"That guy just told me that the corporate office is on First, not Fourth."

"Well, the guy that I spoke to seemed like he knew what he was talking about."

"Apparently not," Brady says. He walks out, dumping his latte onto the sidewalk.

We drive back from Fourth to First Avenue and turn right.

"Did he tell you a cross street?" I ask.

"Yup . . . Lander."

"Do we know which way Lander is?"

"This way," he says. I can tell he's nervous because he's being a little short with me, and he's not usually like that. I mean, usually he's annoyed or flustered or pulling his hair out. But he's never really short for no reason. And I understand. He's got a big meeting in front of him. That is, if he can even get in to see this man-which is a completely different story. I sit quietly alongside him for the next few blocks because I don't want to stress him out any more than he already is.

When we get to First and Lander, there really is no sign of the corporate office. I guess we look lost because a skinny woman with a hair color not found in nature offers her assistance. Brady rolls down the window, and she walks over to us.

"Do you need help?" she says. "Is there an address I can help you find?"

"Yes," Brady says. "We were told that the corporate offices of Starbucks were here, but I can't seem to find it."

"Well, there's a Starbucks a few blocks down the way . . ." she says. "But I'm not sure about the corporate headquarters."

"Okay. Thanks anyway," Brady says and continues driving in the direction she pointed.

"Are we going to the next Starbucks?" I ask.

"As many as it takes," he says. And we drive a few blocks until we see another one and pull over.

Brady walks up to the counter and smiles at the girl in the Starbucks cap. "Hi there. I'm supposed to have a meeting at the corporate office, and I seem to be lost. I thought it was on First and Lander . . ."

"No," she says, "it's on Fourth and Lander." As soon as I hear her say Fourth I want to give Brady an I told you so, but I don't. I refrain. Brady thanks the girl and walks over to me.

"Go ahead," he says.

"What?"

"You know what! You were right. You know you want to gloat."

"I do not," I say defensively. "I'm just happy that we know where it is now."

"Uh-huh . . ." he says in this I-don't-believe-you sort of way. But I still keep my trap shut, and we get in the car and drive back to Fourth Avenue. Before we get there we pass another Starbucks, and there's an employee standing outside taking a smoking break. Brady pulls over to him. "Hey," he says to the guy. "The corporate office is up this way?"

"Yeah," the guy says. "It's on Utah."

"Utah?" Brady says, a little exasperated.

"Yeah," he says as he takes a super-long drag off his cigarette, "2401 Utah. It's in the old Sears building."

"I thought it was Fourth and Lander," Brady says, and he gives me an I-knew-you-were-wrong look, even though I kept my mouth shut during the whole First Avenue thing.

"Well, it is Fourth and Lander," he says, and I give a satisfied look back to Brady. "The cross streets are Fourth and Lander, but it's actually on Utah. It's just up that way, 2401. You can't miss it. It's a big brick building with the Starbucks logo on top."

"Thanks, bro," Brady says, and we drive until we see it: the big brick building with the Starbucks logo as the cherry on top.

We pull up front and both get out of the car.

"This is it," I say, and I give him a giant bear hug. "Go kick ass."

He starts to walk away and then runs back to the car.

"Wait! I can't do it!" he shouts. I'm genuinely touched by his reluctance, his indecision. His fear of the unknown. He's come all this way only to be seized by self-doubt.

"Yes you can!" I shout. And sensing the need for some encouragement, Strummer leaps up and bumps his head into the closed passenger window.

Brady looks at me oddly, reaching past me into the back of the car. "Not without this I can't," he says, grabbing the business plan and a Cinnamilk baby bottle.

I get in the driver's seat, give him a wave of encouragement, and pull away. Strummer hops into the passenger seat and we crank up the radio. I told Brady I'd wait for him to go over to the vigil so we could go together. He said he'd call me when he was done, but I don't know how long he's going to be, so I just drive around checking out the local sights. I pass Pike's Market, with all of the fish throwers and the fruit stands, and I get out to buy a bag of cherries. I was going for the run-of-the-mill red ones, but the guy at the stand talks me into Rainier cherries, which are white-ish and pretty tasty. Whatever the color, the real fun of eating cherries is spitting the pits out the window. It's a little-recognized art, and one that I'm a master of. I notice that Strummer is eyeballing me, and I feel bad not being able to share with him-but they have pits, and I don't want him to swallow one. I don't want to be responsible for a cherry tree growing in his stomach.

I spot a convenience store a block away and head over to get Strummer some dog treats.

On my way in, I pass three white kids from the suburbs on a Free Tibet hunger strike. It's apparently Day 15 of the strike, and they don't look happy. They're camped out on this makeshift bed, and they look tired, weak, and hungry. I'd bet they'd like some cherries.

It takes a lot of willpower for me not to try to sneak them some, but I don't. I'd probably get blamed for all Tibetan suffering, and I get blamed for enough as it is.

I walk into the convenience store and they've got Seattle's classic rock station on with "Fly Like an Eagle" blaring. I wonder what would happen if they banned certain songs or retired them permanently. It seems that classic rock boils down to like five songs on heavy rotation. Boston's "More Than a Feeling," Eagles-it's a tie between "Hotel California" and "Life in the Fast Lane"-Bad Company, "Feel Like Makin' Love," Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven," and every single Steve Miller Band song. I reserve the right to lump them all into one song. If a moratorium were suddenly declared on all those songs, it is my assumption that classic rock stations would all go under.

I scan the aisles for dog treats as "Fly Like an Eagle" fades into "The Joker," and my point is proven. They have only the shitty kinds of dog treats made of garbage and nasty by-products, and I don't want Strummer eating that crap, so instead I get him a ham and cheese sandwich. They also have Slurpee machines, only they don't make real Slurpees. The flavors are Cherry and Blue Ice. I mix both. It's not the worst, but I prefer the Cola flavor.

I also spot the Pringles and realize that I haven't had Pringles in a very long time, and I'd like some. When I was younger I remember eating Pringles, and how I'd stack them before I'd eat them, so I'd end up eating four or five at a time. I wonder how many Brady can eat. I hold up a can and start measuring it out in chunks, figuring out how many stacks it would take to kill a can. As I'm counting, I notice a tall good-looking guy in a Cubs cap hovering over by the magazines, watching me. So I try to explain.

"I'm seeing how many handfuls it would take to polish off a can."

"And what have you come up with?" he says as he looks out the window. He seems a little nervous.

"I'm thinking seven," I say. "Maybe six."

"Ambitious," he says, and then looks out the window again. "Did you know that cat piss glows in the dark?"

"Uh . . . no. I didn't."

"Well, it does," he says as he puts one magazine down and picks up another. He may want to work on the non sequitur, I'm not sure. Either way, I'm suddenly all the more glad that I have a dog. "I got black lights and replaced the bulbs in every room in my apartment so I could have a look-see, and it's everywhere! Fuckin' cat piss!"

"Okay . . ." I say. Nothing I can or really want to add to this stimulating conversation. So I grab seven cans of Pringles because I've decided that Brady and I are going to have a contest to see who can finish a can faster.

I end up with three gallons of bottled water, seven cans of Pringles, Strummer's ham and cheese sandwich, my Slurpee, and a funny pair of Foster Grant style sunglasses. I realize after I pay that I'm out of work and still buying things like I'm gainfully employed.

I drag the bags out to the car two at a time, and pop the trunk. While I'm loading the bags, the cat-piss guy comes over.

"Let me help you with those," he says.

"Thanks," I say. "The water was actually killing me." I go and throw the rest of the stuff up front.

"You got it," he says. He loads the water in the trunk, comes back into view, and smiles. "That it?"

"Yes," I say.

"There you go, then," he says and shuts the trunk. See? Now, this is a good guy. Sweet. Helpful. Guys in New York aren't like that.

"Thanks so much," I say. I maneuver my way out from the front seat, but I don't even know if he heard me because he's already walking down the street. Okay then.

I give Strummer his sandwich, and once he's devoured it we take a walk down the block. We walk past a Rite Aid and a coffee shop called Tully's before we get to Union Street, where we make a right. We stop to listen to a street performer who is playing his guitar and singing a medley of Nirvana songs in honor of the anniversary of Kurt's death. Strummer and I listen as he sings, "I feel stupid . . . and contagious / Here we are now . . . entertain us."

Strummer gives me a tug, so we start walking back. Several cop cars speed past us on our way. When we get back to the car Strummer sniffs it out to see if there's any sandwich left, and I open a can of Pringles. Two cans are for the contest. Two are for when he loses and demands a rematch. And the other two are in case he wins that one, and we need a tie-breaker. The seventh can is my practice can. I grab a handful and pull away from the curb. As I'm driving back toward Fourth and Lander a bunch more cop cars with lights flashing speed past going the opposite way. I'm tempted to flip a bitch and see what the action is, but I refrain and stay my course, back to Brady.

Brady.

I walk into 2401 Utah Avenue South, and it's pretty much exactly what I expected. Yes, there is a Starbucks on the ground floor, and yes, it's a corporate building sparsely populated with people in suits and the occasional bike messenger-all coming and going, all in a rush. I scan the directory for Schultz. His office is on the eighth floor.

When I walk over to the elevator banks, nobody stops me to ask where I'm going. I'm in. Just like that. The elevator opens up on the eighth floor, and there is actually another lobby-only the coffee is free in this one. There are pots of coffee along a ledge, with all of the fixings you'd find in a Starbucks, naturally. Behind the reception desk there's a smallish guy wearing a button-down shirt with a V-neck sweater over it. He's got glasses on, and he's got this look on his face like someone just spoon-fed him some motor oil.

"Good morning," he says. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I have a meeting with Howard Schultz."

"Your name?" he asks, looking me over and then wrinkling his nose as he notices the baby bottle.

"My name? Yes. My name is Brady Gilbert."

"One moment," he says as he buzzes what I assume to be Schultz's secretary. "Hi . . . Brady Gilbert?" he says to her. My heart starts to pound so loud I'm worried that he can actually hear it. "One sec," he says and covers up the phone with his hand. "Where are you from?" he asks me.

"New York," I say. Which is true.

"Right . . . what company?"

"I'm . . . I . . ." Fuck, I think. What the hell do I say? "Sleestak Records" isn't exactly going to get me in the door. "Cinnamilk" will give away my brilliant idea. "I'm from the Make-a-Wish Foundation," I say. It just comes out.

"Very good," he says. "He's from the Make-a-Wish Foundation," he repeats into the phone. "Uh-huh? Okay. Great." He hangs up and looks at me with this thin-lipped smile. "I'm sorry, but they don't have a record of any appointment."

"There must be a mistake," I say.

"Mr. Schultz has two assistants back there. Not one . . . two. They together constitute a highly effective machine who are employed to make certain that there are no mistakes."

"Well, there's always a first," I offer meekly.

"I'm sorry, but you have no appointment. You can feel free to leave your literature with me, and I'll send it back."

"No," I say, checking the pleading tone in my voice. "You don't understand. I need to see Mr. Schultz today."

"Not going to happen, my friend," this little man with the big attitude says. I can see I'll have to change my approach. But first I need a cup of coffee.

I step away from the big desk and make my way to the coffee. Dammit if I'm not going to have some free coffee while I'm here. I take a sip of my coffee and pace. He's watching me, so I sit down. Then I stand up again.

"Look, I need to see him. The truth is . . . I'm not from the Make-a-Wish Foundation. I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I just thought it would help."

"Yes, lying about working for a company that grants the wishes of dying children is an excellent idea. I can see why you'd think it would help." He opens up a magazine and starts to flip through it, like I'm not here.

"But I came clean. That's got to count for something."

"What's next?" he says. "Begging me for a milk refill for some starving imaginary baby?"

I don't get what he means at first, but then I see he's looking at the baby bottle. "Oh, this? This . . . this is my lunch."

"How nice," he says. "Your mom packed you a lunch. I call dibs on the Fritos."

"Look, I just flew clear across the country to see Mr. Schultz. I have to talk to him about something that is actually going to make him a lot of money."

"Yeah, you and everybody else who walks through that door. Get in the back of the line."

"Well, I would . . . if you'd show me where the line is."

"It's an expression," he says, rolling his eyes.

"I know. I was making a joke."

"He already has a lot of money. Thanks for stopping by. If you'd like to leave your press kit, or whatever it is that you'd like to speak with Mr. Schultz about, you may do so."

"It's really important," I say. "Can you please just tell him that there is someone out here who needs to talk to him about very important things."

He reaches for his pad and picks up a pen. I see him write my name on it and I think I'm finally getting somewhere.

"Okay. Brady . . . Gilbert . . . very . . . important . . . things," he says, holding it up to show me. "Does this look about right?"

"Yes," I say.

He crumples it up and throws it in the trash. "He's booked solid with meetings."

What had been a test of wills transforms into me wanting to test one of the carafes of coffee over the bridge of his nose. I take a breath. "I'll wait," I say.

"For the next seven months."

"I just need five minutes of his time," I say, enunciating every word.