White House press secretary Scott Muir grabs a drink with his notorious brother at Church and State on H Street to discuss his tsunami industry wipeout before attending the ceremony at the Irish Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue honoring their dad, a human rights activist recently awarded the Tipperary Peace Prize.
Scott is surprised to hear Rodney has already gotten a job at the Starbucks in Georgetown on Wisconsin Avenue like that Tom Hanks movie where the disgraced stock broker starts over as a barista with a bunch of misfit college kids serving decaf peppermint mocha lattes.
That night, after the medal ceremony, Rodney eyes a familiar redhead in a black mini-dress staring right at him, trying to place him; she, moving through the crowded embassy residence, he, brushing up against bare skin of backless dresses; everywhere Rodney looks, there she is, eye-fucking him like a vulture circling a motorist stranded in the Mojave Desert.
A sloppy drunk, his brother actually, blocks Rodney’s view, raving about this “firecrotch” when he catches the enigma machine exiting the event. Rodney leaves his brother dissing the “ginger” immune to his charms, and cuts through the crowd, out the door, and there she is, bumming a cigarette from the valet guy—
“I can’t let you pull a French Exit without getting your name.”
“Maeve,” she says.
“Is that your real name or your Starbucks name?”
She laughs, exhaling a cloud of regurgitated nicotine.
“You remind me of a guy I knew who ran from his apartment to my place with a six-pack of beer and a box of donuts.”
“You remind me of this girl I never knew because I didn’t run after her.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” says Maeve.
“You say that like you’re doing a stretch in prison or something.”
“Or married,” she says.
“Ms. Macchiato,” he snaps his fingers.
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s what you always order at the Bux on Wisconsin.”
Maeve flicks away her smoke. Rodney introduces himself.
“You’re the reason I keep going back to that Starbucks.”
“Is that right?”
“I like scars, Rodney. Do you have any?”
“Let’s go upstairs and I’ll show you.”
Making out in a guest bedroom, Maeve and Rodney agree to postpone the inevitable and, still kissing each other, decide for propriety’s sake he should return to the party first. Maeve waits five minutes and rejoins the event as if they hadn’t just torn each other’s clothes off. Imagine Rodney’s shock when Ireland’s ambassador to the United States, about to give a speech recognizing the peace efforts of the guest of honor, aka his father, takes a moment to introduce his second wife, aka Ms. Macchiato, face flushed, to the celebratory participants. Soon they are regularly steaming up the windows of her Range Rover in the Starbucks parking lot during his lunch breaks. Ms. Macchiato tells Rodney not to worry about the ambassador; if they get caught they’ll have diplomatic immunity.
On his way into work a couple of days later, Rodney notices a film set in Georgetown and pulls over to check out the production. He approaches a bearded crew member and learns the title of the movie they’re filming is Ignition.
Rodney: “Ignition?! Where’s Thør?”
The professional familiarity throws off the second AD, who looks at Rodney like a deranged civilian instead of the former studio executive responsible for everyone on this set having a job. Rodney decides to return the next day in his barista apron and approaches a production assistant who points out the director to the man from Starbucks. Rodney goes right up to Thør and hands him a Venti Red Eye spiked with Tabasco sauce. The Norwegian takes one sip, grimaces in disgust, and hurls the poisoned cup to the ground.
Rodney: “You’re dead, Rosenthal.”
The director, a member of the industry assassination league KAOS (Killing as An Organized Sport), can’t believe Rodney came all the way to DC to whack him.
Thør: “Who sent you, the janitors?”
(The assassination game pitting studios vs. management companies vs. assistants vs. publicists vs. movie stars vs. agencies coursed through the industry like a California wildfire. The extremist group Justice for Janitors recently claimed responsibility for slitting the throat of literary agent Jerry Makos, significantly upping the stakes for every coffee, lunch, and pitch meeting.)
Rodney explains he’s currently VP of cappuccino at the Wisconsin Avenue Starbucks. Thør tells his former Deathbed executive to hang out by the video village while he huddles with Roger Deakins. The barista waits about ten minutes before going to work, not caring he would be late this morning.