Czarbucks: A Dream Come True
by Hollee Lambert

I walk into my neighborhood Starbucks, just footsteps from my apartment building. I have decided to come here today because it is raining, and I am just feeling too lazy to walk the extra five blocks to the locally owned overly-pretentious coffee haven I normally patronize. As soon as I step in the double doors with the fashionable matted metal handles, I am transported into a different dimension. Over-stuffed purple velvet couches and chairs, subtle warm lighting, rich but muted tones of sienna and moss covering the walls, raw wooden frames surrounding images of stylized steaming cups of coffee. "I wish my living room looked more like this," I say to myself. And then it hits me. I am a victim.

I browse the selection of coffee mugs and other paraphernalia displayed neatly on the mahogany shelving units. I think of my own coffee mug, a ruin in the aftermath of the 80's displaying the joke "What does it take to do the job of three men?" and the reply, "One Woman." Awful, I know, but why do I use it? Plainly put, it is perfectly functional. I feel guilty about my out of date coffee mug and peruse the racks for a new one. Finding a suitably hip container, I pick it up and glance at the price tag. Then I put it back, never to question the coolness of my mug again.

I dodge a few caffeinated customers, cruising past with steaming paper cups of freshly brewed black stuff, and walk to the counter. There is a buzz in this place, the drone of conversation and the carefully selected music. I look to my left and there is a sample container of the CD that they are playing. The cashier sees my glance and says "Our new CD is on sale today, only $14.99." "Only?" I think to myself, but reply promptly, "No thanks. Really." I look up at the menu and she asks me, "What can we get for you today?" We? The collective Starbuckians. I tell her I am going to purchase some beans, and I ask her what is dark. She points to the menu and says, "Those." I ask her what she suggests and she says, "I don't drink coffee." Helpful. I randomly select some beans from Guatemala, or Ethiopia, or somewhere and I am then informed that I get a free drink with my purchase. I order a double tall latte and proceed to pay her. She then asks if I would like to donate some money to some charitable cause. I say no, and that they can take some money out of the 1000% profit they make on my purchase. She smirks at me and I walk over to the bar to wait for my drink.

"DOUBLE TALL LATT-AYYYYYYY!" the woman shrieks although I am standing mere inches from her, not to mention I am the only person standing mere inches from her. "Uh.....Thanks," I say. I turn away from the counter, beans and cup in hand, and the room starts to shift. The previous hum seems to grind to a halt, and then resumes to twelve times the volume, as I observe the environment around me. I am motionless. I feel as though I am getting smaller. Shrinking. I look around at the other customers and none of them seems to notice this. But there is something wrong with them. They all look exactly the same! Everyone is wearing black. All the men have that same 90210 haircut with sideburns, the women have the "Friends" layered look going with barrettes carefully placed to the left or right to look haphazard. The room is awash with synthetic fibers and unusually tall platform shoes and I feel as though I have stumbled into a Gap commercial. I look down at my own clothes, looking more like pajamas, and my shoes, trusty old flip flops. I listen as the music changes to a more upbeat and recently popularized Big Band song. I catch bits of conversation, if you can call it that, where these pod people are muttering a glossary of coffee words over and over again. All I can hear is "Coffee, Latte, Mocha, Skinny, Tall, Frappucino!" Now I start to panic.

I try to run, but my legs are frozen. I try to scream but all that comes out is "Double Tall Latte!" and it's not even my own voice! It's the voice of that woman who does the Calvin Klein perfume commercials. All of a sudden the coffee clones rise from their seats and assemble in pairs. They start chanting "Starbucks, Starbucks, Starbucks," over and over again to the beat of the music and they all start to swing dance. Unfortunately, they don't know how. A platform sandal bee lines for my head and I duck. I can move!!! A Jennifer Anniston look alike gets thrown in to the air with a "Weeeeeeeee!!!" and comes flailing to the ground with an anti-climactic thud. One of the Brandon Walsh's tries to swing his partner through his legs and winds up sterile in a huddled ball on the floor. It's a mess! I start to work my way to the door, hopping over freshly tanned legs and arms, slipping on spilled mochas and crumbled scones. I toss my just purchased beans and beverage into the garbage can and continue towards the door, which seems to be moving further away the closer I get to it. I hear things from the pile of bodies as I struggle to door, "I only wear Tommy Jeans," and "Oh that's SO retro!" I feel sick to my stomach but push onward towards the exit. Almost there, I say to myself, Just three more steps...

I feel a hand grab my ankle and I instinctively try to shake it off. I turn and look down to see Kate Moss in a tangled mess on the ground. She begs me to feed her, screaming "Hunger, For Women!" and I give her a half-eaten cranberry walnut muffin from a pile of pastries on the floor. I lunge for the door and grab the stylish metal handle, which turns into a devilish dollar sign with teeth attempting to make a meal of my fingers. I recoil. Seeing no alternative, I hurl myself through the door sending splinters of glass everywhere in slow motion, and I seem to be floating through the air, almost suspended. The sound of the music starts to skip like a broken record and the chanting of the customer's fades to a whisper. And then I wake up.

I roll over and bang the snooze button on the clock radio. Alex nuzzles up against me and sheepishly asks, "Baby, Will you make some coffee, please?" I stare at him blankly. I get up and proceed to the kitchen where my cheesy coffee mug awaits, crusted with yesterdays addiction. That's what it is. Caffeine is the socially acceptable chemical dependency of the 90's. It's not this that bothers me so much as the crazy profit this mega-chain coffee retailer is making on the product. Although it is absurd to spend so much money on a beverage in the first place, I would rather see my dollar go into the local economy than into the greedy hands of big business.
The other thing that troubles me about Starbucks is that they are ALL exactly the same. They provide a consistently hip bubble like environment, no doubt the result of ceaseless market research. The service is mildly friendly in that I'm-far-superior-to-you way, the product is middle-of-the-road, just like the customers, and the staff are underpaid and over worked. No wonder they have such angst, and here I thought it was because of the ugly aprons.

Starbucks is the McDonalds of the new millenium. They seem to be taking over the world. Here in Vancouver, there's a corner on Robson Street where there are two Starbucks diagonally across from each other. Is this really necessary? When they first came into the market in New York City, Starbucks aimed to make it so that it was closer to walk to one of their stores than to any other coffee shop. Well, they have just about achieved it, seeing as there are over 150 locations in the tri-state area. I wonder how many McDonalds there are in that same area. I also often wonder how many small, locally owned coffee shops have been driven out of business due to the increasing numbers of Starbucks establishments. More and more we are provided with no alternative, because no matter where you are in many major cities, it is closer to walk to a Starbucks than anywhere else. Bravo.

Although there is a Starbucks right around the corner from where I live, I will continue to walk past it on my way to buy coffee at the locally owned café further down the road. Often I will look in the window and sigh, feeling sorry for the herd of coffee crazed caffeine junkies inside. They are victims of good marketing in a generic society where everyone wants what is "in", but increasingly no one will walk the extra block for quality and loyalty to local businesses. McLatté anyone?