But Sir, That's Not My Trash: My Inner Monologue with A Stranger at Starbucks

The babysitter was stuck in traffic and sensing that I should have left already, the kids made one last ditch coup attempt to get me to stay home by complaining about her disciplinary style. Don't leave us with her, Mommy, please!  She's so mean.  She made the baby cry last time.  Oh?  Was that what it was?  Well, you need to go to bed on time.  Yes, Adam, I might have to agree.. That their strategy had failed meant that their screams would run two octaves higher for at least two minutes longer.  Thankfully, she arrived within minutes and I headed toward Starbucks for my pre three hour seminar caffeine pickup.  I hadn't quite finished one of the scheduled readings but as it was taken from the requisite Lit survey anthology, I figured all I needed was a good solid five minutes to myself, which was all the time I would have if I didn't want to be late to my own lecture.  The place was packed, inside and out, but finally, coffee in hand I found a vacant table outside, whose most recently departed occupants numbered no less than four judging by the amount of debris that had been left behind. They had, however, been considerate enough to sweep it all into an impressive looking pyramid of empty coffee cups, half-filled yogurt cups, and a couple of crumpled eco friendly plates.  I managed somehow to avoid touching any of it by wrapping several eco friendly brown napkins around my hand and shoving it all toward the back of the table.  I sat down on the edge of my chair with my book propped against the table, too grossed out by the cookie crumbs to actually place my book down.  Five minutes later,  I rose to head toward school.  That's when I noticed the two elderly looking grey-headed gentlemen seated at the table next to me. As I turned to leave, the most distinguished looking of the two rose quickly and spoke to me. I believe you have forgotten something, he said.  Oh, I thought, my pen? My phone?  My purse?  How nice of him to notice. And to hear it rendered in such a lovely British accent. The kind we Americans really enjoy.  I turned back around and glanced at the table but there was nothing there of course except for the you know what. A bit confused, I replied, Excuse me?  At that point having navigated the two feet between his table and mine in record speed even for an old distinguished fart like himself, he appeared suddenly at my table.  With a broadly elegant gesture, he waved his arms across my table and sounding, surprisingly much more British than before, said: This, this, this! he repeated, gesturing again, this time much more triumphantly,  You have forgotten to clean up your trash.  There was a small voice in my head that was aching to be heard but of course I ignored it because I was raised in the South and know when to be polite.  The next sentence to come from my lips will probably haunt me for the rest of my life.  But sir, I said, that's not my trash.  He flapped his arms, this time much more inelegantly, Well, you can still clean it up.  But. But, sir, I stuttered.  Why do I keep calling him sir?   It's not hygienic, I said, to touch it all, I mean. What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I still talking to this man?  Why am I apologizing?  Is that a camera over there?   IT'S NOT MY F**KING TRASH AND I'M NOT PUTTING MY HANDS ALL OVER THAT GROSS SHIT WITH COFFEE AND YOGURT AND CAKE CRUMBS SMEARED ALL OVER IT began my inner id voice. I couldn't actually say anything probably because I was still in awe of the size of his baggy old British balls at mentioning it in the first place.  It got worse, the voices inside clamored and chinked, etc., etc., etc.,  with his next line.  Oh, you Americans are all the same, he said, always leaving your trash around for everybody else to clean up. Oh, shit, I get it. I thought the subject was the ethics of leaving a couple of discarded paper cups on a table.  And anyway, that's my line, the naughty ole rebellious colonist in me chimed in.   Yet, I stood silent, transfixed watching him as he tried to navigate around me to get closer to the table.  Oh, shut up and get out of the way, he said, loudly enough to attract the attention of some of the people sitting inside and probably the ones walking on the sidewalks across the street as well. The inner voices  began a Gregorian chant. You just told me to what?  To shut up? To get out of the way?  Wait.  Stop that. Are you trying to hand me some of that shit off the table?  Are you still trying to get me to clean up somebody else's mess?  We are way past that, my colonial friend.  I looked around, desperate now for some kind of fellow stranger sympathy. Can you believe this Brit?  He started it. But the guy sitting at the next table shrugged his shoulders and said, "Sounds like a reasonable request to me."  WTF?  But, it's not my trash, the voices whined.  Et tu, Brute.  Do they all think it was my trash?  Wait. Was I really supposed to clean up someone else's enormous dump?  Did I miss the latest Starbucks seminar: How To Get Our Highly Civilized Customers To Clean Up Each Other's Shit Without Asking?  While Sir Bastard continued to pretend to clean the table, I went inside to take my case to the authorities. But the place was still packed and the baristas were busy. One of the people who had been seated near the window walked over to me and said,  Just ignore him. I heard what he said about the US.  He's crazy.  Finally, I got the attention of one of the Baristas when she saw I wasn't asking for a refill. I see her every morning.  Listen, I said, pointing outside where the old guy was busy trying to balance the contents of the table in the crook of his arms, there is some old British guy yelling at me to clean up the tables outside. It wasn't even my trash.  He's got a lot of nerve.  She looked confused, and a little sad. She always looks a little sad.  I'm sorry, she said, looking even more sad. I don't know what to tell you. Well, if he keeps it up I'm going to call the cops. That sounded a little extreme even to me in my present state so I knew I had to leave before things got carried away,  before I picked up one of their coffee stained old rags and joined the old man outside.  On my way out, the guy who had spoken to me earlier gave me a little conspiratorial wink to remind me that we were all in this together.  It was hard to ignore the old geezer still working the table as I walked past him, but I managed.