[dropcap]O[/dropcap]ccasionally, I go to Starbucks. Not for the coffee, but for my own cultural awareness. I’m curious really. Curious about why some young tourists wear stocking caps during the height of spring.
I stood in line, watching twenty people play with their phones. Two high school girls behind me giggled and carried on, their arms outstretched, making contorted faces at their cameras. Then, one of the girls tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I would take their picture. I reluctantly conceded. After a brief lesson on how to operate her contraption, I snapped two photos, and handed the phone back to her.
“No, we’re not done,” she insisted. “Could you take a frickin’-slap-ton more?”
Being unfamiliar with how many a frickin’-slap-ton was exactly, I complied, and snapped nearly a dozen.
“How ’bout a few more?” she whined. “This time, I’m going to put it on video mode, so we get thousands of photos.” Her other friend clapped and cackled with glee. “Video us from every angle,” the girls instructed. “Don’t be afraid to explore your space.”
I held the camera while the video rolled. The girls fluffed their hair, and behaved like ferocious raccoons. True to my word, I wandered around them as if I were a distinguished fashion photographer. “Shoot us from down low,” the girl said as she high-kicked. So, I squatted down on my creaky knees, like an ESPN cameraman, while they snarled at the camera.
It was at that moment that my wife, Jamie, walked into Starbucks.