The White-Chocolate Mocha Latte Drizzly Seattle Blues

There he was, Howard Schultz, the man who turned Starbucks into an empire, sitting in a folding chair, quietly hoping his Sonics could get some scoring off the bench. I had consumed approximately 23 venti white-chocolate mocha lattes during my three-day attempt to track him down. It had cost me many of my last dollars, partial use of my left inferior lung, even my innocence in the eyes of the law. But I’d found him. The tremor in my hand wasn’t nerves, I told myself; it was the white-chocolate mocha lattes.

“Excuse me, Mr. Schultz?”

One look at me and his eyes went wide. “Do I know you?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Or, well, more correctly, no. But--I’d like to speak with you sometime. About something. You might have gotten my note. Notes.” The tremor had gone to my tongue. So after the game I was wondering if I could buy you a cup of--”

I trailed off, hoping he was disoriented enough by my matted hair and weird smell to have missed this newest line of inquiry. I tried to take a deep breath, but the pneumonia turned it into a small coughing fit. When it ended, he was waiting politely for me to complete my thought. A hundred drinks flashed through my mind. Root beer? Gin? Hemlock?

“Coffee,” I concluded.

The CEO of Starbucks looked at me askance and contemplated his next move.

A few months earlier, I’d had this idea. A really good idea, which was as much of a surprise to me as anyone. Starbucks was the nation’s Third Space, where people of all ages gathered daily not just for coffee but to talk, read, listen to music and work on their computers. It prided itself on community, contemplation and creativity and was always looking to reinforce the bond between company and customer. What better way, I thought, than by creating a quarterly anthology of short stories written by Starbucks customers for Starbucks customers?

Lex Luthor couldn’t have hatched a better plan. Due to its omnipresence, Starbucks is the only entity in the world immune to the debilitating overhead that plagues the publishing industry. Consider that distribution and display costs alone allow Barnes & Noble or Borders to swallow half a book’s profits, forcing publishers to focus their efforts on a few big-name writers; those who can’t immediately generate a huge readership are effectively locked out. By eliminating the middleman, Starbucks could not only turn a huge profit--leaving room to donate (and write off) some proceeds to its literacy programs--but it could also hit the cutting edge of literature. And with short fiction, each story lasts just long enough for the reader to enjoy a good cup of coffee.

I wrote up a kick-ass business proposal. The title: “Written@Starbucks.” It was October 2004.

I went to the company website. “Thank you for your interest in Starbucks . . . we are interested in new ideas, technology and products,” it announced. I shuddered. No doubt, once I got this into the right hands it would spiral out of control. I wondered if they’d fly me up to Seattle in Howard’s private jet.

“While we are happy to consider these,” the site continued, “we cannot promise to keep any proposals, ideas or materials confidential. We cannot promise to compensate you for using them and we cannot promise that we will not . . . [use] your idea or a similar idea.”

Clearly I needed to speak to someone. “Sheila,” I said to the customer-service woman, “I need to speak with someone about my idea.”

“Certainly, sir,” she replied. “Thank you for reaching out to Starbucks. We are interested in new ideas, technology--”

“No,” I said. “You don’t understand. This idea is different. It’s about people coming together and expressing themselves and discovering the unique greatness that each holds within. It can change the direction of your company. I just need to speak with someone who can help. It’s important, Sheila, you need to help me. I’m begging you. Please.”

She paused. Was she looking up the appropriate department’s number? Or radioing for someone to fuel the jet? “While we are happy to consider these,” she finally said, “we cannot promise to keep any ideas confidential or to compensate--”

And so it went. Blocked at every turn, the message was always the same: They’d love to hear my idea, but Starbucks couldn’t guarantee that it wouldn’t take my proposal and leave me in its dust. Discouraged, I let a month go by, then another, returning to the dreary life wherein my work, my coffee and my reading remained separate entities.

Then one day, a friend recommended a book, “Pour Your Heart Into It.” The story of a kid from the projects who followed his dreams, persevered in the face of enormous resistance and never, ever allowed himself to be turned away from his goals. I read it in one night. If you believe in your idea, it insisted, you should never cease in your quest to achieve it. The book was right: I could do anything I wanted. After all, the author had turned a simple coffee store into one of the most recognized franchises in the world.

I put together a team that consisted of myself, a literary agent who had spent 20 years as an editor and eventually vice president of a major publishing house, and a guy who owned a printing press near Seattle. It was February 2005, and I was done being squashed beneath the foot of The Man. It was time to go to the top. I was going to find Howard Schultz.

I touched down on a cold and rainy February day in Seattle and made my way to 2401 Utah Ave. It was an unimpressive sight, a nine-story building in a slightly industrial strip near the water. But he was in there, somewhere. How was I to find him, though? And then a limousine pulled up. Just like that, a short man in a $1,000 suit emerged, surrounded by his entourage. A TV van pulled up right behind and spat out a crew. Indeed, Providence had arrived, packaged and sealed like a bag of Sulawesi Blend. The time for action had come.

“Excuse me, sir?” It was the TV reporter. She was holding a microphone to me. “We need a local citizen’s opinion about the bond to renovate the bridge. Would you mind being interviewed?”

“Um, sure,” I said. “But on one condition.” I pointed at the man in the suit, exchanging pleasantries with a small crowd. “I want to talk to him.”

The woman shrugged, recorded my sound bite, then had her assistant lead me through the crowd until I was face to face with my target. His umbrella enveloped us like a battlefield tent where generals could talk alone. I smiled and held out a hand. “I know you’re busy,” I said, “and you must get this all the time. But I’ve come a long way carrying a great idea. It’s the kind of idea that made Starbucks--and, in fact, this whole country--great. It’s about forming a bond with your customers, Mr. Schultz, about trusting them and giving back and maybe even discovering greatness.” I took a moment to breathe. He just looked at me like I was speaking Sulawesi.

Finally, one of his aides spoke. “Sir, if you have a question for the governor, please ask. Otherwise, give someone else a chance.”

Which was when it occurred to me that I had no idea what Howard Schultz looked like. I just assumed he’d be the guy in Seattle wearing a nice suit. “Sir--do you have a question?”

Yes, dammit, I did. “Mr. Governor,” I said, “how can I find Howard Schultz?”

Water poured off the umbrella as the governor gave me a knowing smile. “Kid,” he said, “if you can figure that one out, give me a call.” And then he and his entourage turned and walked off toward some bridge.

I wandered inside and began my vigil.

It was an office building like any other, down to the smallest details, such as having a Starbucks in the lobby. A guy in a green smock said Mr. Schultz usually came in once a day. I looked over the menu and thought a venti white-chocolate mocha latte sounded good. Then I sat, my soaked T-shirt and jeans plastered to my flesh, and waited.

He never came.

So I tried to find him. Made it all the way to the receptionist on the eighth floor. She’d smiled sweetly and told me that Mr. Schultz was very busy. In fact, he was all booked today. And tomorrow. And the next day too. I went back down and ordered another white-chocolate mocha latte.

The trick to stalking someone is to have an alibi for why you’re there. Mine was that I was a big fan of Mr. Schultz’s (true), was in town for a few days (true) and was hoping to get him to autograph a copy of his book (not really true, though not entirely false). Clearly, Seattle is a town of weirdos, because the guy in the smock thought that seemed perfectly reasonable. “In fact,” he said, “a lot of nights, he goes to the Starbucks out by where he lives.”

That night, so did I. And when it closed, I found a hotel bed where I could pretend that my shivering was only the lingering effect of caffeine, rather than the onset of walking pneumonia. “Thousands of cars drive across it every day,” some concerned citizen was saying on the evening news. “Sure, it’ll cost money to renovate. But I say we cross that bridge when we--”

And I was asleep.

“White-chocolate mocha latte,” I said. The lobby at 2401 Utah was starting to feel like home.

Mr. Green Smock eyed me from behind the counter. “Back again, huh?”

“Yup.” I nodded and gave him my $4.35. “So--Mr. Schultz been down today?”

He held out my coffee but didn’t let go. “Saw you on the news last night,” he said. I froze, then let my face relax. Losing your cool is a big stalking no-no. “Said you were a local citizen,” he continued. “But you told me you were from out of town.”

I pulled out my wallet, letting him glance several times from my driver’s license to my face. He settled on my face.

“Los Angeles, huh?” He leaned forward. “You sure knew an awful lot about that bridge.”

I thanked him, took the coffee and walked quickly toward the elevators.

I got out on the eighth floor and paused. Just as during my fitful night’s sleep the bacteria and phlegm had consolidated in my lungs, so too a plan had formed in my brain. I took out my copy of “Pour Your Heart Into It,” stuffed my business plan into the middle, then wrote on the inside cover, “Mr. Schultz, please look at the pages enclosed. I’ve come 1,000 miles. Please.” I handed the book to the receptionist and said, “I was just wondering if he would be willing to sign this for me.”

I spent the rest of the day sitting in my rental car coughing and waiting for him to leave the building. He never did. But that was OK. I had a basketball game to attend.

“Yes, sir,” the nice woman at the ticket office said. “Mr. Schultz goes to all the games. Has his own seat courtside every night.”

“And how much are courtside tickets?”

“Tonight--$640.”

“But you guys aren’t even that good.”

The woman waited patiently.

“Does Mr. Schultz pay $640 a game?”

“Mr. Schultz owns the team.”

On the one hand, discovering greatness was surely worth six bills. On the other, I didn’t have six bills. But I’d found creative ways to get into events before. The Duke-Carolina game, the ACC tournament, the Academy Awards. This was just some crummy regular-season NBA game, when the players weren’t going to care enough to play defense. I didn’t like the idea of stealing someone else’s seat, but I came to the amicable compromise that once “Written@Starbucks” had made me a millionaire, I’d pay back the Sonics. I considered it a business loan.

Of course, if I revealed every secret here, no one would ever pay to see a sporting event again. Or, more accurately, security would be tightened enough so that I’d have to pay every time I wanted to go. Let’s just say that some banter with a couple of reporters, a bit of photocopying at Kinkos and a cold-hearted ability to lie to myself landed me at the buffet line in the press room. Minutes later, I found myself wandering the hardwood of the Key Arena. “That’s him,” a friendly usher told me.

They say that the direction of our lives is determined in just a few key moments. If I someday became the chief editor of the world’s most important literary quarterly, it would not be due to untold hours of reading and networking and blood, sweat and tears. It would be because of what happened in the next two minutes. No, the tremor in my hand was not nerves, I told myself; it was the white-chocolate mocha lattes. Because I had an idea. And I believed in it.

“--if I could buy you a cup of coffee.”

He looked at me, then patted the chair next to him. I sat down and waited.

“I saw your business plan.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s good,” he said, then trailed off into silence. “Tell me--Jeff, is it? Why are you here?”

“Well,” I said, “consider that distribution and display alone allows Barnes & Noble or Borders to take over half a book’s profits--”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, why did you come all this way? You could have called.”

“Because I read once in a book that when you believe in something so strongly that you just can’t give it up, you have to keep trying every way you can, no matter how many people turn you away.” He was nodding, thinking. “Besides,” I said, “I did call. They weren’t very helpful.”

“Here,” he said, pulling out that night’s lineup sheet and scribbling on the back. “I don’t deal with this stuff much anymore. Talk to Anne and tell her I thought it was a good idea. See if she thinks we can use it.”

“Thanks,” I said. “And you know, I just wanted to tell you, I think you’ve done a great job creating this company. I’m glad I finally got to meet you.”

“I’m glad too,” he said, shaking my hand. “It really is a good idea.”

Though the box score says the Timberwolves’ Kevin Garnett had 14 rebounds, I don’t remember anything about that game. Or going to sleep that night, or flying home the next day. The only thing I knew was that no one could accuse me of not doing everything I could.

Two days later, Anne called to say Starbucks wasn’t interested in getting into literature. And 567 days later, on Oct. 3, 2006, Starbucks celebrated the launch of a new book by Mitch Albom to be sold in its stores.

Anne has since been replaced by Ken, who directed me to Nikkole and Gina. They thought my idea sounded great. We set up a conference call. They were both nice, listened intently and indicated this was something they were interested in pursuing. So interested, in fact, that they already were pursuing a relationship with a major publisher. I could understand, they said, that short fiction written for Starbucks customers by Starbucks customers was a natural offshoot of their current literary foray. And that I shouldn’t be surprised that it was something that had been discussed internally almost a year ago. I could understand that--right?

I suggested they call Howard Schultz. Surely he’d remember me. But they told me he wasn’t involved with these decisions anymore, though they’d keep me in the loop if there was any way I could be of help. Then they said goodbye, and thanked me for reaching out to Starbucks.

Had Howard lied to me? Is pouring your heart into it all just a bunch of crap?

No, I don’t think it is. After all, Gina said they’re still a year away, so it’s not over yet. In the meantime, I know where he gets his nighttime Macchiato. And so, Howard Schultz, if you happen to be reading this, I want you to know that I still think you’re right; if you believe in your idea, you should never give up. Which is why I want to let you know I’m still available for that editing job. And when the day comes that you finally get in touch, remind me--I still owe you $640.