Northern Nescafe verses Southern Sanka
or
Taking your coffee, sweet or sour
or
What’s inside your coffee cup is probably going to come out

It was still dark, the sun considering rising. It was a tad cold out, so I pulled into a 7-11 convenience store for a cup of anti-cold coffee. As I stepped in, three employees stepped out for a smoke. I knew where they worked by their green 7-11 shirts. I would know where they were from by what one of them did next.

After I coffee made and paid, I headed for the door. As I stepped out, three employees stepped in. You already know how I knew them. I got in my car and noticed a note under my windshield wiper. I assumed it was from someone putting pre-printed ads on all the cars. I assumed wrong.

It was a handwritten note. To me. From one of the green smoking three. It said “thank you, have a blessed day today!” Had a smiley face emoticon drawn on it. The emoticon was reallocated to my face. The note made me smile. Cause it reminded me I was in the south. And it reminded me of a very different convenience store employee run-in I once had.

I’ve worked in orthopedics since the 80’s. I had seen patients for years throughout New Jersey, and wound up transferring to our Bronx office. This city commute move greatly enhanced my cultural shift sensory overload when I transferred south.

When I saw patients at a Bronx hospital, I was always looking over my shoulder in the parking garage. And they charged me $16 for the privilege of paranoid multi-tier parking. When I went to see my first patient at a southern hospital, they had free valet parking and free shuttle busses. Did I mention they were free? That’s like minus $16 plus. I laughed out loud.

When I rode the Bronx hospital elevator, no one talked to anyone. No one looked at anyone. If I went to see a patient on a Bronx house call, the apartment elevators had corner mirrors so you could see if someone else was hiding in there. Better to ride with a crowd who pretend no one else is there than with one person who wants to pay too much attention to you.

A week after I transferred south, I rode my first southern hospital elevator. Everyone talked to each other. And to me. They used those 30 vertical seconds to learn as much about you as possible. I glanced up to see if there was a corner mirror. Felt like I was in an alternate elevator universe.

We were used to northern theme parks. Long lines, blasting music, hostile looks from probable gang members. But Dollywood had warning signs of your impending ejection from ride lines just for cursing.

A southern friend went on a NYC tour. Was so excited to get a real toasted Brooklyn bagel, she forgot to ask the bagel guy to butter it. When she went back to the counter with her buttery request, spoken in her sugary southern slang, he yelled at her—“you didn’t say nuttin’ about buttuh!” Scared her. I thoroughly enjoyed her telling of it. Brought a homesick onion bagel tear to my eye.

I don’t want to say that northerners are colder or more hostile, because someone from the north will write me and prove me right—and I hate to be right about that, ‘cause I’m one of them. Just meet me at the nearest corner deli. I’ll bring the buttah, you bring the bagel. And the reality is there are plenty of nice northerners and sour southerners.

I south-adjusted pretty quickly; having lived in Colorado and Texas, I was already inclined to the warmer environment. But it was slower adjusting for my Jersey Girl wife. Did you feel that breeze? It was all the Jersey Girls nodding assertively, understanding the depth of JG roots. JG’s are even a bit suspicious of people. That nodding breeze just became a gale. Remind me to relate the first time I escorted my JG to Colorado. You’d think she was under contract with the NSA, wanting to know why people who didn’t know us were talking to us. I told her they were just friendly. That made her narrow her eyes even more, wondering what they really wanted. All the audience JG’s are now pounding their approval.

Ellen transferred from a NJ Kohls to a SC one. How can I say it nicely? Northerners are more “businesslike, professional”—how’s that? But Ellen’s southern bosses expected her to become buddies. Not with her co-workers; with every customer in line. Southern customers may be ready for instant relationships, but JG DNA isn’t shaped that way.

We had lived in the south for a year, immersed in the peaches and cream of it all. I had not yet started calling people “dahlin'” or “sugah”, but was pretty cozy with the friendliness. Even my JG’s roots began to soften a bit.

Then someone in NJ died. We were asked to help clean out their house. The home was pretty old, so I went looking for some rubber gloves. I ambled into a nearby Wawa, the awesome iconic convenience store us northerners lay claim to, and poured a cup of coffee. And suddenly experienced that northern convenience store worker I would later recall when a handwritten smiley note was placed on my windshield years later.

I spotted an employee behind the deli counter. Knew she was an employee by her red Wawa shirt. She did not have a smiley face. Wonder if that southern 7-11 employee could draw an emoticon on her.

I asked if I could have 3 pairs of the disposable deli gloves. That cost about 3 cents each. “I can’t give them away!”she emoted. You would think I had asked for late buttuh. I started to giggle. I knew I wasn’t on a southern elevator anymore. “Can I buy some then?” She unleashed more of her inner JG–“they’re  not for the customers!” she barked.

I broke up laughing then, which I’m pretty sure didn’t help. Because in the south, they would not only have given me the whole box of gloves, but would probably call their entire Sunday School class to come help me. I was rolling in the store aisles because I forgot how uptight the north can be. Uh, I mean, professional. Businesslike.

I know it’s not everyone. I deli-countered in 3 NJ convenience stores myself. Slung plenty of buttuh. Probably snapped at a few customers myself. And I met plenty of nice workers. Some people just shouldn’t be behind the customer service counter.

I know there’s nice people everywhere, and I know there’s grouches everywhere. But not in the church. Right? Okay, now you’re laughing hysterically. Rolling in the church aisle. And I didn’t even ask you for a glove.

So who makes the best coffee, the north or the south? It doesn’t matter if it’s bitter. Or if they throw it on you.

Jesus said it’s not the brand of coffee you pour into you that makes you unclean (though I do think volume makes a difference), but that which is brewing inside of you and pours forth from your spout that makes you unclean. No matter how many versions I check, grouchiness is not officially listed as a Fruit of the Spirit. “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, YOU DIDN’T SAY NUTTIN’ ABOUT BUTTUH!”, peace, patience, kindn…”THATS NOT FOR THE CUSTOMERS!” Just doesn’t seem to flow as well.

And we who claim to be Christians can’t blame it on our roots, because Colossians 3 says here there is no Greek, Jew, Northerner or Southerner, but Jesus is all in all. Our culture is no longer an earthly culture, our Heavenly roots are not reached by the frost. Okay, so maybe that was in the Tolkien Bible.

Have your insides been sitting on the burner too long, started to get stale, crusty, bitter, undigestible? If that’s what’s coming out of us, then that’s what’s inside. Regardless of where we’re from.

So what’s a grouchy believer to do? Jesus said “get rid of the old batch”. Like 7-11 and Wawa do when the brew gets bitter from sitting on the burner too long. For the sake of all the customers in your life. For the sake of yourself. And replace it with His new Fruit-of-the-Spirit blend. He’ll pour it into your insides if you’ll ask Him for cup. He won’t even charge you for it. He’ll even give you a smiley.

And maybe when you’re feeling less grouchified, you can come help me clean up the coffee stains from my last temper tantrum. I’ll even buy the gloves.