Lauren J.

I am not a morning person. Before 9 a.m., I am mostly a coat with a face on it. At Dutch Bros, a boy in a beanie came walking down the line of cars toward me with a tablet, beaming, as though heaven had sent him specifically to find me and deliver the good news. "Heyyy! How's your morning goin'?" Nobody had asked me that in eleven years. "...Fine," I lied. "Love that. What are we drinkin'?" "Coffee." "Classic. Respect. What are you up to today?" I should have said nothing. Instead, something ancient came loose in my chest. "It's my birthday." He lowered the tablet slowly, like a soldier lowering his rifle at the end of a long war. "No way. NO WAY." He spun toward the window and screamed with the entire power of his lungs: "WE GOT A BIRTHDAY OUT HERE!" Three broistas leaned out of the window and screamed back, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!" A woman in a Subaru behind me honked twice. A man in a pickup two cars back rolled down his window and yelled, "LET'S GO, BUDDY!" I did not know where we were going. But I was going. At the window they handed me a cup that said HBD LEGEND in Sharpie and pressed six stickers into my palm like holy relics. My family texted me "hbd" at 4 p.m. A nineteen-year-old in a beanie threw me a parade at 6:40 a.m. I know which one I'm telling my grandchildren about.