Beneath a Barista Moon
Most people know that the bright moons of October are called Hunter's Moons. The crops have been harvested and stored (thanks to September's Harvest Moons) and the forests teem with life. The foraging elk and boar cast shadows as if it were noon, beneath the light of a Hunter's Moon, and whatnot.
But what most people don't know is that the bright moons of November are known as Starbucks Barista Moons. The crops have been harvested. (Thanks Harvest Moon.) The critters have been shot and skinned. (Thanks Hunter's Moon.) Now it's time to relax and ward off the coming winter chill with steamy cups of coffee, and attempt to woo cute Starbucks Baristas.
On Night One of the Starbucks Barista Moon, Latigo Flint approached the counter and pointed out the window.
"Do you know what that is?" Latigo Flint asked.
When she turned to look, Latigo Flint lunged over the counter and tried to kiss her but unfortunately hit his head on the espresso machine and knocked himself out.
On Night Two of the Starbucks Barista Moon, Latigo Flint waited outside for the cute Starbucks Barista to take her break. When she exited, she found Latigo Flint by her side.
"You must have mopped last night just before I came in." Latigo Flint said. "Because that was the slipperiest floor I've ever seen."
"Uh, right." She replied warily.
"Give me your hand." Latigo Flint said tenderly. "I wish to show you something."
When she refused, Latigo Flint tried to kiss her anyway, but she'd been waiting for that and when Latigo Flint stepped close, she slammed a stun gun to his genitals and pressed the button.
Latigo Flint needed to skip Nights Three, Four, Five and Six of the Starbucks Barista Moon.
Which brings us to tonight, the Seventh and final Starbucks Barista Moon. I approached the counter, palms out, requesting truce.
"Put the mace away, I just want to talk."
She tilted the nozzle down but kept her finger on the trigger.
"I don't know why I adore you Starbucks Barista, but I do. You're a dusky, captivating gypsy princess with mean eyes and blond highlights and I knew you'd be my grief the instant we met. The choices were to walk away or spend an eternity humiliating myself. I happily chose the latter, for reasons that could only prove me insane. But I don't regret the choice, I'm better for the fight, and if ever a Barista could love a Cowboy back, it would be tonight."
As I spoke, a sympathetic crowd was slowly forming. It was multi-ethnic, as sympathetic crowds tend to be. Hardened Vatos untied bandanas from shaved heads and offered them to weeping white grandmothers. Marketing Executives and Auto Mechanics leaned against each other and shared hopeful glances. A black man lifted an Asian boy so he could get a better view.
I looked around. This scene... it was all so familiar somehow. And right then I knew--when the Starbucks Barista demurely lowers her pretty eyes and allows me to kiss her, this crowd is going to cheer and applaud and shout rapture for the first miracle of the season. And then we'll all run out and dance and hug and sing beneath the pale light of a Barista Moon.
******************
But when I leaned in, instead of demurely lowering her pretty eyes and allowing me to kiss her, the Starbucks Barista broke my nose with a Frappuccino blender and blasted me in the face with scalding milk.
And just like that, everyone was jaded again.
"Yeah, figures." The mechanic mumbled.
"Hey, where's my fuckin' latte." The Marketing Executive shrilled.
"Gimme back my bandana bitch."
I tell you, it was enough to break your heart.
posted by Latigo Flint @ 9:48 PM
10 comments
10 Comments:
Cappucino foam springs eternal.
er...
I'm very sorry about days 3-6 inclusive.
Someday, the cold heart of the Barista may yet be warmed by the fires from your soul.
... That IS your soul isn't it??
Hmmm... Are you sure you're not just prolonging the unresolved sexual tension to keep us hooked?
With such fine words, I cannot believe she hasn't boffed you behind the muffin and pastry display long before now.
Yet another wasted "Barista Moon" latigo, true love is dammed hard to satisfy sometimes.
My heart, it has been broken for you for so long now, my friend.
Little bit of Scotch tape helps, though. Possibly some Scotch, too.
Maybe you should switch from Starbuck's baristas to bar wenches. Not so many heavy appliances, and at least you can suck the alcohol out of your clothes later.
It would seem you just missed capturing the elusive magic that night, Latigo. I'm sorry, friend.
There will be more Barista Moons.
Don't worry, Latigo. One day that barista will wake up to find herself in love with a dusty gunslinger, head over heels. I hope for her sake you haven't moved on by that time. To find yourself in love with a quickdraw in a terrible thing, but to find your love unrequited is worthy of boiling yourself alive in a vat of molten mocha.
ouch, that's all I can say, ouch. For your pain, physically, mentally, and emotionally.
But buck up cowboy, your barrista is out there, unbeknownst, not yet living as she is missing something to make her life complete, and that something is you mister Latigo Flint. Find her sir, you must for her... and for you.
Hmmm, guess I could say more then ouch
Starbucks Baristas are like delicate, fragile fawns: unsure on their feet, tentative and, sadly, all-too-likely to bolt when misinterpreting a hand held out in love as a threatening fist.
Dunkin Donuts Waitresses, however, will lick the back of your sack for as long as it take for you to come in self-defense and promise them a Green Card. Nature's beautiful that way.
Yes, thank you for your condolences Wulf--days 3-6 really weren't much fun at all. (And when it comes to Squinty-Eyed Gunslingers, "soul" and "libido" are pretty much interchangeable.)
Well that depends Greta... Is it working? But seriously now, I can't believe she hasn't boffed me either. (Of course, there's a slim chance that the "Cute Starbucks Barista" actually represents Independent Film Darling, Jena Malone.)
Yes Peter, nothing to be thankful for this November to be sure--I've wasted so very many Barista moons.
Thank you Slarrow. Latigo Flint deserves all the sympathy he can get. Latigo Flint stands alone, snarling into the fury of storms... and he always has. If that doesn't bring a tear to the meanest eye, I don't know what would.
But how many more Monkeypotpie? That's the question. How many Novembers do any of us have left?
It's a savage, twitchy world Trevor. Kind as your words are, I don't think I can safely bank on that ever happening.
Dern it TSP, she's not unbeknownst, she's right there behind the counter--wretched, captivating little dusky gypsy that she is. I found her and then she broke my nose with a Frappuccino blender... it was not good times.
The elusive Mr. Scoop! As always, your reputation precedes you. This is an apt depiction. Most apt. You have aptly capture the essence of the gentle Starbucks Barista I unfortunately adore. Thank you sir and good night.
I saw it! Last night, driving home through six inches of snow, there it was hanging low on the horizon: The silver-white crescent of the Barista Moon beckoning me to go forth and find whatever coffee place might still be open at 1:30am. (Of course, my desire to find a coffee place may also have been becuase I was both dehydrated and tired yet driving through six inches of snow on unplowed streets in the middle of the night. But the moon! The influence of the moon cannot be ignored!
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