Flight or Flight

I don’t go downtown often, only a few times a month to do laundry. When I do I like to walk around town and stop in the little hipster tea house on Hall Street. It’s a little overpriced, but I like to shop local when I can. I usually get a chai tea, hot or iced depending on the weather. This day I felt like trying something new.

The tea house is in an old converted building made of old wooden beams. Everything is slightly tilted or warped. There’s barely enough room inside for the counter and a row of benches and small tables along the wall. If anyone pulls up a chair to one of the tables they risk cutting off the line to the counter. It doesn’t feel too cramped though, on account of the two huge bay windows that flood the whole place with lots of natural sunlight.

There’s a young person in nearly every seat. I see a lot of beards, scarves, handmade crochet bags, and colorful dreadlocks. Mismatched mugs and crumb covered saucers litter the tables. Everyone has a laptop, everyone is wearing earbuds. I wonder what reason they have to come here, except for maybe the free wi-fi. They certainly aren’t here to socialize. I tried bringing my writing here once and found it terrible distracting.

I stand in line behind a guy with shoulder length brown hair. He wears a black t-shirt with lots of writing on it, probably tour dates. I don’t read it though, there are other things to look at.

The chalkboard lists the prices for different specialty drinks with clever names like “Immuni-tea,” “Pom Bomb Blackberry,” and “Molly’s Dirt Bird” That one lists itself as chai with chocolate, espresso, and cayenne pepper. A new twist on an old favorite, I’ll give that a try.

My turn comes at the register I say I’ll try the “Dirt Bird” Iced, small please. Great, $4 even. Here’s a five, keep the change. Like I said, overpriced.

While they make my tea I have some time to look around. I don’t notice where band tee guy went. The tea house hangs local artists works on the walls with price tags and web addresses for online portfolios. The art is always interesting. I don’t know why, but modern artists seem to embrace a philosophy that “The uglier it is, the more it means.” This month’s artist clearly follows that philosophy.

A sickly pepto pink is a prominent color, and unflattering up-the-nose portraits a favorite subject. Dismembered body parts slapped back together haphazardly. A woven rug stuffed with every slightly occult symbol the artist could think of: the all seeing eye, a pentagram, a pokeball. I’m sure it all has terrible and deep meaning about commercialism or human nature or something. I just see rubbish with a $500 price tag.

“Dirty chai, medium hot!” I thank the woman and take a tentative sip of the frothy cream on top. It’s bitter, I taste the chocolate but not the pepper. Maybe once I get past the froth I’ll get the whole flavor. I turn to grab a lid by the door, and that’s when I remember. I ordered iced. A small iced. This isn’t my drink.

I’m not embarrassed. Oh no, this is pure terror. It must be band-tee’s drink. The blood drains from my face, my stomach jumps up to my throat. Keep moving, I hear myself think. Keep moving like nothing happened, like you didn’t notice. Get the lid, then run. I take the two steps to the lid table and grab one as quickly as my shaking hand will allow. I end up with two. I pry them apart. Put the lid on. Press down. Harder. It clicks into place. Two more steps, I’m out the door and I don’t look back.

If someone comes after me, what do I say? “Oh no, I’m sorry! I thought they just got my order wrong!” Or the whole truth, that’s the best policy right? “Oh yeah, I realized as soon as I took a sip but I figured if I got out of there no one would notice until your drink was wrong and they’d just make you a new one. I mean, you didn’t want it after I sipped from it, right?” For all I know he was standing right there, staring incredulously as I boldly stole his tea right from under his nose.

As I flee I keep my eyes focused on the sidewalk in front of me. Once I’ve walked for two blocks and crossed the main road I risk a glance back. No one there, no angry customer, no mob with pitchforks, no one. I sigh in relief.

Gradually I come down off my adrenaline rush. I behaved correctly, didn’t I? He wasn’t going to want it once I sipped from it, right? Besides, I’m sure this kind of thing happens all the time. They must have made him another. Or he accepted that he got the wrong drink. Besides, I paid $5 for this, it’s not like I don’t deserve a medium.

Then another thought occurs to me. That could have been one of those “meet-cute” things like I read about online.

“How did you guys meet?” They’d ask “Oh, she stole my tea at the tea house around the corner. She was so embarrassed, it was adorable.” He’d reply and put his arm around me. I roll my eyes at myself. Well there goes another shot at true love that I ruined.

Maybe I could have at least admitted my mistake and paid the difference. That never occurred to me, my instinct was to flee and that was that. I just can’t be a food stealer. If I were to grab someone else’s dry cleaning I could handle that rationally. Oh, sure it was an honest mistake. I might even laugh about it. Food and drink though? Terror. Pure abject terror. I can’t be the one who stole someone’s latte. Not me. Not the fat chick.

Will the staff remember me? I’ve been in there plenty of times but I never made small talk or anything. Even so I think the blonde with the big glasses recognizes me. Am I ashamed enough to never return? Will they ask me to pay the difference when I do? Maybe they’ll pin up a polaroid of me to the wall behind the counter with a “Banned for Life” sign above it. I mean, polaroids are cool and retro now, I could see that happening.

While I was turning these thoughts over in my head my feet carried me back to the laundromat. The tea is luke-warm and half gone. I barely remember drinking it. It wasn’t even that good.