Sunday Morning Story

This morning, since Mom made tea instead of coffee, I thought I would run over to Jitter's before church. I also wanted to revel in the luxury of having a coffeeshop around the corner to go to, and a car to get to it in. I was aware that Sunday mornings can be a little busy, so I left fifteen minutes before I had to head out to church.

I walked in the door to confront a monumental line of middle-aged to older bicyclists. I knew that they were bicyclists because of their very bright windbreakers and black biking tights. Another tip-off was the conversation about the coach speaking to McMullen about his drafting method. I considered my options. I had no time to make coffee at home in the coffeepot, and my french press is already packed away. I could go to the coffeehouse closer to church, but then I wouldn't have time to actually drink it. I was stuck.

Just then, one of the bikers asked me if I could read the menu, as she didn't have her glasses. Apparently biking and glasses do not mix, and she was not the only one with this issue. I read aloud the breakfast sandwhich menu, complete with discriptions. Then I read the list of flavor shots, with half of the biking population hanging on my every word, asking me to repeat some things, and discussing various possibilities with their peers. For instance, can one substitue the criossant for a whole-wheat bagel? One by one they ordered their tailored combinations of breakfast sandwhiches and coffee, each choice as healthy as humanly possible in a coffeehouse.

I finally got up to the register and asked for my tall Italian Roast, black, my two dollars in hand. The woman apologizd and said that the Italian Roast was just out, but if I waited another five minutes she could brew a fresh pot. Since church was about to start in five minutes, and it was a ten minute drive, I settled for Columbian, and it took all of twenty seconds for her to pump the compromised coffee into my cup and slap a lid on it. On my way out I passed the table of bikers, all eating and chatting merrily, thanking me for my helpful, youthful eyes. And drinking the last of my Italian Roast.