cynthia

Sure sign you're becoming a fixture at Starbucks: The barrista smiles, says, "Hi Cynthia!" and holds up a paper cup with my name and the only Starbucks drink I know (grande mocha) already written on the side. "I think this means I'm coming in here too much," I joke. "No," she retorts, "It means I have a good memory." Starbucks, though, is joining my pantheon of favorite people-watching places. Hanging out in there, waiting for my order, is almost as good as watching a movie.

The man walking into the crowded Starbucks this morning looked out of place. He'd tucked his mud-spattered Ford pickup neatly in between a BMW and a Lexus, strode casually to the front door...and held it open for three different women. "After you, ma'am....ma'am...ma'am..." I found myself wondering if he was for real. He wore workaday cowboy boots, not the fancy kind with stitches and metal trim, but the well-worn kind you usually see home, home on the range. His plain black cowboy hat flashed a greasy sweatband when he took it off, and he was clad in unfashionably dark jeans, flannel shirt and a mended jacket.

"You want a nice pedicure?" Jimmy called to the man standing in the doorway, and laughed. The man smiled faintly, primly, and shook his head. He stood there in full preppie regalia, well-groomed in a fashionably tailored white shirt, tie and dark, neatly pressed slacks. His iPhone was wrapped in a leather case, black to match his polished shoes; he carefully pulled out the earbuds and coiled them into a matching case, slipped the whole assembly into his pocket. He stepped inside the nailshop, and one of the girls bounced up to meet him. "Hi, hi," she greeted, and he slipped out of his sportcoat and handed it to her, "Ready for your haircut?"