A very special Starbucks family

Panorama photo of "my" Starbucks, before the commotion.

Oh. I happened to hit the jackpot tonight. Sometimes, even though it provided the inspiration for #sbuxdrama, I forget that this is the Starbucks that happens to be a few blocks up from a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.

And God bless the twelve-steppers. They hit the Starbucks before the meeting for a very large dose of chocolate and caffeine. And provide a gi-normous dose of material.

I do not judge. I need to be in therapy for quite a few things myself. But the entertainment value is high. These are not "just a bunch of weird people" - as first thought that time the girl ate a frappuccino with a spoon. Everybody has a story. Every story has a face. And behind those faces are lives full of love, loss and usually lots of pain.

A weathered, tattooed man in a electrician's uniform just told a tiny woman in a pink hoodie and a sparkling jeweled belt "I practically had to blow this guy to get a phone pass." I don't know where he was - but it wasn't a happy place ...

The brilliant thing about twelve-steppers is that there's practically no judgment among the factions. Everybody has hit the absolute bottom - particularly among this group.

It strikes me that they're just as much a "family" as any other group that lands at the Starbucks with all the regularity of a prune devotee. Like the Wednesday night book group, or the every-morning coffee & crossword junkies.

But the twelve-steppers are a family. The bonds that hold them together might have been forged out of circumstances that many of us will never know - out of a fevered addict's dream or the pain of withdrawal - but they're as tight as love or family.

There are two motorcycle types, in the leathers and boots. The guy - a heavy, muscled type that looks more at home on a Harley than inside a hip coffee joint - has a leather doo-rag on his bald head. His tough-as-nails princess is dressed to the nines in skin-tight leather pants that leave NOTHING to the imagination. Every curve of her luscious behind is illuminated. A tiny silver cross on a chain hangs between her large breasts. A leather choker circles her throat. She can't sit down because she's so jittery. She greets each new arrival with air kisses and a massive hug.

Two grizzled veterans of some long-ago war with a substance I'll never know about sit quietly in the comfy chairs. They're unshaven and blank-eyed. They speak when spoken to, but the eyes have a certain haunted quantity. Their clothes are clean, but have the distinct look of "homeless shelter" about them. These gentlemen simply inhabit the space - they don't get even a drip coffee.

Three younger women come in together - they give welcoming hugs to everyone.  They carry an outsized jollity with them. A thin Hispanic girl is bundled into an enormous camouflage jacket, even though it is a balmy 74 degrees outside. Her friend is wearing a bright red polo - and has two black eyes. I hurt for her.

More come in. A young main in ragged cutoffs and a white polo, and a twenty-something woman in denim and a designer baby doll tee. I can see the strap of her bra. She's wearing spotless Crocs and carries an overstuffed purse. She hugs the group tightly and makes sure that they're "headed over." She needs two donuts and a frappuccino. The boy with her orders, runs back out to smoke, then runs back in to get the coffee. He looks like he hasn't changed clothes in days. Or washed his hair.

Except for the two haunted oldsters - who barely speak - the entire crowd mills around, smashing through pastry, hugging, touching, re-affirming that they're still there. Every

It strikes me that no one could possibly be described as "calm." There's a terror lurking just below this surface - and they're using noise to keep the fear away.

They are afraid of the silence, as if the very fact of stillness might cause their addiction to rush back in. Therefore, they have to yell, hug and chatter like mad things in an effort to keep the angry blackness at bay.

At 8:05 p.m., the cafe was quiet except for me and one Asian girl muttering madly in Mandarin into a Skype screen. At 8:10 p.m., there were twenty twelve-steppers falling over themselves to get a caramel macchiato or a six-pump classic or a java chip frappuccino. All venti sizes, of course. And they all got pastry. Lots of pastry.

And the second they got the coffee and sugar fix, they were right out the door to suck down cigarettes. One (or more) illegal addictions traded for coffee, sugar and nicotine fixes. No surprise that more than half of them were on the hefty side. Better fat than dead I suppose.

But the sense of family they all displayed stuck with me. Everyone was so GLAD to see their fellow meeting mates. I suppose in situations like this - when a missed meeting means "falling off the wagon" - just showing up is a major victory.

By 8:20 p.m. they were all gone, shuffling out to their meeting. Fifteen minutes in and out - and offering me a glimpse of a unique family.