As soon as Angus entered the Blue Star Coffee Temple, a knot formed in his throat.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he mumbled to himself.
A barista, sporting sleeve tattoos and a handlebar moustache, made eye contact. “How’s it going?” he nodded.
What Angus heard was, “What makes you think you’re cool enough to be here?” He swallowed hard.
“What can I get for you?” asked the barista.
“C-c-coffee,” stammered Angus. His voice cracked like a pubescent teenager.
The barista smiled. “No worries, man. What’s your brew? Light? Dark? Something in the middle?”
“Good choice,” nodded the barista. He went to work, leaving Angus to survey the Banksy-styled graffiti scrawled across the walls. Surrounding him were young urbanites, absorbed by their iPhones, too busy to enjoy the real world.
Angus exchanged a five-dollar bill for six ounces of black gold, then retreated to the outside. He breathed a sigh of relief under the warmth of the sunshine. Angus had as much culture as he could handle for one day.