COLUMN: Give Him a Triple-Shot Frappuccino

By Tobin Barnes
You’ll be happy to know we had a great time on our trip to San Francisco and environs—my wife, her sister Joey, and her husband Chuck and me. The place is now no better than we found it, nor no worse either, I suspect.

We did, however, leave behind a tidy wad of cash. But so it goes. Arms and legs now seem to be the going rate for well-known travel destinations.

Chuck, my wife’s brother-in-law (but of no particular relationship to me), helped the local Starbucks franchises celebrate better-than-average days. Two of them, each about a block away from our hotel in either direction, quickly attracted his attention. He heavily patronized both, plus others, various and sundry, that we encountered on our way around the area. He’s like a bloodhound in sniffing out even the most obscure of Starbucks locations.

Chuck’s drink of choice is a triple-shot, iced frappuccino with whipped cream on top. It comes in about a foot-tall cup. He puts away several of these a day but would prefer more. The guy can consume caffeine like no one’s business. I’d be wired and sleepless a couple weeks on what he drinks in a day.

Add to that his cigar-smoking habit, and you’ve got an interesting character. But I’ve told you that before. Never a dull moment when Chuck’s around—even when we’re talking about a stretch of four-plus days, as on this trip. He goes down surprisingly easy, supposedly like one of his frappuccinos.

Chuck keeps the conversation going. If not always a dialogue, he can maintain a caffeine-fueled monologue to match the most prolific on-air personalities, Howard Stern and the lately humbled Don Imus not excluded.

When he gets tired of talking to his sometimes benumbed travel companions, he talks to the random unknown passersby. San Francisco is full of them. His unsuspecting targets were plentiful, as opposed to his little hometown of Armour, South Dakota. Yes, these were rich stomping grounds.

I myself couldn’t talk my way out of a paper bag, let alone strike up a conversation with a stranger. The only such likely discussion I can conceive of is if an unknown person came up to me and said, “Is that hundred-dollar bill at your feet yours?” Then I might have some conversational traction.

Not Chuck. As we were out and about, almost every time I turned around, he was talking to someone new.

One time, he was talking to some guy from Denmark whose land is next to a mink ranch. Denmark, believe it or not, is one of the leading producers of mink. Well, as you may know by now, Chuck’s a mink rancher, one of the last ones left in South Dakota. So fancy that. Seems this Danish guy isn’t so much into mink himself, but rather ostriches. Huh.

Another time we’re riding a cable car—five bucks for one ride, eleven for all day. Heck of a buy as far as San Francisco’s concerned, but who’d want to ride a cable car all day long is beyond me. Anyway I turn around and Chuck’s talking to this guy about Chuck’s camera. Turns out this guy’s from France. He’s giving Chuck some tips.

Chuck needs them. His kids gave him that digital camera, but he doesn’t know how to make use of the pictures he takes other than to look at them in the little window on the backside. Doesn’t know how to download them into some more usable form.

So as you can see, there’s always something for Chuck to talk about: Starbucks locations, mink ranching (as well as ostrich ranching now), and digital cameras, just to name a few. And he’ll talk about these things with anybody.

They could use Chuck at the United Nations, and if not there, at least behind the counter of just about any Starbucks that serves foot-tall frappuccinos.