This morning at Starbucks, as I waited on line, my eyes zoomed in on the idiot of the week. A grown man getting all upset at the cashier. I couldn't hear him exactly, but from his bitchy body language, I could tell he was getting pouty. Ready to throw himself on the floor and start crying.
Over coffee. In Starbucks.
Apparently, his drink couldn't be made just as his picky ass liked it, so he sighed and took it out on the cashier, who offered to fix his drink or make him something else. He just shook his head violently, as if to say, "No, the damage is done. It's irreparable. I don't know how I'll go on."
I wanted to kill him. It have been worth it. It was 8:28 and I had to be at work in about 2 minutes. I mumbled, "Really, man? Holding up the fucking line and having tantrum over coffee? Just go kill yourself!" The guy ahead of me online turned his head slightly, having overheard what I'd just said. I had the feeling that this would be the morning where I finally snapped and killed someone with an espresso machine. It's been building up.
As he turned to leave, I scanned him up and down (I had my new sunglasses on, so I could be discreet about it). He wore pleated khakis, cheap New Balance sneakers, a denim shirt, left completely unbuttoned so I could see the ugly red t-shirt he had on under it. I knew that no real New Yorker would wear a tacky denim shirt, so he was most definitely a tourist. Now I hated him even more.
"Go home and cry in your coffee," I mumbled as he stopped at the little milk/sugar/take-your-fucking-time-and-take-up-all-the-room table.
I wondered, however briefly, if I should switch to decaf, but then wouldn't be a New Yorker anymore. And I probably wouldn't have the necessary rage to channel such a non-event into a long-winded story.