In any big budget Hollywood movie, there is a lot of money and time put into casting.
The look, the experience, the talent of the actors is all weighed heavily before choosing the perfect person.
And yet, in our little scene today, the actors just showed up.
And its perfect.
I am in Starbucks, where else, with a friend who is determined to provide entertainment for the blog.
I can always use the help.
I stop short of staging events, but participation is always allowed.
Our stars for the scene are:
Cashier. She is young, dumb, barely able to count, fairly lazy, and the perfect career cashier.
Granny. She is the dehydrated, wrinkled, hillbilly manager/crappy barrista that runs the place.
Mr. Howell. He is from old money. Back East money. Rockafeller type dollars. He is also gay as a two dollar bill. (I mean that in a totally non-homophobic way. He was, so I mentioned it.)
Our scene opens when we enter the Starbucks.
There is one person ahead of us in line.
Then its our turn.
Cashier is friendly and asks about our needs. Its not a difficult order, two coffee creations and some pastries.
Cashier opens her mouth to ask…something, don’t know what, when Granny erupts.
“What’s she want? I can’t hear her!” Granny can’t wait for the cup, she is far too sophisticated for high fallootin shit like that.
Cashier doesn’t like Granny, that much is obvious.
“Sorry.” She mouths this at us.
She thrusts the paper cup with the writing at Granny.
What happens next is awesome.
She takes out her readin specs in order to read the cup.
At the spot on the cup that shows “Shot” is written a “1”.
“Does she want an extra shot?” Granny is sounding more and more like Minnie Pearl by the second.
Cashier rolls her eyes. “I wrote it on the cup.” She tells us, annoyed and embarrassed.
Granny taps the cup on the counter to get cashier’s attention, when cashier looks over, Granny does an awesome hands out “What the hell?” shrug.
I pay and we sit to await our creations.
I am more than a little worried that Granny will poison us because I fear she cannot read.
Enter Mr. Howell.
He is wearing beige capris, with little crossed golf clubs on them.
His haircut is black curls that sway on his head like Howard Stern and his shirt is a vintage polo.
And black socks.
And they say there is no crime near the beach.
Mr. Howell begins hopping from foot to foot in front of the cashier, staring at the menu as if he is not sure what they sell here.
“I would absolutely LOVE a grande iced half caf triple mocha latte macchiato.”
I would love to know what that is.
Cashier takes a full three minutes to write it up.
Then she hands it to Granny, who pulls out her specs.
I have to see this. I head up to the counter on the weak premise of ordering, well, anything as long as I can see whats going on behind the barrista station, mainly because Granny has disappeared.
I am so glad I cam up here.
Granny is hunkered down, leafing desperately thru a book.
It is the coffee version of the Mr. Boston guide.
It tells you how to make the drink.
I stare while trying not to laugh when cashier leans over.
“She doesn’t like to clean the toilets, so she has to barrista.”
I order nothing and sit down.
Mr. Howell has shuffled over to the pick up window and is staring up at a wall hanging of Kenya, he begins to tell no one about his trip to Kenya last year.
And for some reason, he then notices what Granny is up to.
“Do you know what you are doing?” He leans into the barrista station.
Without missing a beat, Granny picks up a cup that is sitting on her station, and throws it on Mr. Howell.
I had a clear view, there was a shot glass of water, no more.
But she threw it on a customer.
And begins to laugh.
It is an evil, scratchie cackle that seems to boom off the walls.
Cashier looks like she is either scared or constipated.
And, at the height of Granny’s laugh, Deliverance shows up.
Out of the back room, mop in hand, comes a true rarity in the beach cities.
A backwoods, banjo playing hillbilly.
Okay, so it was just a guy with an apron and huge ears.
I also think one of his eyes was offset due to inbreeding, but I am prone to overreacting.
Deliverance chortles like a slow madman and heads back into the back room.
And that is when Mr. Howell begins to laugh.
He laughs like he has seen the funniest thing ever in his life.
He then calls someone named “Bons” and tells Bons all about the water.
I am worried about his sanity.
But he gets his coffee and leaves, still laughing.
Granny watches him go.
The door closes and Granny stops laughing and glares at the door.
I need to stop coming here at night.
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