Postcards from the Rogue Valley

 “That sounds like a crow!” I said to Tony as we entered Ashland’s Starbucks early the other morning.

I scanned the room, with its small tables bunched together and a half dozen guests, most familiar to us. We passed Josh, who parks a 1970s Chevy van loaded with his life’s belongings in front of Starbucks every morning, turns his music up, and holds court. Inside, John was drying his clothes from last night’s unexpected rainstorm; he sleeps in the woods. Hugh, who always tells my husband that he reminds him of the actor Christopher Walken, was charging his phone, and Matt sorted through his backpack and wondered, “Is this all I have?” 

My eyes settled on two women fighting sleep at a corner table. Their heads were shaved, and there was no wash in their wear. One of the two suddenly raised her head, looked toward the ceiling, and let out a raucous “C-a-w!”  

I’d found the crow. If you wanted to be sure no one got too close to you, this woman had the moves.

As some of you may know, Tony and I head to Starbucks at daybreak each morning for coffee and conversation. We’ve done this for twenty years—rain, snow, or shine, in Rhode Island, Brooklyn, and now Ashland. On the road, Siri is our accomplice: “Starbucks near me…” The choice is simple: it’s the only coffee shop that serves espresso at a time most folks are still asleep, and it’s our way of touching base at the beginning of each day.

What you may not know is the company Tony and I keep at this hour, often a tapestry of the homeless and mentally ill, a tribe of men and women down on their luck. Their needs are basic: a place to pee and wash up (“Can you please tell me today’s bathroom code?”), charge a phone, hang out after a night on the streets (or here in Ashland, in the woods), and grab a glass of water. Coffee is an extra.

You won’t find this clientele, I hasten to add, at Starbucks in the suburbs or off the highway or that specialize in drive-thru. Proximity to vulnerable communities is the common thread. 

Starbucks, for its part, has long hoped to create a “third space”—a public place for interaction and leisure away from home and work.  (Isn’t this what cafes once offered?) My nonscientific sample suggests that the coffee chain has certainly built a “second space.”  Call it Office 2.0: Generation-Somethings hunched over their laptops hard at work. Whether this is what Starbucks had in mind, I don’t know. 

Providing an early morning haven for a community’s “undesirables,” however, is not the “third space” Starbucks imagined, I wager. 

Jana has been a barista at Ashland’s downtown Starbucks for 12 years and before that managed a Starbucks in Seattle. She runs a hostel in town when not shepherding the early morning shift at one of Starbucks’ thousands of national locations.

On some mornings, one of Jana’s first tasks, after she unlocks the store at  5 a.m., is to waken gently whomever may be sleeping on the front porch or behind the store. She is careful: “You never know if you might be poking a bear.” 

Ashland’s reputation as a liberal, backpack-friendly city has made it a mecca for the “unhoused,” as they are called here. Oregon, California, and Washington are the states with the highest homeless rates in the country. 

Ashland does not have a homeless shelter, however. In the winter, local churches take turns providing a warm floor. The rest of the year, the town’s homeless sleep in the woods and mountains behind town. Some bed down in an old car or bus, hidden, they hope, from inquiring eyes. In 2012, responding to complaints from downtown store owners, the city created an “expulsion zone” where an individual engaging in “negative behaviors” can be banned for up to 180 days.

 “I can’t imagine being homeless,” says Jana. “It’s terrifying.”

The scrubbiness or mannerisms of her early morning guests doesn’t faze her. “As long as they are respectful, I’m on their side,” she says. Whether they are homeless by choice or bad luck, that’s not her business, though she wrestles with the former.

Jana knows their names and their stories. 

Robin, when he first started coming in, he was respectful and super kind. I did whatever I could to help him back on his feet. He got cleaned up, found a job, and was about to get off the street, but, in the end, he just couldn’t do it. After that, he started to lose it … and eventually passed away. It was tremendously sad. …

There’s Joe who comes in for hot chocolate. And Adam, who was in a bad car accident when he was 18 and has had a hard time eversince. …When he came in today and said it was his 35^th birthday, I bought him breakfast. …

Aaron ended up staying at my hostel in the winter months. I couldn’t imagine him spending the night outside. I let him stay for free in exchange for his keeping an eye on things for me, like making sure the pipes didn’t burst. At other times, he wanted to pay something, so we agreed on $10 a night. …”

When asked if she has spare change, Jana thinks, “I never have spare change. I give because of the emotional connection I feel, not because I have money I don’t need.”

Jill has worked at the Ashland Starbucks for 11 years. She has two young children and works a second job, tending bar.

The homeless defy stereotypes, Jill makes clear. “It’s a diverse group of people with different reasons for being homeless and different needs.” But the way she’s see it, “everyone deserves to be treated like a customer, certainly to use the bathroom and have a glass of water and sit and warm up a little while.”

Are there flash points?  Of course. “Occasionally, you get people in crisis (maybe they’re off their meds) and they start acting in a way that frightens other customers, that frightens us when we’re working,” Jill says. Are there times when she has had to call the police? Yes.

“Still, we’re all just human beings on both sides of the counter,” Jill says. “On our side, we’re doing our best to give everyone what they want within reasonable limits. It costs nothing to be compassionate.”

As to the other side of the counter, Jill’s advice is simple: “Be nice, be on good behavior when you are out and about.” This goes for paying customers, as well. She quietly thanks those who buy coffee for a guest whose pockets are bare, aware that this, too, can become complicated. 

Kari, who plays softball when not barista-ering, is coming up on her sixth anniversary with Starbucks. 

“Corporate is clear,” she says. “Starbucks welcomes everyone, regardless of the social status.” Not all customers share this tolerance, though, occasionally putting Kerry in the middle. “I want the environment to be pleasant for everyone,”  she says, “but when someone is being loud and rude, it’s a balancing act. I feel responsible.”

What makes Kari say she loves her job is the “sense of unity.”

“I appreciate every customer who comes in and knows our names, asks how our day is going, asks about our lives. And I care back, whether the customer is paying or not.  It isn’t just serving lattes and getting people out the door, but connecting.” 

Yesterday morning, the last day of September, frost coated our windshield as Tony and I drove to Starbucks. It had been in the 80s a few days earlier. 

Two newcomers, relieved of their back packs and sleeping bags, warmed themselves by the gas fireplace.  Josh, who could often be intimidating, sat down next to us and read the text message he’d just received from his mother. A veteran who’d been two-years sober, Josh was about to drive his van (along with his rescue dog) to Santa Cruz, California where the temperatures are milder.

“Take care of yourself and remember I love you,” his 72-year-old mother wrote. Josh is 53.

Later in the day, the folks for whom Starbucks is a second or third space—not home—filled the room, working on their laptops or meeting over coffee. 

If you asked Jana, Jill, and Kari what they wished people knew about the country’s titan coffee shop, they’d suggest looking beyond the headlines—from the indefensible arrest of two black men waiting for an acquaintance at a Philadelphia Starbucks to its corporate donations. 

“Look at the everyday stories,” says Jana, “where decency is as important as the lattes”—where the heroes are behind the counter.

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