Iced Lattes and overreactions

It’s Sunday morning, which means it’s “Open Hell” day; I must be at work at 0945, and I didn’t go to sleep until 5 AM. Let’s say Saturday turned out to be more adventurous than I expected.
Anyhoo, since I must be in at 0945, I must have my medium vanilla flavored Coffee Coollata from Dunkin’ Donuts, the one just by 1 IBM Plaza. They know me there, and I know my helpful donuticians. I walk in, they start with the Coollata and get a plain donut in the bag for me. It is a beautiful thing.
Except that today there are two people I have never seen before. I have been coming here for just about four months now, and today is the first time I’ve seen these two. It’s an old man and a young, plump woman, and they’re not wearing nametags. I ask, “Where’s Noor and Sanjay?” and the old man says, “Sick. What do you want?” Well, someone is ready to get down to the brassy tacks. So I give him my usual. It turns out the girl has never made one before. He tells her, “Like Iced Latte!” in a fierce bark. I feel bad for her, but not for long. She gets some stuff from a machine that doesn’t normally dispense the Coollata mix (like I said, I’ve been going there a while), and she asks me if I want skim or whole milk. I have never been asked to determine the type of milk. The wonderful folks behind the counter always did that for me. So I say, “Whatever’s the norm, I guess.” I still don’t know what she chose, but I am missing Noor and Sanjay and the really pretty girl who has never worn the same nametag twice (I call her “Sweetie”), and the funny little old lady who occasionally comes out of the back when it’s very busy out front. I begin to worry; just what the hello did these two do to Noor and Sanjay? Both of them sick? That just smacks of a cover story for the two of them hog-tied and gagged in the back. Whatever has happened, I am sure that the old man did most of it, and forced this poor young girl into the dirty pool they’re playing.
Trying to get a view of the back room, I pay for my breakfast. I am so concerned about this nefarious scheme to wrest control of the DD from its rightful purveyors that I don’t notice that the young lady has finished my Coollata. I take it from her, still peering in the back, and blasting myself for not slipping her a note: It’s okay, I’m here for you if you want to do the right thing.
As I walk, I begin to eat my donut and take a sip of my Coollata. It turns out that it is not a Coollata, but an Iced Latte! The dimbulb made an Iced Latte when I clearly ordered, and paid for, a vanilla-flavored Coollata, not an ass-flavored Iced Latte!
I am so mad, that I entertain the idea of storming back in there, throwing the offending beverage at the wall behind the counter and screaming, “Does that splatter look like a Coffee Coollata to you? You have ruined my morning! Free Noor and Sanjay, now!”
But I’m already two blocks away, I’m late for work, and the walk back would mean going uphill, so fuck it. I’m just down for the caffeine anyway.
Still pissed, I then witness a guy unwrap a small piece of gum (most likely Trident) and just drop the wrapper on the ground.
“Hey,” I say, “you dropped something.”
The fella turns around and says, “What?”
“You dropped your wrapper.”
“So?” He’s looking irritated, but he’s an amateur at it. I’m not fooled.
“So? If only the civil engineers of this great city had thought to put waste receptacles, (me doing bunny ears with fingers) 'trash cans' if you will, at the corners of the streets, then you wouldn’t need to just drop a piece of paper on the ground; you could deposit it in a proper receptacle. You know, a trash can just like the ones on all the corners of every street in downtown Chicago.”
At this point, he looks at me with that “Fuckin’ nutball” face, then looks at the paper. He says, “It’s a little fuckin’ piece of paper, pal!”
“Exactly! Why can’t you carry this little piece of paper the ten yards to the trashcan? It didn’t encumber you when it was wrapped around the gum! You afraid you’re going to lose weight or something?”
To which he replies, “Fuck you!” Witty fellow.
I take two steps to him, and holding my Ass Iced Latte high, say, “If this were hot, I would throw it in your fucking face!”
Remember that scene in “The Big Lebowski,” when Walter pulls his piece on Smokey for stepping over the line? I see Smokey staring at me, Walter, with the cold, gross beverage of rage. The guy picks up the wrapper, walks to the trashcan, and throws it away. He then runs south on Rush. By the time I get to the corner, I can’t even see him.
My day didn’t get any better.
I decided that it would be best if M and I were buddies. I didn't run this by her or anything, but I doubt she would care. Besides, most decisions affecting me on a deeply personal and professional manner have hardly ever been run by me beforehand.
Us being buddies still makes it difficult for me to ask her for any info on K. I can threaten a man with bodily harm over a gum wrapper, but ask about a pretty lady that might be interested in me? I am a sack of noodles when it comes to women. So I didn’t ask, yet. But I will. I have to, after I gave Lord K a big, rousing spiel on always taking hold of the moment and letting nothing stand between what you want and seize the carp and all that bravo sierra. Because if you’re going to be a hypocrite, you might as well go all the way.