A Grey Area

When a Grey walked into the 41st Street Starbucks, all the Reptiloids drinking their mid-day macchiatos turned yellow with surprise. No Greys had been seen in a Starbucks since the Cinnamon Wars. The Grey, a short elderly fellow in a worn brown overcoat, approached the counter and ordered a grande cappuccino. The barista was human, although determining that required a second look. His face was almost entirely covered in tattoos, and enough metal protruded from his ears, nose, and lower lip to defeat any facial recognition algorithm. His name tag read ASH PHOENIX — PROUD/THEY. Behind him hung a municipal poster: GOTHAM COFFEE FOR ALL — $1.50 PER CUP. ALL SENTIENT SPECIES WELCOME. Ash considered the Grey for a moment.

“Before I can serve you, I’ll need you to condemn the Outer Moon settlements and acknowledge the historical suffering of the Reptiloid people.”

“I was hatched six blocks from here,” the Grey said.

“That’s not the point,” Ash replied.

“So what is the point?”

“Your responsibility to the community.”

“Which community?”

“The one affected by your presence.”

The Grey looked around at the Reptiloids, who had resumed their macchiatos but were listening closely. “Look, I just want coffee. The three other shops in the neighborhood closed after the mayor fixed the price at a dollar fifty.”

“That’s the mayor’s Coffee for All initiative,” Ash said.

“I know. I voted for him,” the Grey responded.

Ash rolled his eyes. “Supporting affordable coffee doesn’t excuse complicity in colonialism.”

He pushed a laminated declaration across the counter. The Grey read the first paragraph, which contained the words settler, accountability, and historical obligation four times each.

“I’ve never been to the Outer Moons,” he said.

“That’s precisely why your condemnation would be so valuable,” Ash replied.

At a corner table, an elderly Reptiloid lowered his newspaper. His scales had faded to the color of old leather, and the end of his tail was missing.

“Give him his coffee, Ash. He’s not asking you to annex anything.”

Ash straightened. “With respect, I have a master’s degree in Interstellar Cultural Studies.”

“I have a missing tail,” the Reptiloid replied.

“Lived experience doesn’t automatically confer cultural competence,” Ash informed him.

The old Reptiloid folded his newspaper. “I fought in the Cinnamon Wars.”

“Then you should know better,” Ash said.

“I do.” The Reptiloid looked at the Grey. “Your family in the war?”

“Three brothers. Lost them at West Forty-Fifth.”

“That’s where I lost the tail.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Don’t be. Got a pension out of it.”

Ash started to explain why the exchange itself was problematic. A woman at the next table began recording it. Within minutes, the video was circulating under the caption GREY SETTLER CONFRONTS INDIGENOUS COFFEE WORKER.

By the time the manager came out to investigate, there were protesters outside. Half carried LET HIM DRINK signs; the other half carried RESPECT REPTILOID SPACES. A smaller group across the street appeared to be protesting Starbucks itself, although several members were holding Starbucks cups. Two television crews had arrived, along with a rainbow-haired teenager selling I SURVIVED THE CINNAMON WARS T-shirts. While the manager called headquarters, LET HIM DRINK split over whether let implied Reptiloid authority over Grey bodies. RESPECT REPTILOID SPACES divided over whether a multinational coffee chain could legitimately constitute an indigenous space. The group protesting Starbucks remained united, although several members went inside for refills. At minute twenty-seven, the manager put down the phone.

“Headquarters says this location is a Grey zone under the Cinnamon Accords. We need guidance from Gotham’s Office of Equitable Consumption.”

“A Grey zone?” the Grey asked. “I thought that meant neutral territory.”

The manager scrolled through her tablet. “The original document designated coffee shops as gray areas. The city’s legal department decided that meant Grey areas, and therefore Reptiloids needed protection.”

“From what?” asked the Grey.

“From Greys,” said Ash.

“In a Grey area?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Ash.

The Grey and the old Reptiloid looked at each other.

The old Reptiloid went to the counter and ordered two cappuccinos. Ash hesitated and looked at the manager, who shrugged helplessly. Apparently there was nothing in the regulations preventing a Reptiloid from buying two coffees. Ash charged three dollars, made the drinks, and handed them over.

“You’re circumventing the community accountability process,” he said.

“Put it on my record,” replied the Reptiloid.

He carried the cups back to the table and gave one to the Grey. They drank in silence for a moment. Outside, someone had begun chanting WHOSE FOAM? OUR FOAM!

“Needs cinnamon,” said the Grey.

The Reptiloid reached into his coat pocket and produced a small metal shaker.

“Isn’t this how the Cinnamon Wars started?” asked the Grey.

The Reptiloid pushed the shaker across the table.

“What can you do?” he said gravely.