if not, what was?
He'd manage to listen carefully and respond accordingly. He never once failed to smile at me. Once he asked me my name and because I ALWAYS make up names when I go to a Starbucks, I said that my name was Grace.
The next time I went through the drive thru and gave my order, he said, "Grace? Is that you, dear?" I was shocked. He had remembered my fake name. I laughed sheepishly and said, "Sorry. I made that up. My REAL name is....Gretchen." When I got to the pick up window, he smiled that charmed smile and said, "Ok...Gretchen. Or is is Amelia? Cassandra? Claire? Bella?" We laughed and I told him that the beauty of Starbucks is that you get to be anyone you want to be and that I was also guilty of lying about my name on airplanes with strangers.
"But, what do you say when they write your fake name on your cup and you go on into work?" he asked, his dimple making a rare appearance, although I somehow just knew he must have one. "Do people think you are a little pickpocket, stealing Gretchen's drink?"
You just had to hear him say the phrase little pickpocket. He made me sound like some Audrey Hepburn type of woman, gliding around Manhattan streets. I was temporarily speechless and because we couldn't sit there forever, I didn't have time to answer.
Later, as chemo wore on and I looked worse for the wear each time, he caught on that I wasn't well. He never once said anything, but it was in his eyes. I had gone from having a full head of hair to wearing a scarf and I had no eyebrows or eyelashes. I stopped bothering with makeup. I mean, what was the point? Blush only made my pale skin look worse. I had no use for mascara and the lines around my lips made it difficult to wear lipstick.
My stomach was so delicate that I ordered chai lattes all the time. Nothing else would stay down, no matter what. He called me a different name each time I wearily pulled up.
I'd hear his "How are you doin' today?" and when I would order my chai, he'd say, "Miranda, is that you? Catarina, is that you? Shalimara, is that you?" Each time, the name would get more fanciful and then he would make me laugh by saying, "Or is it Grizelda today?"
We were friends. Little by little, in one minute increments, I learned that he was an international student, not from England but Amsterdam. He liked America just fine but had little time for socializing. He learned that I was in treatment for breast cancer, married to a woman, and was holding down a full time job.
Eventually, I beat cancer. On my last day of treatment, he suggested that I try a different drink, one that might work just as easily on my stomach: a caramel apple latte. He speedily gave me a trial drink and I loved it and that became my new drink. After treatment, I still came to that Starbucks several times a week even though it was way out of my way. Our friendship grew. I knew that he worked the noon to 3 window shift and all day every weekend inside.
My cancer returned, this time in the form of leukemia. I didn't tell him about it but since all my hair fell out again after it had grown back in full, he did notice. The first day I wore my dreaded cancer scarf, he handed me my drink and said, "Here you go, Cassiopeia." I looked into his eyes and they were brimming with tears. I couldn't talk, so just handed him my card and nodded.
We went on. He is now a senior in college and I have beaten cancer once again. Or, I hope so. He says that he hopes to find work at the United Nations once he graduates. He has a friend who works there. But, he now has an American girlfriend, a sophomore at his college. Life is complicated.
Except for us. I am Grace, Gretchen, Lavinia, Bettina, Cassiopeia (actually he knows my real name by now but we never use it) who always orders the caramel apple, the white mocha with soy, eggnog latte extra hot with one extra shot, or the chai. He knows my favorite color is dark forest green, my favorite season is Autumn, and my favorite movie is Spencer's Mountain. I know that he likes pastel colors, especially his girlfriend in pale pink, his favorite season is Spring and that he has no favorite movie but likes The Sopranos and Shameless.
We've never once discussed Game of Thrones.
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