Starbucks is a good a place as any to order a crappy tasting bean-juice. It may be one of the better places to do so, in fact. I walk to the till and say “Hi.”

The barista says “How can I help you?”

I asked “How are you?”

She stares at me blankly. She’s confused. Annoyed, she replies “I’m good, how can I help you?”

I get the hint.

“Grande americano, please.”

“That’s it?”

I have a strong desire to be belligerent too. “Sure.” I say it slowly like I’m not so sure.

“Anything to eat today?” She continues. She’s a badger and I’m her prey.

“How much for the coffee?” I ask with a big grin on my face. I’m no prey, I tell myself as I put on a brave mask.

“$3.40” She says, I’m surprised she doesn’t just point to the till.

She hands me my change and says “Any room for cream?”

“No thank you.”

“Name?”

She’s annoyed so I decide to keep it going. “Name?” I say back like I haven’t heard her correctly.

“Yeah, name?” She holds the cup up and shows me her sharpie. It’s a desperate attempt to catch me up to speed.

“Oh, name.” I nod my head proudly.

“Yeah. Name.”

I tell her my name. She scribbles and looks to the side, “Next.”

I laugh because the drink could have been ready if we didn’t need to do this dance. It went sideways when I asked how she was doing. When did that become a bad thing?

Not surprisingly, my name is spelled correctly on the cup. My coffee cup picture isn’t going viral anytime soon.