Taylor dahlin (Flickr / creative commons)

“Tired of being thrust onto the front lines of the nation’s debate over guns, Starbucks is asking customers to leave firearms behind when they are in its stores and its outdoor seating areas.” — New York Times, Sept. 18, 2013

Well, Starbucks, looks like you’re losing a customer. Two, if you count my gun as a person, which I do. Especially since she voted in the last election. Shot a bullet hole right through the ballot, next to the name of my preferred candidate. No “election official” is going to say the intent of the voter wasn’t clear on that one. Took my shot from across the polling station, too, right through the curtain. Good thing there was no one in the booth.

Yet even with my expert marksmanship, Starbucks wants to tell me to leave my gun at home when I want a cup of coffee? I don’t even leave my gun at home when I go to my court-ordered gun safety and anger management workshop, so I don’t think I’ll be putting it down for a pumpkin spice latte. I pour pumpkin spice lattes down the barrel of my gun, and she loves it. (She loves anything pumpkin flavored.) That’s how connected Starbucks and firearms are for me. Those salted caramel cake pops may as well be bullets.

Look, for years, there’s been little I’ve enjoyed more than my typical afternoon ritual. I head over to my local Starbucks, my one primary gun in my hand (she gets lonely if I let go), plus another in my pocket, and a third velcroed to the front of my shirt using a special home-velcro kit I picked up at a crafts fair. I went to the fair looking for a cashmere-knit gun cover — you wouldn’t believe how hard those are to find — but I ended up with a whole mess of stuff. The velcro kit, some embroidery tools to make a personalized pillow where my guns can sleep, a pair of bullet earrings for my wife — and an injured squirrel. I thought he was a small thief trying to get under my car in the parking lot, so I shot first, asked questions later. It turned out he couldn’t answer my questions, because (1) he was a squirrel, and (2) he was hurt. Lesson learned, if the lesson was how to nurse a squirrel back to life.

Anyway, I typically order the pumpkin spice latte, but sometimes I splurge and get a venti skinny cinnamon dolce frappuccino — cinnamon because it has the consistency of gunpowder, skinny because you can’t shoot the fat out of yourself (though believe me, I’ve tried), and a frappuccino because it’s sweet and delicious. I wave my firearms around to get a complimentary extra shot of espresso and fifty bucks from the cash register. Then I stare down an aspiring novelist who’s been nursing a decaffeinated green tea for four hours, taking up the last table in the place and using the electrical outlet I need for my gun warmer.

Usually he gets up (sometimes it takes a warning shot), and I settle in for fifteen minutes of bliss. I savor the last sip, dip the barrels of each of my guns in the cup to soak up any final drops, shoot a hole in the ceiling to say goodbye, and head back out to finish an afternoon of hard work as a preschool teacher.