Saturday, 06:26 AM. Three minutes before opening time. The door is locked. So, noticing the pleasant contrast of the warm colors of the illuminated interior to the cool gray exterior I raise my Nikon, compose, focus, and press the shutter button.
I’m about to reframe and shoot again, but I catch a movement in the corner of my eye. It’s a Starbucks clerk, waving her arms, talking. I go close to the door. She repeats something but through the thick glass I can’t make it out. I point to my ear, shake my head.
She shouts: “You can’t take pictures of this store. It’s not allowed.”
“Okay,” I say. “But I want to come in for coffee. It’s six thirty.”
To emphasize, I tap my forefinger on my wristwatch. “It’s time.”
“Give me a SECOND, okay?” she says, annoyed.
I sat at a table, fired up my laptop. Sipped my coffee. That clerk who forbade me to take pictures then turned on the sound system. It played a lively, enthusiastic commercial for the Starbucks sound channel. Way too loud. And then she set to work slamming big plastic dishwasher racks onto a wheeled cart, one after another.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang, BANG.
I flashed her a disapproving glance. She saw my annoyance, and banged those racks even louder.