The morning line-up at the coffee shop is usually so indubitably behemoth that to haplessly circumvent its typical magnitude is a pleasure like no other. When you expect to wait ten minutes for something and receive it in one, such a miracle deserves, at the very least, a thorough and verbose articulation and a few good swear words.
The morning line-up, which on a side note is a good indicator that no one is having a good time (“It’s 8:30 a.m.,” says the line, “and I need a fucking break”), ebbs and flows in such a chaotic pattern that at no time is one guaranteed a greater chance of stumbling into an “out the fucking door” situation rather than the convenience of the “non-queue.” As such, the sheer randomness of the latter circumstance – which is surely of divine fortuity – is something better than a “double kill,” though probably less good than a “double orgasm.”
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Indeed, the awesomeness of beating the line-up (which, in the hours of the breaking day, may or may not be more satisfying than the literal equivalent) is so splendiferous that the true nature of the visit to the bean merchant may be obscured. Such an obfuscation is undeniably empowered at rates bound up inextricably with the trendiness of the establishment. In other words, the quantity of hip ephemera the coffee merchant throws into our gustatory experience (foreign language menus, gift ideas, eleven types of milk, etc.), factored by the speed at which one proceeds to the check-out, indicates to which degree we are likely to forget what we are at bottom there to achieve.
Because the purpose of the morning coffee is, undoubtedly, to cheat ourselves of the furious despondency which righteously infects us with indignation at being awake so early to do something so dislikeable. After all, the morning coffee shop line-up does not admit, “I am angry to be awake and require drugs.” It insists, without making eye contact and with no pretension of pleasantries – and probably with nonchalant manipulation of palm-top technology – “I am starting my morning.” But alas, this statement is only ever authentically made when it is at its most delusional: when the non-queue exists, when our elation is ultimate, and when with coffee in hand we can stare boldly into the eyes of our fellow man and say: “I am starting my morning, bitch.”
-bn
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