The Fight

As SuperGirl and I finish up our lunch at a favorite Ethiopian restaurant to return to our respective corporate dungeons, we agree to cap things off by going to the nearby Starbucks. Since we were in a small rush, we hit the drive-thru to save time. And that’s exactly the time I should have listened to my gut.

See, I order the same thing every time, so drive-thru or not, I’m not phased by the menu. SuperGirl is a little more complicated. Even though she has been to Starbucks a million times (“a million”, you wonder? YEAH, a million), she can’t quite grasp the nuance of no-fat, low-fat, soy, 1% and 2% milk (who can really).

I’m usually very patient while she interrogates the local barista on the variances and complexities of java, froth and everything in between. I usually take this time to look around at what $50 a share buys you, and also marvel at the would-be screenwriters of tomorrow, hammering away on their notebooks.

That she has already gone through this song and dance with other baristas, at other Starbucks is not as bothersome as you and I might think since it gives me the chance to really appreciate the astounding number of writers living on 4$ milk shakes.

This routine, however, simply cannot hold-up in a drive-thru. For one, the intercom system is designed for monosyllabic dialogue with absolutely no room for informative Q&A. The drive-thru at Starbucks is for people who know what they need, and have achieved a fluency of intercomespeak that enables them to order their mélange efficiently and move right along to their next destination. Heck, they don’t even make you sign your credit card receipt anymore. That’s the level of ‘get-em-in, get-em out’ they’ve managed.

I order my “Grande, Soy, Caramel Macchiato” reload, and ready to echo SuperGirl’s order. Suddenly she begins to engage the voice behind the intercom in an inaudible exchange of “how many calories are in ”.

Granted, it’s not quite like talking to NetGear support in Bangalore, but it’s very very close. I can’t figure out what the intercom is saying, and the intercom can’t figure out what SuperGirl’s objectives are, much less hear her from the passenger side.

I instantly freak-out and tell SuperGirl to get her shit together, then yell at the Intercom for no reason, telling him that we’re driving-up to the window to order mano-a-mano.

Next, I do what any enraged man would do: I accelerate to 30mph and haul to the window. In an equal show of maturity, SuperGirl invokes the silent treatment, refusing to talk even to the visibly horrified window-barista.

The ‘Omerta’ lasts until today, when she finally tells me that I need to work on my temper. I tell her that I will work on my temper if she takes the Starbucks New Hire Orientation class.

We agree to disagree, and since she’s too beautiful to stay mad at too long, we kiss and make up.