Adam Dorsey.com

Tipping for Quality

I wrote this today, but it is fiction, because I had a really good cup of a coffee.

I go to put a dollar in the jar, but then my hand hesitates. I remember that godawful mocha in that Shitbucks on La Cienega. I tipped there. I tipped before tasting, you know, which is the norm, but it’s a stupid norm. I felt so guilty having tipped—I feel so guilty still, today—because maybe my single dollar-bill and loose change encouraged that barista to keep barista-ing. I mean, it tasted like Yoohoo squeezed from Satan’s anus, someone should have been fired over that fucking mocha.

The dollar is already out, though. Do I put in the dollar? What else do I do, I mean, keep it until I taste the coffee? She’s cute. That shouldn’t matter, but it does. So maybe the dollar doesn’t matter. Maybe the coffee doesn’t matter. —No! Eff that, this is L.A., everyone is cute, the hard part is finding a good cup of coffee. I’ve even tipped dudes down here because they make a good cup of coffee, and I mean, that goes against everything I believe in.

Oh god, she thinks I’m stealing this dollar. My hand is literally in the cookie jar. What facial expression do I flash to make her aware that I’m not taking this money, but instead putting it in? Well, not putting it in, but thinking about putting it in—ultimately taking it out, but thinking about putting it in. Oh god, I’m sexualizing this, aren’t I?

I drop the dollar in and smile. She gives me a fake-smile and passes me my mocha. It’s a pretty smile. Maybe I can keep coming back here. Maybe I can ask her out. Did that smile mean something? Maybe it was a fake-smile because her mind was so busy thinking about me putting my tip into her tip jar, then taking my tip out of her tip jar, then putting my tip back in her tip jar, over and over again. Yeah…

I smile at her again. I take a sip. BLSHFSFD! A spit the coffee all over the clean white floor. Why is Satan drinking so much Yoohoo and then selling his concentrated shit to Los Angeles area coffee shops? Fuck this town.

Pissing on Starbucks

The Starbucks on Melrose should be my main Starbucks. They have competent baristas. There is a lot of seating inside, and a nice bar area so that I don’t feel bad taking up a whole table with my lonesome self. There’s also lots of seating outside, so I can properly enjoy the omnipresent Southern California sunshine, while basking in the eclectic denizens of Melrose Avenue.

It should be my main Starbucks, but it’s not. Why not?

Because the Melrose Starbucks doesn’t have a bathroom.

I found this out one day, after drinking a grande unsweetened shaken green tea. I had to speed-walk home before I pissed myself. It was all kinds of painful. I almost didn’t make it. In their defense, I have a bladder the size of an infant. Not the size of an infant, but the size of an infant’s bladder. I mean, my bladder isn’t the size of an 8-pound baby. I just—I can’t hold it for very long. So when I drink a coffee, I’m probably going to have to go afterwards.

But that’s the point. If you sell me a coffee, you should be legally forced to provide an outlet with which I can expel it. You provide a chair for me to sit in, you provide a table for me to hold my drink, it should be mandatory for you to provide a toilet as well.

When I acted surprised that there was no bathroom, a barista informed me that besides sit-down restaurants, none of the places on Melrose have bathrooms. I understand the issue, okay, that not all of the occupants of Melrose Ave—despite how Heather Locklear and Courtney Thorne-Smith depicted them—are the sorts that would use a public restroom responsibly. I understand this.

But give me a key. Give me a code on my receipt that unlocks a combination lock. Give me a public restroom nearby that is kept semi-clean from the donations of neighboring businesses. But I mean, Jesus Christ, let me piss somewhere.

It’s hurting your business. I want to come lounge at your cafe. I want to have a coffee and a danish and maybe even an iced tea after all of that. I want to tip your baristas. Basically, you have a great place for me to go work, and I’m a shy/embarrassed dude who will pay you to sit there. But I need a bathroom.

As it is, I swing by, I get a coffee, I sit for five minutes, and then I leave. And I will go to other places besides you if I can. This is how my main Starbucks became the one at 8000 Sunset. They only have two tiny tables inside, and half the time the coffee is awful, but they have seating outside and there is a public restroom in the complex.

So, Melrose Starbucks, I like you. You could be my main Starbucks. But you have to get a bathroom. Seriously. Or one day I’m pissing on the side of your building.

And yes, elitists: I have a local, independent cafe that I go to most of the time. But sometimes I just want my super-sweet decaf grande peppermint mocha with whip. Sometimes I want some shitty iced tea. So sometimes I need a main Starbucks.