In Nuclear War it Helps to Know Where to Hide

This is it: the 9:00 in the morning bomb shelter on Sonoma Mountain Parkway. If you were sitting where I was that Saturday morning you would have smelled the same coffee grounds that I did. If you were sitting next to me that morning you would have seen the sunlight slowly slip across the wet tile floor. You would have seen the woman to your left who constantly wrung her hands as if they had committed some unspeakable crime. You yourself would have witnessed the man sitting atop the plywood barstool across the room glance hurriedly at his Rolex and leave with his laptop and black pinstriped suit. If you were sitting with me you would have seen the earthy ceilings arching with grace and a warm disposition, you would have seen the rows of strikingly clean stainless steel machines, you would have seen the granite counter, the brown merchandise shelves, the reddened tabletop where once a couple sat holding hands, and the store clerk wiping up any and every trace of dust or grime in existence within her reach. And you would have seen me, sitting there to your left or right or whatever, taking in the strength and security of our modern day bomb shelter: Starbucks Coffee.

When you enter the door on the side of the bunker facing the street you are greeted with a burst of rust colored aluminum outlining the entrance and windows. A poster on the interior of the glass most likely says something catchy that you’ll forget when you leave, but for the moment you are reading it you feel safe, part of a family. The door swings wide and inside the dimly lit and underground atmosphere pulls you close. You leave behind the outside world. The post apocalyptic sight outdoors, where the ashes of love fall silently upon everything in sight turning the landscape a sickly grey. In the shelter you find some of this love still intact, though it now takes the form of a Grande coffee (that’s a large coffee for those of you who have not visited the shelter yet). You might find a shard of love floating in the ring of liquid which settles beneath your cup, or in the smile of a little boy who makes faces at you through the window. A speck of love floats through the air in front of your nose and another lands on the edge of the shelf to your right.

Continuing form the doorway the passage sweeps to the left in a wonderfully playful and elegant curve; alluding to visions in magazines of grand hotel lobbies in New York, Paris, or Milan. The first countertop visible is that of the “pick up” end of the store, where waiting with expressions of anticipation and often jealousy people stand longing for the opportunity to drink that saving nectar. The counter, a granite plane shaped into a half circle, lends to the idea that the locale you have entered resides within a mountain, safe from the pain of the outdoors. Flecks of shining gold and silver are embedded within its surface offset by the occasional black streak of calcium deposit that surely formed millions of years ago, thousands of miles away, created by heat and pressure within the bowels of a volcano, only to be sliced thin and have drinks served across it. You see a man grab for his nonfat double shot latté and the expression on his face changes form absolute fear to indescribable happiness. He smirks at the prize now in his hand, the gold he traveled around the corner to find and consume, slowly, with complete and utter savory reverence.

If you get a peek beyond the counter into the inner sanctum, the preparation area you can see why so many weary travelers make their destination this particular Starbucks hideout. A row of hundreds of Styrofoam cups slinks and slithers its way up through the sweet smelling air like a glimmering white vine. Each individual has a personality. The cup on the very top smiles from ear to ear knowing that soon it will be in the hands of one who loves it. The three beneath him cry with both happiness for their lucky counterpart and with sadness of the wait they must endure. Southward of these top four the faces turn sour, like a line of tourists who have visited the happiest place on earth and found it to be 80% waiting, 15% food, and 5% magic. But sitting silently at the bottom of the chain is a small simple creature, identical to the rest in every aspect except attitude. She expects nothing and so is free to love the granite on which she sleeps, dreaming of the impossibility of being cradled and caressed by careful human hands.

If you can even make it past the crowd by the door you will find yourself at the dead zone. A veritable no mans land between the registers and the “pick up” line. This is the spot you cannot be caught in, for within the confines of a three foot radius sit’s the beast: the sugar and crème table. Here is where we determine the men from the boys. Adding your own amounts of sugar to the already perfect beverage is a delicate task and ,in the process, those standing in line behind you watch on harshly judging your choice of ingredients. It is a simple black rolling table that contains a round trash can down its center, up to three crème pitchers that are always empty, sugar, Equal, honey, and the wise mans choice: Splenda, milk, napkins, stirring sticks, and an endless supply of drink sleeves; but it is also the scariest creature within the shelter.

Having completed the obstacle course you strut triumphantly up to the register; passing under the pendant lights, partitioned ceiling, and black slatted steam vents. The coffee makers cheer with a low rumbling hum and the occasional hot air whistle. You have conquered the gauntlet and reached nirvana, the devastated landscape outside means nothing anymore. The cashier reaches for the happy top cup and you know in that instant exactly what top say. “Ill have a Grande Vanilla Latte, low foam.”

-Jesse