Starbucks Nutjob

I'm leaving the District when the call goes out. A woman is reporting she's been burned by coffee at the local Starbucks. As I drive to my private nirvana, another officer tries to swap the call from me. I tell him I would not be able to live with myself if I didn't handle the call, as I can hardly wait to hear the complainant describe how Starbucks is responsible for the burn.

I arrive and find the woman waiting in the parking lot. She's short, squat, and looks completely insane, her eyes slightly crossed and focused on my chest rather than my eyes. Her horn rimmed glasses are hanging low on her nose and she pushes them up as she talks.

"Officer!" She yells.

"How can I help you?" I reply.

"I got burned in Starbucks and they refused to get me medical attention."

I had carefully read the call notes on the way. The dispatcher asked her three times if she wanted an ambulance dispatched for immediate medical attention and each time she said, "no."

"Do you need an ambulance?" I ask.

"I'm not sure, yet. But they wouldn't help me in Starbucks."

"What happened?" I ask.

"The coffee got on me and burned my wrist. It was swollen and blistered so I asked for medical attention, but they refused."
"Can I see you wrist?" I ask.

She pulls back the sleeve of her shirt to expose the area. There is no redness, swelling, or blistering.

"Can I see your other wrist?" I ask. The two appendages are identical, both lily white and splotched with scattered freckles. "I don'[t see anything, mam."

She looked as if her feelings are hurt by my comment. "Well, I put ice on it."

"Where did you get ice?" I ask.

"Starbucks."

"I thought they refused to give you medical attention."

"They gave me ice." She says, uncomfortably.

"How long ago?" I ask.

"Five minutes."

" Mam, if your arm was blistering five minutes ago, I would be able to see some sort of injury."

"Well it was," she says, twisting her mouth into a scowl, as if I'm the idiot instead of herself. "I see what you are doing here. It isn't your job to determine who's right or wrong."

"You are right," I say. "I'm here to investigate what happened, and that is exactly what I'm trying to do." "She fidgets and looks around the parking lot, as if suddenly embarrassed to be speaking with a police officer.

"Lets get back to what happened, mam. Did the Barista pour the coffee on your arm?"

"No. I was putting cream into it and the coffee came out on my arm."

"Came out on your arm?" I ask.

"Yeah, I popped the top and the coffee came out on my arm."

"So you spilled the coffee?"

"Well, it was an accident. It just came out."

"So they gave you the coffee and you took it to the condiment table. Then, you removed the lid and spilled the coffee on your own arm. Is that about right?"

"Well, I don't like how you make it sound. They should've taken some money out and given it to me so I could go to the Urgent Care."I'm sorry I even called you here, Officer. I''m going to leave now."

"Okay," I say. She gets into a dilapidated Honda Accord full of shoe boxes, magazines, and clothing. "Goodbye, crazy lady," I mumble to myself.

Starbucks is packed. I can smell the pleasing aroma of the coffee beans and hear the Barista foaming someones latte. The manager, who I've seen most every day for a couple of years, has an expression of concern as he approaches. "Did that lady call the police?"

"Oh yeah," I reply. "She wanted to complain that she burned herself and you refused to give her money from the cash register. Don't you guys normally take cash from the till undocumented?"

"Never," he says, smiling. "You want a cup of coffee?" He asks.

"Damn right I do."