Today I missed my last huzzah at the neighborhood Starbucks, a location that let its lease expire. For three years my Corolla’s tires crunched over the gravel lot belonging to this respite on the side of the highway. Perched on top of a music studio, its floors were bare linoleum and existed in three planes—entry floor space, order area, and lakeside view. Often there were artworks or framed photographs from local artists displayed on the walls for purchase. I came here to write my first great novel—sparingly and randomly at first, before finally settling into a three or four days per week morning ritual. Along the way the first great novel was shelved, giving way to book two, the dream adjusted downward from “a million dollar advance” to “let’s just get published.”
My favorite spot was along the lake, back to the front wall, plugged in and facing the customers and serving bar. Sometimes another writer or worker (I didn’t know which) would sit nearby and share an electric outlet. Usually what counted for company were an infrequent pair of early morning Bible study dudes or a lonely young cop who read his Bible along the other wall.
Each day like clockwork, a gaggle of seniors would scoot in for their 7:30 breakfast chat. At times it was comforting, listening to the group read headlines from their morning paper, knowing they had nowhere urgent to be. When I got up to pack my bag somewhere between their arrival and 8:00, I would feel a pang of jealousy at their freedom. Chuck, a soft grump who liked to talk up the Starbucks crew, and his smiling sidekick wife the central players, holding court on the topics of the day.
