What really chaps my ass is how much volunteering I’ve done lately with organizations that help women on parole. As part of my efforts, I’ve been teaching computer skills to women in a halfway house. At first the ladies just wanted me to help navigate Facebook so they could find old boyfriends, but after they began to trust me, they let me see their résumés. I’ve done some creative writing in my time, but I’m stretched to an entirely new level when tasked with explaining an eight-year gap in employment history. [Ten were it not for good behavior.]
The thing is, I really enjoyed working with the women. I coached them on job skills and we worked on interview questions. I tried to make them feel empowered and confident, helping them recognize the positive things they’ve done in their lives. As we spent more time together, I wondered exactly how much of their crimes stemmed from poor choices and how many were due to being in the wrong place or getting involved with the wrong man. As far as I was concerned, they paid their debt to society and helping them transition back into it felt like I was making a difference.
Yet with this one instance, I suddenly question all the times I’ve been at the halfway house and I wonder if some of these women weren’t smiling politely while wondering how they’d look wearing my pearls or driving my car. I’m so angry that an ex-felon, likely one who’s gone through the exact kind of program where I’ve been coaching, let herself into my locked gate and thumped my front door that I’m not sure I want to continue working with the program. Suddenly, I feel a whole lot less charitable, like my efforts have been for nothing.
Afterward, while Fletch gets ready for bed, I sit on the side of the tub and keep him company. As we conduct a postmortem of the event, we discuss how it feels like society has gone downhill since we were kids. Growing up, I couldn’t even fathom the idea of a potential home invasion. The greatest crime I could name back then was that Brooke Shields didn’t personally respond to my fan mail.
Okay, technically I wrote to extend the hand of friendship… and also hit her up for some free Calvin Klein jeans, but still, I’m sure she had plenty to spare and my letters were charming. [People were just being polite about the unibrow, honey. If you’d have responded to me, as your real friend, I’d have told you the truth.]
While we chat, it occurs to me what the catalyst has been for our societal slide.
“You know who started this whole downward spiral?” I query.
“Um… Liberals fighting with conservatives?” He’s just finished washing his face and I hand him a towel.
“Nope.”
“The Cold War?”
“Guess again.”
“The implosion of the subprime lending market?”
“Bzzt. One more guess.”
“Ted Turner’s introduction of the twenty-four-hour news cycle?”
“You’re never going to guess because the answer is Starbucks. Our downward spiral can neatly be placed at the feet of Starbucks.”
Don’t get your lattes in a bunch—please understand that I have nothing but admiration for how the Starbucks Corporation runs their business. I respect their use of Fair Trade products, their concerns for the environment, and their groundbreaking efforts to provide benefits for part-time employees. That shit changes lives, you know? And I adore Starbucks’ consistently high-quality products so much that at any given time my blood type is Iced Caramel Macchiato with Two Splendas. [Unless it’s Gingerbread or Pumpkin Spice Latte season, of course.]
Fletch loads up his Sonicare with toothpaste. “This should be good. Continue.”
“Starbucks has high operating costs because they’re paying out a lot of money for health insurance. Just imagine how many of their employees need MRIs after helmetless bike accidents and how much they must shell out on antibiotics for piercings gone awry. Not cheap, right? That’s why they’re charging four dollars for a cup of coffee. Overhead, baby, overhead.”
Through a mouthful of foam he asks, “How does this relate to a couple of tweakers scaling our fence?”
“Ah, I’m glad you asked. See, the consumer is willing to shell out four bucks for delicious coffee because it is delicious.”
He gives me an odd look in the mirror. “Did you already take your Ambien?”
“Shut up, and no, I’m doing that right now.” I wash down my Ambien with a quick sip from his water glass. “I’m high on Vitamin A—adrenaline. Tell you what, those tweakers are lucky my shovel wasn’t handy. ANYWAY, when people drop four dollars on a cup o’ joe, they’re way less likely to throw it away when they head into previously beverage-free bastions like stores, churches, classrooms, what have you.”
Fletch blinks in a manner that I interpret as encouragement. I continue. “My theory is that our compulsive Starbucks consumption prompted us to stop following the ‘No Food or Drinks’ rule. Now here’s where it gets tricky—”
He spits and rinses, blotting his mouth with a towel. “I’m all ears.”
“The issue is that the no food or drinks tenet has been just as much of a societal pillar as other biggies like ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’ and ‘Respect the Sabbath’ and ‘No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service.’ So my point is that being allowed to circumvent one of the very basic rules of society has opened the gateway to our growing more lax in all things moral, ethical, and legal.”
“Is this the kind of thing you do after I go to bed? I always suspected you were up late looking at LOLCats or Real Housewife gossip, but clearly you’ve been hitting conspiracy theory Web sites.”
He exits the bathroom and heads into his closet, returning with a pair of SpongeBob-print pajama bottoms. If our tweakers arrived five minutes later, I
