Toasted bagels. Muffins. Black coffee. Lattes. The occasional request for herbal tea. Sometimes I worry that my life has been reduced to a long string of $3 transactions for things that add no real value to the world. After all, if coffee shops didn’t exist, people could have all the things they are buying from me at home before leaving for work, or in the office break room.

But when I look up from the espresso machine long enough to see all the faces in my little place I know Joe’s Joe isn’t primarily a place to buy coffee. It’s a place to share community.

I don’t get up at 4 every morning to open the shop so that I can sell bagels with cream cheese. I do it to see all those familiar and unfamiliar faces, to say good morning, and ask about the kids or the vacation. These are not deep conversations or relationships, but they create positive connection and they matter - to me and most everyone who comes through the door.

That’s why I’ve developed a sixth sense for when someone comes into the shop who isn’t there for the right reason. I’m never quite sure what it is, and because of that I’m always checking myself to see if someone’s ethnicity, race, gender identity, age, or other visible characteristics have anything to do with it.

I feel like I can never be certain they don’t - I know I’ve got internalized bias - so I never act on my first impression. I’m just more attentive until I feel confident one way or another.

Take the guy who came in this morning. Nothing notable about his appearance, but there was something off. He was maybe 30, think grunge band guitar player. He didn’t walk directly to the counter or to drop his stuff at a table. He looked slightly lost, unsure, or maybe even afraid. He didn’t make eye contact with me or anyone else. The bag on his shoulder seemed to be empty, and he was alternately squeezing his right forearm and scratching his ear.

There could have been hundred reasons for this behavior that weren’t in the least threatening. On the other hand, there were at least a few reasons someone coming into a coffee shop could give off these nervous vibes that were a problem.

Turns out, his intentions were a problem. My head was turned toward one of my regulars who was ordering her daily quad-shot non-fat latte, when I heard the scream.

I looked out into the cafe just in time to see Grunge Band Man ripping the purse from the hands of a young mother who’d been sitting playing Old Maid - or something like it - with her toddler. She was yelling at him to let go when the strap broke, sending her stumbling backward into her table. The toddler was shaking and in tears.

As the thief ran from the coffee shop, my instincts took over and I followed him.