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NORTH JERSEY No Sugar?
"Medium, black, no sugar." "No sugar?" "No sugar." For years, this was an almost-daily conversation with the guy behind the counter at Wonder Bagels, a regular stop near the end of the drive to my Jersey City desk job. Every day, "No sugar." Every day, "No sugar?" Every day, "No sugar." It was truly annoying. Then, at some point, he started to remember my routine. Not only did he know enough to skip the sweet stuff, but he also always would ring up 50 cents for the New York Post, even before I picked it up off the rack. Although I never bothered to ask his name, I felt we were, I guess, acquaintances. That meant something to me. He was my coffee guy. I was his customer. He knew that I took it black, no sugar, with a healthy side of tabloid gossip. I knew that he knew that. Our interactions remained focused on the one thing we had in common - my order. There was an occasional quip about how predictable I was. There was some good-natured grumbling when I occasionally strayed from the routine, buying an extra newspaper, forcing him to recalculate my charge. I took comfort in this superficial banter. My coffee guy appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent. When the Post suddenly was filled with stories of Middle Eastern terrorists, Wonder Bagels put up an American flag. As I waited my turn among a gaggle of mostly white cops and construction workers, I wondered what my coffee guy thought we were thinking about him. None of us said anything about it. We continued with our pleasantries, as coffee guys and customers do. Then I bought a new car, so I switched my parking spot to a covered garage, which was a bit closer to the office. Though the new lot was just blocks from where I used to park, it changed my commute route enough that the daily respite at Wonder Bagels no longer was convenient. I had to find a new coffee guy. It was a trying transition. I turned my routine upside down, starting the drive with a stop at Starbucks in the lake-dotted suburb where I live. If Wonder Bagels was the coach of coffee shops, the Denville, NJ, Starbucks was an upgrade to a comfortably snooty first class. No New York Post. New York Times only. Few blue-collar types. Most instead sporting a business casual look. All waiting in a tidy line, winding around shelves of coffee-related gift items for sale, and tables where some sipped while tapping laptops. I was going to like it there. Starbucks was the proper place for this up-and-coming Internet production manager to be stopping for coffee every morning. I noticed other Starbucks patrons like me. Peers. Suburban men and women who on the surface appeared to be very similar to me, fueling up before diving into their busy day. They also appeared to enjoy the atmosphere: Smiling when they walked in the door, laughing while making small talk with the staff. Starbucks had a warm, earth-tone decor, enhanced by the rich aroma of gourmet beans. Instead of ordering my standard medium black, I indulged in lattes. Some little things about Starbucks started to bother me. Like when they overfilled my cup so it spilled when I put it in my car's cupholder. Wonder Bagels never did that. It rubbed me the wrong way when the cashier insisted on translating "medium" to "grande." It started to feel phony. I did not feel at home. I missed my coffee guy. One weekday morning, I left the house and soon after felt the usual need to caffeinate myself. In too much of a hurry to make an early morning meeting, I did not stop at Starbucks. Some 50 minutes later, in Jersey City, I badly needed my fix - so much that getting to work on time no longer was an issue. So I stepped into the Dunkin' Donuts across from the office. Chaos. A long, wide, unorganized line. More crowd than queue. A crew of behind-the-counter people shouting "May I help the next customer please!" - even though the customer in front of them had yet to receive their order. At first glance, the store had a get-'em-in, get-their-money, get-'em-out attitude. No style or personality whatsoever. This was the McDonald's of coffee shops. But Dunkin' Donuts coffee was good too. It came in a cute Styrofoam cup that looked and felt, well, warm - and that they never, ever overfilled. Better yet, I could get a fresh bran muffin with my order. And I could say "medium, black, no sugar," instead of "grande." And the woman taking my order said ... "No sugar?" I found myself skipping Starbucks and always stopping at Dunkin' Donuts. The manager, "Marva" - at least I think that's what her name tag said - started to recognize me. When she saw me coming, she would tell one of her employees "Medium, black," and she would ask me "Bran muffin today?" with a smile. Marva was running a tight ship. While her staff was not as refined as the Starbucks "baristas," they appeared to have a positive attitude and even to be enjoying their jobs. It felt good to think that my dollar or two was helping somebody who was working hard without feeling put-upon. I also noticed some other customers sharing smiles with Marva, even before they had taken their daily doses of caffeine and sugar. At some moments, I felt as if everybody in there was part of a little club of Jersey City Dunkin' Donuts regulars. That made me feel good, like I was a part of ... something. My whole life, pop culture has been telling me that I could find fulfillment in a cafe community. From the bar in "Cheers" to Central Perk in "Friends," TV has shown me that life is best when it revolves around a daily stop at a place outside the home where everybody knows my name, where everybody comfortably shares personal stories with each other, and where everybody is incredibly witty. In real life, I have found that, at least for me, that sort of place does not exist. There is my home. While I cherish my relationships with my wife and two children, the bulk of our exchanges are quick, often chaotic discussions about daily housekeeping, financial, consumer or parental tasks, between shifts of work, school, meals and sleep. We have to set aside time to focus on each other, to get to know each other, to be a family. That doesn't happen every day. It doesn't even happen every week. There is my extended family - parents, three siblings, grandparents. We are close and comfortable with each other, to varying degrees. We all maintain distances. We all have different comfort zones - unspoken, undefined, yet very real boundaries. Crossing them can be taxing, so it doesn't happen that often. There are colleagues who I speak with at length every day. I spend more hours interacting with some of them during the work week than I do with my wife. Regardless of our familiarity, the majority of these exchanges are a means towards fulfilling a job responsibility or a larger career goal. At work, I'm usually not eager to spend the limited time I have to get things done on deeper interactions. There are my closest friends, a handful of folks I mostly met at various stages of my education. Classmates from college, high school, elementary school, even kindergarten. When we get together, nothing whatsoever is out of bounds. But we are spread across the country, so group gatherings are infrequent. Most of our communications are via telephone or e-mail. There are neighbors. There are fellow parishioners in my church. There are the parents who bring their kids to my son's and daughter's birthday parties. I am connected with all of them. But I am also distanced from all of them. Because of how they act. Because of how I act. Mostly because I am sheepish about working to build relationships. What if they are not interested? What if they are overbearing? Do I really want to risk having to deal with that? Then there is the daily coffee shop visit. Dunkin' Donuts is always there, almost always the same. It gives me a warm, familiar, friendly feeling. Since the first java joints opened their doors in the 1600s, way back when people didn't spend their evenings on couches in front of TVs, coffee shops always have been social spots. Early American pub- and tavern-like coffee shops served both coffee and alcohol, and sometimes also included rooms for rent for the night. People went there to meet and mingle while listening to music, to play games, and to debate - temporarily stimulated by caffeine, or temporarily liberated by booze. The coffee shops of today continue to have social personalities, but for the most part, they are brief morning stops for tired people who are in a hurry. So why does my few minutes in Dunkin' Donuts every morning make me feel like I am a part of something special, albeit small, outside of myself? Maybe it says something about my level of self-confidence. Maybe I've matured to a point that I no longer am a slave to fake ambiance. I want to have a Dunkin' Donuts self-image. I want to be a regular Joe, just like everybody else. (Wait. I've been trapped by the Dunkin' Donuts marketing team. Sucker.) Maybe I associate Dunkin' Donuts with social engagement because the staff is well mannered and sometimes - as far as I can tell - superficially friendly, and because the place is crowded with happy people. While I think of myself as a part of that, and I want more of it, I am no closer to those people than I am to the sitcom characters Frasier Crane or Chandler Bing. I might as well be ordering my coffee from an ATM with a virtual smiling waitress on the screen. But it's easier than taking the risks that are required to expand and nurture real relationships. I recently started making my own coffee at home, and then sipping it out of a travel mug in the car on the way to work. No more Dunkin' Donuts. Last weekend, I ventured to Connecticut to spend the weekend at an old friend's house. This weekend, I'm hoping to see my brother and his kids in person. In a few weeks, I am going on a ski weekend with just my wife and kids. I am making a conscious effort to learn more about these people, to teach them more about me, to grow closer to them. I'm not even sure all of them are aware that I take my coffee black with no sugar. I just never liked the bother of fussing over my coffee. That says something about me. I'll have to make sure I tell them all that. 
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