She always greets us as we enter the town.  She is serene and half-naked, her breasts conveniently covered by her wavy, salty hair.  Like a siren, we fall into her power willingly, joyously at times because she is the mother of what we are: wayward, upper-middle class, yuppie bohemians.  And though no one can explain the source of the crown, it sits upon her head as a symbol of her great majesty and our role as obedient subjects.  Our own queen mother pulls us to her bosom and says, “Drink, drink from my grande latte breasts (with 2 percent reduced fat milk) and be awakened.”  

Once inside her, we are confronted by the man.  Jake (or was it John?) the barista boy, as I call him, reduces the grandiosity of the moment to a simple question, “What can I get for ya?”  I smile, and coyly ask for my usual, a tall Americano with room, and move down the line of caffeine-starved coffee junkies.    

There are twelve Starbucks in Redmond, Washington.  Three pairs of these are within one block of each other, two are located in the same mall, three have drive-thru windows, and two are open all 24 hours of the day.  Together they create a nesting ground for fledgling American professionals.  They reflect and create the town’s modestly liberal environment, allowing its citizens to drop a few European phrases here and there, perhaps discuss the merits of a certain independent film, or, if one has the time or inclination, philosophize on life itself.  The town is an incubator of such contemplation without offending or getting dirty.  If the town were a drink, it would be a grande cappuccino: mostly foam, not much to make you jittery, but enough to get you started. 

My friend, who stands impatiently beside me, refuses to drink at Starbucks.  She believes it is an evil international corporation for sellouts and wannabes.  She glares at the crisp green and white uniform of the barista and I know she is thinking about ripping it off his body just as I am, but for a different reason.  “He’s cute,” I whisper to her as she picks up a bottle of Ethos Water (”supporting humanitarian water programs around the world”) and scoffs.  I know she is right about some things — the waste, the calories, the consumerism, the wage discrepancies — but somehow I am still drawn to it like a fetish.  The same way I am drawn to the town.  Redmond could be a thought written on the side of one of Starbucks’s recyclable paper cups: “The Way I See It #586 — What has society become if men wear aprons and women wear nothing?  Redmond: Seattle suburb and the Caucasian refuge of the northwest.” 

Of course, that does not explain why we need so many Starbucks in the town.  Perhaps we like the illusion of choice, of freedom, of independence.  Every young professional once thought of him or herself as rebellious, as cutting edge, and Starbucks perpetuates that self-image.  Starbucks is both The Man and The Mother, conformity and comfort.  You can hang your local art on the walls and have your book club in the back room, but keep it nice or you can find another Starbucks to drink your decaf caramel macchiato at.  And you probably will, if you live in Redmond.