I sat in Starbucks one evening enjoying my Pumpkin Spice latte with soy.  Sitting in the very uncomfortable metal chairs, a group of Somalian men walked in. “Hey guys how are you doing this evening?” Said the overly friendly barista.

I hated the fact that she was so happy. It was like she is required to take an adrenalin shot straight to the heart before her shift.

The men stood around and ordered five Grande black coffees. They spoke in hushed tones. I couldn’t understand their language. The men seemed to be regulars here, they walked out to a table on the patio and sat around talking about who knows what. The wonders of the universe perhaps?

The chairs were hard, it’s as if they don’t want you to stay long. The environment in general is cold. “Get your coffee and get out” is the vibe I got this evening. But I refused the vibe. I continued to stay.

People keep filtering in and out once they get their bags of coffee. Old western music starts playing through the speakers and the lights dim. An all-new vibe settles in, a welcoming vibe. “Come, stay a while, tell me about your day.”

More and more regulars started to come in. “Hey, Matt! How are you today? Tall black coffee with two shots of espresso right?” The barista asked. Her whole attitude changed. This Matt nodded silently.  He went onto the patio and sat in a chair that fitted perfectly to his body. He took out a crossword puzzle and a box of Camels. This Matt lit the cigarette. I could almost taste the first drag of nicotine as he inhales. This man was very interesting.

I began to think about all of the different types customer they serve. The businessmen and woman in the morning, stay at home moms and elderly people in the late morning. The couples who met for coffee in the afternoon, friends, and loner college students who appear to be doing their homework until the evening all of them flocked to this chain coffee shop.

It almost appeared as a small town bar. Where everybody knows everyone and their life story.

Donna Summers played over the speakers. A more bluesy type of feel filled the lobby. It was almost like a real coffee house now. All they needed was a stage and a barstool in the center with a spot light shinning down upon the empty stool. If only there was a barstool, it would fulfill all the requirements of a cliché coffee house.

“Can I get you a refill miss?” A man asked. I didn’t realize he was asking me until he asked again. “Miss?” I came out of my trance of my computer screen. “Oh, sure. Pumpkin Spice Latte, with soy please.” I respond with a smile.  I handed the barista my member card. At that moment,

I realized that I am a regular. Just like this Matt man who came in earlier. Who must’ve been on his third or forth cigarette. I’m one of those people who get mad at the people who don’t understand how to order, or say the words correctly.