Undercover Boss

As if I didn’t have enough work—by day, an editor, by night, a freelance writer—yesterday I had another job thrust upon me by an old, bald, bespectacled man in Starbucks.

I was waiting near the bathroom, minding my own business, when he sauntered over and positioned himself behind me, wiggling around like a kid doing the peepee dance while nervously eyeing the short line at the cash register behind him. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head: Coffee or peepee…coffee or peepee.

“Excuse me, miss? I’m going to get a cup of coffee…so, if anyone comes, I’m in line behind you,” he said. I was instantly put on red alert (annoyance alert, that is), and thought of “quien es el ultimo,” the bewildering culture of line forming in Spain, which I recently blogged about.

“I’m just waiting for someone,” I said. “So I’m not really in line.” Baldy looked back at the coffee line and then at me. “You sure you don’t have to go?” he asked. I scrunched up my face, pretending to contemplate it. “Mmmmm, yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

Baldy hopped over to the coffee line, where he stayed for all of two seconds before hopping back to me, his squirming increasing (I was worried he may actually pee in his pants). “You sure you don’t have to go?” he asked again. I started to squirm myself. Did he know something I didn’t? Did I secretly have to go? Was this some sort of sign?

“No, I don’t have to go,” I said, firmly.

“Ok, so, here’s what I’d like you to do,” he said to my utter annoyance. Was this guy gonna ask me to fetch him a fartin coffee? “I’m gonna get a coffee, but if the person comes out of the bathroom, you’re gonna come tap my shoulder on line (imitates tapping motion in air in case I don't 'get it'). Before I could answer he reached back, fumbled with his pants and freed a wedgie. Even worse. A number 2 emergency.

Luckily at that moment, the bathroom became free and he jumped in before I had to do anything else for him. But it left me wondering…was he the undercover boss and CEO of freaking Starbucks? Was he just some big wig with a penchant for coffee and telling people what to do? Or simply a victim—a poor, old man asking for more than I was willing to give. I’ll leave it to you, Dear Reader, to decide.