The date is October 31st, 2011. It’s the spookiest day of the year, Halloween. Penn students and Philadelphians adorn themselves in colorful costumes and take to the streets. The orange and yellow leaves are falling into puddles on Walnut as pieces of trash drift across the sidewalk like urban tumbleweeds.
Brrr. I have an idea! How about a nice autumnal drink? A pumpkin spice latte or some kind of nut muffin. Maybe even a regular latte with the foam shaped like a leaf. I’m in the mood for some fall spirit.
I head to my favorite purveyor of caffeinated drinks (which shall not be named). So I go in and I wait in line to place my order. The barista approaches and I am shocked by what she is wearing: a tan army uniform with a German flag on the side and an iron necklace. To top it all off, she's wearing blue–color contacts, and her hair slicked back and dyed blonde. Sorry, what?
“Uh, is your costume from WWI or WWII?” I ask timidly. “Does it really matter?” she responds. Does it matter? Does it matter if I’m ordering my autumnal frothy drink from a Nazi? Do I really want to tell you that I’m in the mood for a bagel? Do you know how to make anything other than strudel? Do I really want to hand you my debit card with my super Jew–y last name on it? How do you have the chutzpah to dress up like a NAZI at your PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT? Oh, sorry, you don’t understand what chutzpah means? Oh, you probably don’t know any Yiddish, judging from the fact that you’re dressed up like a Nazi, AT WORK. “Uh, I’ll have a coffee,” I say. Because I don’t want to mess with you. Because you’re dressed up like a Nazi.
