Starbucks Drama: What are you doing with those rubber gloves?

I didn't even have to place an order before the drama started tonight.

I'm standing at the register and not a single one of the three baristas on duty after 10 p.m. at this Starbucks is paying the slightest bit of attention to me. Not in the slightest.

Their attention is riveted on something happening in, around and under the espresso machine.

One of the baristas, a new girl, slightly built, willowy, with a great deal of curly brown hair and resembling nothing so much as a skein of yarn that's been unraveled and jammed atop a broomstick, is standing there, ramrod straight, in her green Starbucks apron and an absolutely horrified look on her faee. She's wearing yellow rubber gloves, the kind that workers use to clean out the toilet. They reach up past her elbows. She probably wants to cry. Slinging coffee wasn't supposed to be like THIS!

The male of the group, a Caucasian with enough fake bling in his ears to open a "Ice is Nyce" franchise, stands crouched over something part of the way between the handoff bar and the espresso machine. The lower half of his body and one arm is under the counter - the upper half and the other arm is leveraged over it. He grunts, yanks, grunts and yanks. I have no doubt that a hernia is forthcoming.

The wise blonde, who flicks her eyes up at me by way of greeting before going back to a long, complicated six-drink drive-through order, says a perfunctory hello. I stare. I'm tired and there are a bunch of other laptop campers out in the lobby. This is as good as the drama is going to get tonight. I move in for the kill.

Yellow Gloves just stands there, helpless. She's probably a trust fund baby, just working to make booze money while Daddy makes the payments on the Mercedes, the apartment and the tuition. She's hoping for a wealthy man to come in, order a latte and sweep her off her feet.

Bling-Bling is still under the counter, grunting. I ask Blondie, "So what's going on?"

She keeps whipping out lattes for the drive-through, but answers, "Oh, we're just cleaning. But this one thing, it gets stuck, so we have to break it loose." She continues "Don't mind the smell. We know it stinks in here. We'll have it clean in a few minutes." Yet, she's making mochas over an what looks like an open garbage disposal!

Bling-Bling lies down on the floor now, moves almost all the way under the counter, and starts thrusting violently. I can see the counter shaking. Whatever this .... whatever .... is .... which I still don't know ... it must have been attached with a combination of SuperGlue and rivets the likes of which Superman put in.

Yellow Gloves is still quietly squeaking, and going, "Don't break it." Blondie is calmly steadying bottles of caramel syrup, my iced mocha and and few random shot glasses. She is completely unfazed. "We always have trouble with this. That's why we have have a man do it." And the ERA was just put back another decade.

I hear a massive "UUUNGHHH!"- soon followed by "It's loose." Bling-Bling emerges from underneath the counter wearing a massive grin and is surprisingly not dirty in the least.

Yellow Gloves moves in, crouches down and removes something that looks roughly like an upside-down bell, only there is an obvious pipe in the handle end where it was attached to either water or possibly drainage. She's got one finger firmly plugged up in this and heads straight for the sink.

Blondie remarks "Well. That's over, and we didn't even have to call the fire department this time." Bling-Bling goes "That's why I'm here!"

Baristas ... was this the garbage disposal?