I started the morning working at J.C. Beans, my favorite Southern California coffee shop.
If one were to make a checklist of quality cafes, J.C. Beans meets ’em all. Clean. Cozy. Temperature controlled. Indoor-outdoor seating. Cool music. Cool music that’s not too loud. Excellent drinks. Healthy food.
Great.
And I was happy. And productive. Drinking, writing. Writing, drinking.
And then, a barista showed up to start his shift.
And he began to whistle.
And whistle.
And whistle.
And whistle.
And whistle.
It was painfully annoying. Nails on a chalkboard. A broken house alarm at 3 am. Fran Drescher singing Laura Branigan. He whistled and whistled and whistled, and he looked so happy doing so. But … it was the worst. And I wanted to ask him to refrain from whistling. But who asks a happy guy to refrain from whistling? I mean, save for punching a flower salesman, you couldn’t do a more dickish thing on a sunny Friday afternoon.
So now I’m in Starbucks.
