"No, brain, grabbing someone's coffee off the pick-up counter is not a good idea." Mark muttered to himself, staring at the Starbucks across the street.
"Why not?" His roommate asked, raising an eyebrow. Mark supressed a grin (he really liked this guy) and rolled his eyes.
"Well, for one, I don't even like coffee." he started. Coffee, despite what anyone would ever tell him, was (in Mark's mind, at least) The Drink of Satan. It was highly addictive, nasty as hell without obscene amounts of cream, sugar, and various flavorings, and generally caused Mark to be unable to climb down from the ceiling for a day or so. "And anyway," he continued, "Stealing is wrong. Or don't they teach you that in graduate school?" Mark's new roommate (Thomas B. Collins, or Tom Collins, like the drink) had just recieved a degree in philosophy. Another one. Mark had thought that, because of that, he might be a little more... law-abiding.
"It's not stealing." Collins insisted. "Not unless you have the money but you don't feel like using it."
"We have money." Mark pointed out.
"Yes, but that's to pay our rent and buy our groceries. It's going to a higher cause. We have no money to spend on such frivolities as coffee!" Collins declared rather loudly. Mark cringed a little, smiling apologetically to the nearby homeless man Collins had woken up.
"I don't drink coffee." Mark commented, for lack of anything better to say. Collins shrugged.
"Tea, then, whatever." he shook his head and grinned ominously. Only without the ominous bit - Mark was probably the only person that Collins' grin would give a sense of forboding. "C'mon, Mark my boy. It's time you learned the fine anarchistic art of liberation..."
"I can't believe you're doing this!" Mark hissed as Collins took up a post nead (but not too near) the pick-up counter.
"'We', my friend. 'We'." Collins grinned and spoke softly. "Now, here's the trick: you wait until the coffee-making-person calls something you like, and then you step up quickly and grab it. As long as they don't call a name." he added. "Now, when they call the coffee--"
"I don't drink coffee." Mark reminded him.
"--or tea that you want, don't hesitate. Just step up, grab the drink, and walk away like you paid for it."
"...Like what?"
"Like you paid for it." Collins explained patiently. "Like you waited in line, ordered, and shelled out your hard-earned cash for that cup of coffee."
"I don't drink--" Mark started.
"Yes, yes, I know, you drink tea." Collins rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "It's an illustration."
"Oh."
"So?" Collins looked at him expectantly. Mark sighed.
"Fine. But you go first." he added. Collins nodded agreement.
"I'll wait for you outside." he said. "But if you're not out in 20 minutes, I'm coming in."
Eighteen minutes later, Mark was standing in the exact same spot, trying to make a move to grab a cup, any cup, who cares what's in it. He knew he couldn't pull off Collins' easy, nonchalant grace, but getting out without being arrested or mugged was high on his list of priorities.
"Breakfast tea with honey?" the 'barista' (or as Collins had said, the 'coffee-making-person') called, and Mark was so surprised to hear his favorite drink called that he was halfway to the door with the steaming cup in hand before he could react. Then suddenly, he heard a guy behind him calling "Hey!", and he rushed out to hide behind Collins, where he'd be safe from pretty much anything short of a nuclear blast (and even that seemed possible). "Hey!" the guy shouted again. Mark was practically running now, trying to reach Collins, who was waiting down the block a ways and watching bemusedly. He was almost there when a strong hand grabbed his shoulder and forcedfully turned him around, taking the tea from him in his moment of shock.
"You shmuck." Roger said fondly as Collins laughed hysterically at Mark's expression. "That's my tea."