6:00 A.M. — Starbucks. More people are lined up to get their morning drip than there have ever been churchgoers lined up across the street. The quintessential error of the church was made by choosing the wrong blood of Christ: wine. It’s outdated. Too high in calories for New York women. If you want New Yorkers to go to Church, I think coffee is the way to get them there. Coffee blood, biscotti body, eh? Maybe I’m describing an expensive gingerbread man instead of the son of god, but something has to stop the waning congregations from waning too much.
One of those green aprons and black hats comes to the door to unlock it. It’s like the running of the bulls. Hop the counter and take shelter. They are coming. When that door opens at 6 A.M. the line disappears into a free for all. Once there was order, now there is chaos—a 3 minute jihad breaks out over who gets through the door, vying for their carmel macchiato, their double shot latte skim milk, their black french-roast no sugar no cream. Elbows are our sticks and stones.
It doesn’t end there. There is only one thing New Yorkers crave more than coffee: free wireless. The coffee crowd sprints for the line while everyone else and their messenger bag leap for the tables and counter space. Every laptop and cup of coffee is a flag, it says, it sings, “this land is my land, that land is your land, forget the real lyrics to the song.” There is never a moment of quiet or peace. Customers rush to manifest destiny and take up their real estate, and the rest of the day is spent exchanging those tables, diving for them upon locking eyes with someone getting up, someone putting their laptop away, someone leaving.
Working your legs as hard they possibly can without spilling the blood of Christ all down your suit, fast enough to beat the mother pushing her stroller to the table.
Ah…Land. I own land.