Awhile back, Penny and I were in Jackson, and we stopped at Barnes & Noble on our way north. It was late, I was sleepy, and I needed some caffeine to make the trip home without falling asleep and crashing. For the life of me, I cannot remember the name of what my daughter gets me, so ordering that was out. As I approached the coffee shop (or whatever they call it), I did so with loads of trepidation. I decided to go to the magazine rack, which is nearby, and obliquely surveil the coffee shop from afar. I did that and saw a couple ordering for about eight minutes. I'm in trouble, I thought. I knew.
Finally, I got the nerve to make my way to the counter when the couple finally cleared out. "Can I help you?" the elderly lady asked. She's as old as I am, I thought, so she should understand my discomfort. Maybe she will be nice to me.
I looked at the menu. There were dozens of choices and words such at "mocha" and "lattee" and others that I didn't understand.
"Coffee," I answered. "Just coffee." I mean, I couldn't very well ask for "What my daughter buys me." Come to think of it, I would have been very happy had she given me a dart and let the cast that at the menu and whatever I hit, fix me that.
She just looked at me. I had seen this movie before. Remember French Camp?
"Can I just get coffee?"
After a few uneasy seconds she answered, "Well, not here. Over there," she pointed to some machines outside the counter. "You pay here, but fix it yourself over there."
Oh, I see. Being uncomfortable is not enough. You have to humiliate me and treat me like plebian for daring to ask for simple coffee. But I complied. I paid, then fixed my own coffee all by myself like a good boy.
Then superman left the store.
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