Splatter Distance from Liberty Valence

splatter distance
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There is no room for error in my commute. My office is a Canada's distance away from the train and it takes a good 15 minute hustle to get from point A to B. This is after an already lengthy two train commute. If there's a lazy Purple Line moseying on the tracks, or a slow barista is instructed to make a pumpkin spice frappalatte (I'm not making that up), before I can order my coffee, that 15 minute trek has to be reduced to 7 or less.

Which is what happened today. I had 20 minutes to skip-to-my-lou-my-darling before I had to be in the office. That meant I had five minutes to invest in a non-Folgers caffeine fix at the local coffee brew-ha-ha. The one place that I've been frequenting, which won me over because I am easily swayed by a "Tenth Cup Free" punch card, is not known for their speedy pace in coffee preparation. As much as I snobbishly prefer an establishment that offers Metropolis/Intelligentsia brands over Starfucks, I gotta hand it to the Corporate Cup o' Joe chain for their fast food efficiency. I am spoiled by the immediacy and I demand it, America.

But I couldn't demand it today. I peered in the window and saw two people ahead of me. I took a deep breath and decided to take the risk for the much needed caffeine fix. Before me was a mom toting a cabbage baby (not a Cabbage Patch baby doll, but a baby that kinda looked like a cabbage) and was doing everyone a favor by ordering half the menu. Next was the lady who said "she was in a hurry" and yet decided to order a coffee equivalent of a banana split sundae. Okay. Deep breath, check the time, I now had ten minutes to haul ass to work...

I stepped up and stared at the the girl who was going to make my dream a reality. We were in this together. We would work as a team and it was up to us to pass the baton effectively.

"I'll have a medium coffee and a banana."
"2.72."
"Thanks."

Boom. Fuck y'all, this is how I roll. I glared at the mom who was trying to instruct her cabbage baby not to eat the biscotte wrapped in plastic and exited with nine minutes to spare.

Nine minutes? Fuck. Nine minutes equaled "gotta book it" pace.

I had to run. You'd think that if I walked to the office it wouldn't be a big deal. I'd show up, what, maybe five minutes late? No reason to shit, right? Thing is, I've played my tardy card so many times at this job I was offered the role of Corky in a "Life Goes On" spin off. (Cue politically incorrect rim shot.) I couldn't be late.

I had to run with a cup of coffee in my hand. I am a moron who likes good coffee and apparently am willing to suffer to get a sip of some. Please, someone invent (and then give me credit) a travel mug for when you're running late to work and also running to work late. Wait, that's just a thermos. Okay, problem solved, nevermind. My Grande became a Tall, then the Tall became a Short, then the Short to Shot as the liquid splashed out of the cup. I looked like I just attended a coffee tasting at a Gwar show or was training Gallagher on his first day as a barista.

But I made it on time. Scalded hands and Jackson Pollack'd pants and all.