That's Life: Starbuck's Soothsayer

Issue of July 3, 2009 / 11 Tammuz 5769

Dear That’s Life,

It’s no wonder so much of my life happens at Starbuck’s: I drink too much coffee. But do not panic: it is all decaf.

Pulling up to a Starbuck’s out of the area, I noticed a gentleman without legs wheeling himself up a slight incline to the front door in his wheelchair.  Having just parked, I tried to make it to the door before he did so I could hold the door for him, but to no avail –– I simply am not in the shape I used to be.

I still tried, however, to get the door for him and I can only imagine the scene inside the coffeehouse as the pregnant woman and the man with the disability fought over who would hold the door for whom. Finally, I lost. He just would not hear of it.

“So, chivalry is not dead?” I asked him. “Definitely not,” he replied and even after I was safely in the store, although I could reach the handle of the door and return the favor, he would not hear of it. I held up my white flag and officially surrendered. He had won.

I ordered my drink and then told the barista I would pay for his drink as well, so she should please take his order and then tack it on to my bill. She smiled and took his order, after which she let the gentleman know that his drink was on me. He thanked me and I smiled, for, after all, it was the least I could do.

Drink in hand, I headed for the door when he stopped me. “Listen,” he said.  “You’re having a girl.” Completely taken aback, I said, “That’s funny. Most people in the universe seem to disagree with you.” Shaking his head, he said, “I am 35 and ‘0’ –– I have never been wrong.”

Talk about confident, he then proceeded to name with absolute certainty what he knew would be the baby’s astrological sign, confirming my due date –– without any hint or actual verbal confirmation from me. But how could I confirm anything? I was too busy being speechless.

Iced coffee and a strange encounter with a complete stranger –– that sure is full service.

MLW

Dear That’s Life,

Dare I say that I will be the only one to mention Michael Jackson’s death in this newspaper?

No, I did not go to the Apollo Theatre and sign a memorial nor did I shed a single tear over the Gloved One’s passing. But I was one of the millions of Americans who listened to the seemingly endless airing of his music on the day after his death simply because that was all that was on the radio. I cannot remember listening to “Billy Jean,” collectively, as many times in the 80s as I did on Friday alone, nor did I ever think I would be texting lyrics of his songs back and forth to friends.

The impact of his death proved to be completely generational, however, at least in my family. I listened to this music when I was a kid and so did my friends. Before the weird factor was a factor, his music was just good. My kids, however, could not have cared less nor did they appreciate the worldwide mourning underway.

Yet another MJ song was playing when my daughter got into the car. She heard the voice on the radio and asked, “Is this Michelle Jackson?” Clearly, she was responding to what she heard. “That’s MICHAEL Jackson,” I told her, appreciating her innocent question. “Oh!” she said, as the song progressed. “I didn’t realize Michael Jackson sang songs and played basketball.” Thrown off for a second but then quickly regaining my footing, I replied, “No, sweetie, that’s Michael Jordan.”

Man, I am old.

MLW

P.S. Farrah, who?