I had a dream that I was opening up a coffee store in the morning. There were a lot of customers already inside the cafe, which had very white walls, two floors, and plenty of light. They were all waiting (very patiently) for me to open the bar. One of the women noted that I work alone and dictated a large order of six drinks for her and her friends. I still remember one of those was a Mocchiato.

This dream doesn’t surprise me. While for many people college highlighted an exotic time in their lives, for me it was working at Starbucks in New Jersey in my 20s.

I was back in the US after finishing serving in the Israeli army with a fresh Green Card. I was living at home, and my mom was a dedicated coffee drinker who fell in love with Starbucks, and we had a neighborhood store within walking distance from us. She was a regular and she knew how to push things, and the manager was one of those folks with a natural warm smile on his face. That and the fact that Starbucks provided health insurance for part-timers meant it didn’t take much time for me to start working there.

Back then, Starbucks was still that “third place,” especially in those neighborhood stores. We had our regulars, especially during closing shifts, which were calmer. It was also when I worked with the more interesting people I remember, and, to be frank, attractive ones. I developed a series of mini-crushes toward some of our shift supervisors, especially the ones that turned out to be weird, as if by a magnet. There was a tall beatiful one who had a natural punk-goth look who ended up being a mortician (she went to a school and everything). There was another that actually had a side gig working as a model for a beer company, doing a couple of commercials in a magazine.

My favorite was a scrawny, quiet, skinny girl who was prone to what I know today were panic attacks. She always took the closing shift, and always worked with her best friend, who was also the first transwoman I’ve met. As I learned after a couple of weeks working with them, she was also her roommate. That skinny weird girl, whom I’m going to call Alice here, was what you can maybe call my first “girlfriend.” I’ve dated girls before, but it was because I was supposed to and because I was worried I’m going to die a virgin, as many guys do once they reach their 20s without having sex. Alice and I clicked and became friends first, and somehow I got accepted into her weird anxious lifestyle, enough for her to trust me to touch her one evening, offering a massage.

You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, but I really didn’t think about having sex with her at the time. We worked a hard shift together, she was in a bad mood, and her body was aching all over. She had several surgeries, and there was a part of her skeleton that was metal (I forget which). Since she was kind to me all that time, I just offered it once she got a chance to sit in the back, sighing in agony and straightening her neck. I don’t think she thought much about it back then either; she just accepted the offer while her tall roommate/friend and apparently guardian was watching us (OK - me) suspiciously, occupying the bar in case someone came in.

Things came naturally after that, and we became affectionate. She had me follow her home after one of our shifts, and I’m going to end the story here in case your kids are watching over your shoulder, but you can keep your imaginations going.

The point I think I’m trying to make here is that she was the first person I remember mutually clicking with mentally and later physically1. In my 40s, I can nod and say “of course,” having only been able to maintain relationships with alternative folks from different walks of life (and failing measurably at whatever normal bf/gf relationships dared sneaking into my world). The bond between these “alternative” folks, as I call them here, sex, and coffeeshops (and books, but that’s a different story) is something that still exists strongly to this day, even though I’m sure I’m far from being the only person who is attracted to their barista.

For a long time, my ideal workplace has been working in a coffee shop behind the bar, even owning one. I had the idea of opening a place called “Insomnia Cafe”, where I and like-minded folks (the “alternatives”) would operate a coffee shop from dusk till dawn, minus the death and the crosses (vampires welcome, of course). A place that will always allow people to work on their laptops, which was one of my favorite things to do. I went as far as thinking of offering “membership” and even a crashpad - a place for people to crash and sleep for a few hours if they need to - and talked to my sister about it. I don’t know that I’m still up for those late-night/early-morning shifts, but the idea of having a cafe like that is still something that comes up now and then.

Well.

It’s time for me to take my empty coffee mug to the kitchen and chisel away at some work projects. But before I go, I want to say that if you’re one of these people I mentioned and you want to get in touch, please do. I’d love to hear from you. Some folks reached out by email after I wrote similar posts, and it’s always been great to write back. I know some of you are on the fence, or not sure what to say, or you’re not sure you want to, and that’s OK also. I’d like to think this corner of the web is a nice safe place for us weirdos.

Have a good day, and enjoy your coffee or beverage of choice.

Footnotes

1 : to be honest, she wasn’t the first weird person that liked me, but she was the first one where things were mutual. There was another person in highschool, an outcast who stood out, but I was too dumb and naaive to let myself just be myself. Years and years alter I’m still kicking myself for this.