Padres, Green Tea, and Misunderstandings

The rain pours sideways and it's never gentle. It's what the wind will do on an early October day.

I have been sick for the last week. A brutal four day stretch like none I've ever encountered. It included much time to my own devices lest I pollute those I love with an unrelenting upper respiratory viral infection. There's little that can be done for a virus. Lots of liquids. Lots of rest. Stay the course.

I haven't drank coffee or beer in the last week and I've eaten little. But there is one thing I've taken up-- tea. Any kind available really. I've sworn by it. The last few days have seen me venturing into Starbucks leaving only with a Green Tea, the biggest their baristas would provide. And that's really where this story begins...

As I entered Starbucks at 4:30 pm this afternoon I was prepared to order my second venti Green Tea of the day.

I approached the counter and said, "Venti Green Tea, please."

The recipient of my order was a man. A man named Steve. Steve looked at me incredulously. I didn't understand his incredulity. Is Green Tea on a cold rainy day some sort of monumental stretch? If so it is one in which I am unfamiliar.

Steve simply said, "Hot or cold?"

I replied, "Oh, hot, please."

 But my look suggested something quite different. I'm not sure but my face might have read, "It's cold mother fucker. I want it hot." Who can be certain of such things.

Our interface did not end there, though. Steve had more to say. I had replied hot but Steve had questions. Proper questions.

"What kind of hot tea? Because I could make a non fat soy green tea latte light on the foam or a Venti pump extra hot chai tea latte. Sometimes people like those on cold rainy days"


I looked at Steve. And then I looked over his shoulder. I needed to break eye-contact. I needed to break eye-contact and then take a deep meditative breath. And this simple action helped calm me.

Steve didn't need to be berated. And I'm sick . . . I haven't the energy for it. Steve needed something else. He needed to be complimented. So I looked at Barista Steve and I said the following:


"Steve, I admire your passion. It's not misguided and all would do well to have such passion for their day's work."


I had just paraphrased James Earl Jones as Terrence Mann in Field of Dreams. But Steve . . . he hadn't blinked an eye. The word lift, an unintentional and unforeseeable gaffe, left me undeterred. I carried on.


"If all had the passion that you bring to your job, Steve, the world would be a fine place."

Had I now lifted Hemingway? I continued...

"I appreciate your suggestions for my drink today. They were about as convoluted as anything I've ever heard but I appreciate the effort nonetheless. But, ya see Steve,  sometimes a tea is just a tea. No bells. No whistles. Just the simplicity of a teabag. Sometimes your customer just wants you . . . to give them a tea bag. The old fashioned way."


It hadn't even dawned on me that I had just given a soliloquy that could very well be censored in some states. How on Earth had Barista Steve received my signal? I couldn't tell. He simply turned, grabbed a cup, two Green tea tea-bags and started pouring hot water.


It was gonna be cold, wet and windy out there. I began to zip-up the high collar on my brown Padres heavy-weight track jacket and Barista Steve returned with my Green Tea. Money changed hands. In light of our conversation only minutes ago . . . it all seemed so dirty.


I looked at Steve. And in an attempt to put us back on some sort of level footing I said the only thing I could at that moment...


"Go Padres?"