Barista No More

A humble writer/frappucino-maker is visited at work by talent agent leeches with an intriguing offer.

I’ve been writing since high school, mostly skits, IMs, and unfortunate love letters, but in the last couple years I’ve decided to branch/sell-out and write screenplays.

6 weeks ago, I gave one of my scripts to a friend who in turn gave it to a friend and a friend’s friend.

5 weeks ago I went on some meetings.

4 weeks ago (according to Variety) I became “high six figures” richer.

Cue the Jaws music.

How they found out I worked at Starbucks - this Starbucks - I’ll never know. At first I thought it was just a regular pack of agents on a coffee break, but these lil’ bastards had me cornered and my green-apron-of-invisibility was no match for their soulless gazes.

“Hey guys, look! It’s Hollywood’s hottest new scribe!”

“Ha. What can I get for you gentlemen?”

“Wooooaaaaah! She’s so professional! You’re good!”

"Do you want some coffee?”

They ordered like douche bags; speaking fluent Starbucksease, a ridiculous language made up of bastardized Italian and commercial diet terms that only people paid to do so should speak. I rang them up and pretended to get back to some important business I had going on over by the sink.

“Hey (he said my name), did you see what I put in the tip jar?”

“Ha. No.”

“Wellllll?” This was a trick. “We want you to know, we really think you’re very talented. We loved your script and if you sign with us we’d take care of you.”

I pulled out my hand from the jar to reveal the highly coveted Black American Express. I was holding the company credit card of the biggest talent and literary agency in the world.

“Very funny. Thanks.”

I slid the card toward him with my finger, but he grabbed my arm before I could let go.

“No. I’m serious. Take it. Take it for today. Get out of here (Starbucks). Take it and take your friends out. To lunch. To the Peninsula. To wherever the fuck you want. Go to Bloomingdales and go nuts. Let us take care of you, you deserve it.”

“Thanks. I’ll consider that.” I released the card.

Somehow, sort of by accident, I sold a screenplay.

I guess I can’t steal croissants anymore.