My friend Keith walked up to me at the Starbucks on 75th and Broadway, and said, “I never thought I’d say this to you, and don’t take it the wrong way, but you’re a coffee shop whore.” Less than 12 hours later, I looked up from my spot at the Starbucks at 67th and Columbus, and saw Keith, this time with his dog, a rottweiler, both staring at me through the window.
Starbucks Coffee is the closest I’ve ever come to crack, cocaine or any controlled substance; and its cafes are the closest I’ve ever come to a drug house, and therefore, I’ve dubbed my writing holes under one name, often telling my sister that she knows where to find me, at The Crackee House. (Actually I was standing in a packed gym once, talking to a police officer, when he looked at the floor under me and picked up some white material in a baggie. He held it up to me and said, “Do you know what this is?” I said, “Well, it looks like a bunch of old, rotten teeth.” He shook his head and said, “It’s crack.” Oh, and there was the time when my hysterical seventh grade student begged me to go home and see if her sister’s secret stash was real cocaine or not. I saw the razor, the mirror, and something that looked like powder and said, “Should we do what they do on TV and taste it?” She shrugged. I said, “Do you know what it tastes like ‘cause I sure as heck don’t?” I called my brother, Ryan, a law enforcement official, and he yelled, “PUT IT DOWN NOW and get the hell out of there! Are you nuts? Being with a student after hours, at her home, tasting cocaine while playing detective?”)
I’ve been writing in Starbucks for a while, ever since I had to stop writing at my gym’s cafe because I was talking too much to friends and acquaintances, and getting no work done. I spent most of my time writing at the Starbucks in Columbus Circle, for it was one of the few in the city that remained open for 24 hours. (There's recently been a proliferation of 24-hour Crackee Houses in the city.) One morning I was there, immersed in the 63nd write of Money Game in a dark corner, when a guy said something in my ear, I looked up and he winked. After the haze cleared, I realized it was actor/economist/writer Ben Stein.
Weeks later, I read an article he wrote for the Times and sent him an email, saying I was the redhead in the corner at the Starbucks in Columbus Circle, who did not comprehend a word you said before you grinned your way out the door. He said he remembered me vividly—he repeated vividly twice in the email—leaving me to wondering if I did something I had forgotten. We had a brief email exchange, I read all his funny books, and soon I had no other choice but to sit myself down and order my usual: the grande regular, two packs of sugar, a ton of milk, (eggnog during the holidays). I finally accepted that my virtual relationship with Ben Stein, a married man who lives in Los Angeles, may have started and ended when I was high.
I avoided the Starbucks for a few days one spring, after two incidents. The first being when I’d noted that one disturbed dude developed this scary habit of throwing himself into conversations, spewing his vitriol, twisting everything into what he believed to be enlightening commentary on slavery and oppression of the black man. He bobbed and shook at other times, his hand and phone attached to his ear, holding a screaming match with himself over precisely when the world would end. The second instance occurred when I spied a group of young adults stirring up a ruckus, leading one young Starbucks employee to scream, “Don’t make me go get my heat. ‘Cause I’ll bring it back and y’all are going down.” Somewhere around then, I called it a night, packed up and moved with my back to the wall until I slid out of the joint. (I thought of crawling, and don’t think anyone would of noticed, for they were either sleeping or arming themselves.)
I reported both instances to my brother Ryan. Proud of my immediate response to flee and my strategy for escaping a hostile environment, I failed to get the props I had expected. Instead, my brother Ryan said, “And why are you wandering around New York City and going in and out of these places at the middle of the night?” I told him I tried to stay away, but the mere scent of the beans, which you can smell every other block on the upper west side, drew me back. Within days, I returned to the same Crackee House, and stayed until late on a Saturday night. I looked up, and saw this attractive bald guy wearing a red baseball cap. Par for the course, our eyes met and he walked right past me.
I said hey, that guy is…Bruce Willis.
Or I could have been hallucinating.
A seat at Starbucks is a tough ticket in New York City anywhere between the hours of 7 a.m. and midnight, particularly in the winter. On New Year’s Eve, if they didn’t close the place at 10:30 p.m., it would have been packed to the gills. For people who visit during normal hours, I blame the record-setting attendance levels to some highly addictive ingredient in the coffee that is so powerful that it makes you return to the store—and run to the bathroom—like clockwork. I sit here now, at 2 a.m., not letting anyone around me know that I’ve got a $100 Starbucks gift card in my purse, thanks to my dad, who’s enabling me, feeding me and my addiction, and running the risk of pissing off my sister, who only got $50 on her Gap card.
My guess is that Starbucks are one of the cleanest, safest places in town for people who are trying to hide the fact that they have no place else to go. Not everyone falls in this category, but most of us, without a doubt, are in no need to rush to any place that brings us any comfort greater than what we will find here. This place is where I work best—I drink my fuel, I write, I refill, I observe.
After deducting another 54 cents from my card for a second hit, here is what I see:
Two old white men—both well dressed and without suitcases—are hunched over asleep. Check that. Three old white guys. I just spotted the third after looking over my shoulder at the side of the joint that is now closed down so that all the crackee addicts are forced to one side of the ship as if we’re on the Titanic.
Across from me is a fine-looking Caucasian in a red baseball cap, flipped backwards, gray scarf around his neck like he’s posing for a catalog. He’s warm and charming and having an intimate conversation with a cute African-American women. I keep checking him out. He knows it.
In front of them, sits a black man or woman, hidden under clothes, his or her Ug boots lined up next to her row of suitcases. Christ, I think, how hard it would be to sleep sitting up for days, weeks on end, in a frigid winter, and carrying all your crap around. I think, hell, I’ve got two options. I can call slumber party at my place of residence—I live with my sister and her boyfriend—and she would have me removed with all my guests immediately. Or I can drop my card on the table and buy a hit for everyone.
In walks a lanky 6’3” blonde girl – her big features and forehead remind me of my Russian teammate when I played ball in Israel. Well-dressed with a large designer handbag, she sits by herself right in front of me, sees me studying her, and pecking away. Feeling like a jerk, I look past her, spotting two boys, one stands, nods to his friend who’s hiding under a hood, and moves across our house. As he moves, my eyes meet with Sara’s, who I just know is thinking the same thing I’m thinking. She turns away from me. From under her two pair of glasses she doodles on any her publication while surrounding herself with her suitcase and a stack of files. She knows what I know and I know what she knows: something is about to go down. I look at the suspects and see that both boys have hips are the size of one of my legs. It’s a safe bet to say they’re gay, lost and homeless, or trying to make a statement to their lousy parents, or a world that they believe doesn’t give a rat’s ass about them, or all of the above.
I’m sitting in Sara’s seat tonight and I don’t think she’s too happy about it. I wouldn’t have taken it if I knew she was coming. This cubby comes with an outlet, a good light, all of which constitute prime real estate, though my back is to the room, which is something I like about as much as I enjoy the draft coming through the window. Actually the draft doesn’t bug me as much as the fear of breaking one of Capone’s tenements—never sit with your back to the room. (I learned this while swing dancing at a joint in Chicago that Capone used to frequent. He always sat facing the room, and the wall behind him was proof.)
It is my bet that Sara is living at Starbucks, though I haven’t seen her in a few days. A regular speculated that Sara—not having to pay rent, electric, maintenance, taxes—could have possibly saved up enough money to go to Florida for a few days to celebrate the New Year. Sara and I first met about six months ago, when I had to pee so badly that I was doing the Jane Fonda Workout while waiting for a person to get out of the damn bathroom. When the door opened, she looked up, with glossy eyes, appearing to be a few sheets to the wind. She left behind her a clean bathroom. Everything was neat, she did not have a hair out of place; it was as if she showered in there. Right now, Sara is in the middle of the store, face and glasses looking downward, sweater and coat appearing to hold her head up.
I tried talking to her three weeks ago, leading with the clever, “Hi, what’s your name?”
“What do you mean, what’s my name?” she snapped in her whiney, nasally voice. “What kind of question is that?”
“I just see you here a lot, and I wanted to know your name.”
“Well, you’re not getting it.”
(I forgot Rule #1 of being in a house like this: never ask for any form of ID.)
“What do you do?” I asked.
“I’m a copy editor for ABC,” she said, and she turned away from me, and stared at the ABC building across the street.
I later found out her name after a few rosy students went up to her and asked Sara a question about news or a play or something where she could shed some knowledge on the area. I’m thinking of the same approach, and hope to be pleasantly surprised that she does, in fact, work as a fact checker at ABC, or make up that she was on the firing squad when the hit was sent out for Dan Rather. Then I remember he works for CBS.
I’m also hoping that the hot white guy with the black chick will stop staring at me because it’s either the coffee or it’s him that’s making me hot and jittery. Hot guy is sitting right next to my old friend from the Starbucks down the street, another part-time vagrant, Caroline. She told me she leaves her house at night because it’s disgusting and there’s no heat, and roaches and rats eat through her belongings. Caroline, who is at least 65, tells me that she is a freelance dancer. I ask her how she can afford $1,000 month for her apartment, and she assures me that she’s gotten a lot of dancing work at the opera, plays, etc. I tell her that I once was a basketball player and knew my days on the court were numbered—do you have a plan for an income—anything that can get you a pay stub—as if I have any room to talk—but I’m worried that she’s going to need an income statement or she’s going to freeze to death.
“Yes,” she said. “I have a plan. I’m going to be a writer, just like you.”
She went on for 25 minutes about how she wants her essays to remain untouched. I said it’s not possible—and not smart, for I enjoy working with most editors. I suggest to Caroline that she speaks to Sara. “She says she works at ABC as a copyeditor, but seems to have a lot of free time on her hands.”
They’re all conversing over there in the corner—Caroline is talking to the hot guy, the hot guy to the cute girl and they’re all yucking it up, everyone believing everyone else’s fish story. Next to them is Dan, a friendly brother with dreads who says he’s banging out his first screenplay within a month, before he has to find work again. God love Dan, for he seems to be telling the truth and keeping me updated.
Hot white guy just stood up and dang it, it looks like he weighs about 132 lbs. Two high school boys have not robbed the joint, yet. Russian girl is gone. Three guys are still sleeping. And there is now a large woman, who has parked her cart outside, right next to me on the other side of the window. She is sitting directly across from me, staring dead at me, teeth clenched. I look away to avoid the awkward moment only to see the hot guy fixated one me as his girlfriend sleeps on his shoulder. He wants me and I think would have me on the bar if Abraham Lincoln’s cousin and a security officer weren’t crowding it. I blush and turn from him to see Sara walking around pretending to be talking to one of her writers on her cell phone, and think, hell, I need an editor—but can I trust her, can I trust anyone in the house? I start to think this is what the cold, the crack, the coffee does to you—it makes you hard, numb, delirious, suspicious, doubtful, paranoid. And as if on cue, the delivery guys enter, wheeling their carts behind the bar, stocking the shelves with the good stuff that keeps me coming back for more.
Unfortunately the episode did not air due to the Writer's Strike.
