When you're related to a genius writer

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By Marc D. Allan

They opened a Starbucks in my house last month. I guess it was
inevitable, given the Gap store already located on my mini-van’s
oversized dashboard, the Blockbuster in the basement (no more late
fees for sure, thanks to the drop slot in our TV room floor) and the
spare bedroom.

“Suburban sprawl! Suburban sprawl!” squawks my neighbor Brad,
chomping a chocolate biscotti and waiting to order his house blend,
no sweetener, with room. Crumbs are everywhere.

The regular barista is a bored girl named Patty who says she’s
working her way through school. Whenever I ask what she’s
studying or where, she turns on a blender.  In another era – or if
Damon Runyan had made her up – Patty would be a tough-talking
gal, maybe a gun moll, in a long, tight skirt.  She’d have an
ever-present nail file and an attitude.  With me, she just has
the attitude.

Patty shows up at 7 each morning, opens the front door and
turns on the music. Ella Fitzgerald usually. Nice. From near and
nearer, customers come, parking on what used to be my front lawn.
They traipse upstairs, tracking mud on the carpet. It’s so hard getting
dirt out of berber.

I complain to Patty, but she ignores me. When I mention how I
don’t like having a line outside my bathroom, she tells me to take it
up with corporate and goes back to reading the latest Cosmo Girl!
My Starbucks, if I may call it mine, apparently does a brisk
business. Almost every day, when I try to pull out of the garage, I’m
blocked in by a truck delivering more cups and those cardboard-like
holders that keep people from burning their hands. (Note to self:
What’s my liability if someone burns themselves because the coffee’s
too hot? Check with counsel.)

There isn’t enough display space in my Starbucks to sell those
stainless steel travel cups, which is a shame because my wife needs
a new one. She’s the real coffee drinker in the family. I just like
the iced drinks. Oh, and the Chantico sipping chocolate.

They could expand into my older daughter’s bedroom if they have
to. I suppose that would be OK – it’s not like they can be stopped –
as long as they don’t touch her closet. And if they’re willing to sell
salads and those black-and-white cookies I’ve seen in some of their
airport stores.

Now that I’ve had a chance to get used to the idea, having a
Starbucks at home is mostly convenient, except when the customers
linger around our dinner table and complain how we don’t offer
wireless. Also, they close at nine and there’s no drive-thru yet.

I don’t know what Patty will do for work when they finish
constructing the Wal-Mart next door. But I know where my wife can
get a new travel cup.

Marc D. Allan is a freelance writer based in suburban Indianapolis.