Suits and Such

What was supposed to be a filler job for my real ambitions somehow turned into a sincere enjoyment and human observation project. I love all of the regulars that frequent our cafe, but occasionally we get a few, well, you fill in the blank as you wish.

There is a well dressed middle aged man that comes in the morning, usually with other well dressed middle aged early risers, and he always opens a tab for everyone. One morning he was accompanied by a younger man who didn't practice the same pleasantries; some entry level prick trying to make an impression on the boss man who had finally invited him for breakfast with the rest of the people on their floor. Mere blocks from the capitol, county courthouse and various big businesses, I tend to get these guys on occasion pushing condescending presences while barking demeaning orders at me. It doesn't bother me. I'd like to say that I could get a spot at the cubicle next them, dress like them, kiss lots of ass, begin to hate my life, and take it out on people who don't deserve it like them, but I don't. Behind the typical white v-neck t's, tipped newsie hat and jeans, I usually look back with the same condescension knowing that a diligence to my written work beyond the coffee counter will produce a life of meaning that will forever surpass any feeble corporate contribution they may make, but I do this with a smile.

He orders two breakfast tacos and tells me the boss will be picking up the tab because he makes more money; charming. Furthermore, we have a punch card that allows customers a free entree after the purchase of 11 others. He asked me to punch his card, to which I promptly told him that tacos did not constitute as an entree. He became upset, disregarding that he had pushed his $4 tacos on someone else and wanted me to count this as an entree for him after being rude the entire time. He said,

- "What do you mean it's not an entree?"

-"I mean, it's two tacos and doesn't include a side. It's not an entree sir."

-"Well who the hell made that rule!?"

-"The suits."

-"Suits? What does that mean? (as the boss he was trying to impress laughed aloud and tried to fill him in on the term) I know the owner! I'll tell him about this!"

(Tell him what? That I was doing my job correctly? Nice name drop douche.)

The next girl came in with a friendly smile, ordered the same thing, and I gladly punched them as an entree. To this bizarre bean who doesn't know his own label: you know who you are.

It All Happened so Fast

A friend and I had just arrived at a coffee shop. We had barely had time to scan for seats when we both walked past a table as a girl said aloud, "I am, like, so incredibly single right now. I mean, it's not even funny." When we found our own seat we both asked each other if we had heard that comment, verbally wondering how bad things have to get to downgrade one's status from single to: incredibly single.

She was wrong though. It was pretty funny. I mean, like, she was, like, sitting as the only girl amongst three dudes leading the conversation with her incredible singleness. To this bizarre bean with super slim pickins these days: you know who you are...

It's not about coffee this time, but it is bizarre

It was spring 2007 in the year of our Lord when my reign on “the inside” finally crumbled. What is “the inside” you ask? Well, for lack of better descriptions, clinical research; guinea pig stuff; getting paid to take non-FDA approved drugs. It’s a lucrative business if you know the market well enough, and I’m not talking about the pharmaceutical part. Everyone is getting one form or another of that. No, I’m talking about the stuff we’re not allowed to have in here. I set up a ring that could get my fellow patients anything they wanted. If you had possession of any contraband chances were they came from me, or my ground crew took it and I sold it back to you for a significant markup. Everyone was involved from security, paramedics, nurses (technicians), lunch ladies, all the way down to the shuttle driver. When the tech sting was initiated to bring us down, the clinic lost 2/3 of its employees. It’s been almost three years since “The Great Phlebotomy Crash” that sent the suits to their knees when they no longer had enough people to draw blood to get the findings necessary to submit for government approval. If you’re wondering who I am, we go by initials in here. I guess they feel it dehumanizes us enough to maintain order now. I am Study Volunteer #116 of the Yellow T-shirts, T.A.R.

The repercussions were real, and now that I’m back, the plan is to fly low under the radar. I’m doing some hard time in here. Twenty-three days is no joke. The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself. Hell, I had to sneak a false number in my SSN and go by the pseudonym: Ricardo Immanuel Vasquez de Alejandro Villareal Rambeau just to get back in. You’d think they had taken a few pages from the former USSR. I swear this place is run by a bunch of Red Ruskies spreading their totalitarian regime under the propaganda of commie equality. Before, I had created the perfect empire modeled after the champions of industry on the outside. I paid doctors off fair and square, attended the right board game “fun fundraiser”parties and left good feedback in the survey boxes for the pundits I knew had a shot to apply our ideals in public offices; they remember stuff like that, and hey, let’s just say the kickbacks were nice. The juice box subsidies were just what we needed to get an edge on rival competitors come snack time. It was feast or famine, and anyone who ran with me dined well beyond their means. Who do these people think they are now to redistribute my corrupt efforts to all patients? The system is still severely flawed though.

Now, territories have been divvied for power over the shower stall with the best water pressure, the seat next to the only window in the study room, control over the pool table in the game room, and of course, access to the one remote that controls both TV rooms. I suppose the idea was to give a little to each group, rather than run the risk of the unilateral vertical operations I was running happening again. Whatever. The only way to attain status is to quite simply state it these days. All day inmates, excuse me, patients are claiming how many studies they’ve done here, but they’re all fresh faces to me. Everything was going great. I kept my head down, grew a beard and spoke to no one until the streak finally broke. I blew my cover by doing the worst thing possible, saying some funny shit.

It seems a nurse had gotten flustered that someone presumably was going to be late to their procedures. Without calling for him she went straight to the loud speaker. He had been right next to her. Embarrassed, she tried to say that she merely liked hearing her voice over the intercom. I interjected in his defense explaining that some people just had the right face for radio. The pretty phlebotomist didn’t find this to be ironically humorous. Nor did I when she jabbed me to the tendon on my ensuing blood draw demanding to know: who I was, if it were my first time and why she didn’t recognize me.

Knowing my $5800 was now in jeopardy, the race was on to rebuild alliances before I get out in less than a week. Fortunately, I get around like the plague, and the residing lunch lady, as we'll call her, is a former flame. Let's just say she's helped me acquire certain things; necessary things. Trickle down theory was a load of crap anyway, I admit it, and we’ve been working together from the ground up to spare my tainted name in time to get out and get paid. Yessir, it’s been quite eventful in here, or might all of this just be the drugs talking? My memory’s a little hazy. To these bizarre beans: we know who we are...

Lady Friends

Storm clouds loomed over head when I arrived at a new coffee house. In the backyard area they were having a junkyard sale with what looked like a bunch of residents from the surrounding neighborhood bringing just that; junk. Heavy winds were forcing them to pack up their piles of crap, but not before I scored a hard cover copy of a Kurt Vonnegut novel on the cheap from a paperback Star Trek junkie.

Inside appeared to be the creation of two business partner's incoherent collaboration. On one side of the room there was a bar with the Sunday football games on, but fluffed up a bit with a couple of the largest round paper lamps I've ever seen dangling like testicles made up of the planet Jupiter from the exposed ac ducts and ceiling. On the other side was the coffee counter with random pieces of art just kind of strewn about without any themes or uniformity. This little lady behind the counter looked more like a frazzled librarian type that was too loud to keep her post. Anyone ever see the movie Liar Liar? Remember the eccentric woman in Jim Carrey's office who kept changing her hair style, and asking him what he thought when he couldn't lie? That is this girl behind the counter. When she asked what I wanted I said, "Just coffee." She looked like she was translating an obscure language, but couldn't figure out the code. "Wait, WHAAAAT did you say?" - "Just coffee."

Her boyfriend came in as her shift was ending. He stood about 5'4" decked out in slacks and a sharp button up. If dress weren't the most descriptive feature a person usually wears, I wouldn't feel the need to describe it in any way, but they were quite the opposing styles. They sat next to me on the couch. Thank God for the headphones and my focus that evening, because they proceeded to suck face and giggle like idiots, "I like you more." - "NO, I like you more!" (Great you're both lame. Neither of you win.) To my bewilderment, a guy came over from the bar across the building to announce, "I just came to say that you and your lady friend are sooo cute." They weren't cute. I wanted to back hand him immediately for emboldening their bothersome petting, but she took offense to his statement before I could stand up and rear back. "Lady friend? What I'm not fit to be considered an actual girlfriend?" (Boyfriend) "Ah, here we go..." - "WHAT!?" - "He was just complimenting us babe." - "I know, but LADYfriend sounds so informal don't you think?" And so the debate went with the guy awkwardly trapped trying to recant his failed sincerity when he should've just kept his happy ass at the bar all along.

I actually laughed to myself because, in 8 years, I've only dropped my guard enough to call two ladies my girlfriend. The rest have affectionately been described as ladyfriends also. To these bizarre beans canoodling like school kids next to me: you know who you are...

She Can Do it!

The walls that house this coffee shop were obviously built to surround a family in the 40's. The old wood and pipes are now painted into a green and maroon mural depicting those who influenced its creation into what it is today. I don't consider myself to be attributed to any particular look or style, but there are definitely some that I can't pull off. This barista can. She is beyond the hipsters, trapped between several eras I can't quite pinpoint, but it is genuine and hers; not to be recreated or attempted by any other. She has earned her spot behind the counter of this place.

She wears a long breezy skirt down to the ankles of her long slender frame. An old apron outlined in lace gives contrasting coloration to the earth tones below her exposed navel made visible by the short plain white tank top. Its crisscrossed thin rosie bra straps match the multiple dyed riveted pony tails encased by the patterned rag in her hair you could never find in a store now. She appears to be the daughter, and more feminine incarnation of the heroine from the famous WWII "We Can Do It!" portrait; domesticated and enjoying the previous allied victory that affords us the mentality of peace (even amidst constant war) in this country.

To this bizarre bean who seems to be the most fitting of all the misfits here, and better not betray my interpretation by returning home to a condo: you know who you are...

More Fun Lines at Work

To the girl who came in acting like she was hot shit, and later spilled her latte all over the floor (now sporting a completely different attitude):
Her- "I am so sorry."
Me- "Hey, it's fine. Whenever you're ready you can come up to the front, and we'll ring you up for the cleaning fee."
Her- "There's a cleaning fee?"
Me- "No."

A woman came in with two very small children. They were nagging, whining, pulling at her arm trying to be held. In addition she had a diaper bag, and was attempting to get her stroller in the door that the kids refused to sit in. I felt for her. She didn't want my sympathy. She ordered a few drinks, two cupcakes for the little ones, and also asked where the high chairs were. Despite the line behind her, I asked if I could help them beyond the counter. She said no. She had almost made it to the table of choice in one piece when she dropped one of the cupcakes on the floor. Hoping to avoid a screaming kid, as well as any more unnecessary stress in her life, I promptly brought her another cupcake. She bent down, picked the other up off the ground, and while refusing the new one said,
"Oh, no thanks. It's okay. Really. My kids eat off of the floor all the time."
-"Three second rule family huh?" (In a joking tone)
-"Sure." (In a very non-joking tone)

Another woman came in around 9:30am only to unexpectantly see our gleaming cupcake selection:
"OH. OH NO! OOOHHH God. Why? Wow. Oh, this is bad."
Me- "Mam, it's not like drinking. I won't judge you if you have one before noon. Hell, I wouldn't judge you if you had a drink before noon either."

I only divulge myself because I can usually keep a straight face through all of this, but this last one broke me. She asked for a dark chocolate mocha frappe with whipped cream. Cool, coming right up. Then she asked, "Oh, and can you make that as low calorie as possible?" People have every right to order whatever they want void of criticism, but not to say something that blatantly absent minded to me. I wanted to tell her to do a few laps around the building first if it was a pressing issue, but decided laughing aloud was harsh enough.

Fun Lines While Working

As a customer returns to the counter:
-"Hey can I get a cup for water please?"
-"Sure, that'll be $2.15."
Blank stare
-"Really...?"
Me- "No."

A customer rings up a total of $2.15 for their order. They pull out a credit card, and ask if it's okay to use it for an order that small. I say:
"Ahh, actually we have a $17.00 minimum."
-"Really? $17.00?"
-"No."

We have mason jars titled, Cake Jar, with a fun descriptive name of what kind of cake is in them. Almost every other day I hear:
"Wow what are those Cake Jar things?"
Never able to resist:
Me- "Well, despite the misleading name, they really are just a cake in a jar."

Just Another Day

A close friend recently told me about a character in his building of whom I apparently needed to meet. He too is a writer, and has been published in several nationally acclaimed magazines. Aside from a few descriptive mannerisms, the only details I received were that he had just moved here from L.A., was willing to hang out with anyone for the sake of conversation, and was a bit off. I said, "Great. What's his number? Sounds like he needs a new friend." Perhaps some might find it disconcerting to call someone you know nothing else about, while the counter has no warning of your call, or the fact that you have been given their number, but it seemed perfectly normal to me.

He answered the same way anyone would: "Hello? Hey, hold on I can barely hear you. I haven't slept in over a day while waiting for my medication to come in the mail, and am going to the store to grab a five hour energy drink to keep going. The wind is heavy right now. Wait, who is this?" We exchanged necessary accreditations in time for a quick invitation over to the new place.

He lives on the river. His mail is on the floor, along with everything else he owns; which is not much. A tv flipped upside down represents his only seat. There was transient world music flowing from a guitar amplifier hooked up to his computer, and the rest were unorderly piles of books strewn about various parts of the otherwise empty living room. They all had faded hard bindings with names of authors down a distinguished line of the few who knew of their brilliance. They outnumbered the rest of his belongings, and were the kind that seem to validate someone as a real artist. Whatever that means.

It was hard to finish any sentence with him. The energetic fatigue was apparent in his lack of focus and sporadic movements. Interruptions were constant, though genuine and unaware. He couldn't complete an idea without hearing an insightful line in a song that prompted the next song I "had" to hear. While peering over the screen his long deep drags on a cigarette dropped ashes on his keys. They would have never made it past his flailing hands swirling in the air to try to remember what he meant to say before. I kind of just sat back and enjoyed the spectacle over a cup of hot tea he mixed with pure cane maple syrup and organic half and half. To this bizarre bean who finally fell asleep mid sentence on the hardwood floor of his empty apartment while I quietly let myself out: you know who you are...

House Party

It was a Friday night. Maybe Saturday night. It doesn't really matter what night it was. The point is, we were looking for a house party. It's amazing how scarce they have become after graduating from college. The staples of our partying past have become so uninspiring. 6th Street is all useless yelling, shots, and puking; not mine, but worse, someone else's you have to dodge in a steam filled alley way walking back. And the new house parties. Well, the up and coming generation of punks have lost all creativity. Just set up a beer pong table, a revolving playlist of pointless base heavy radio rap, and these kids think they have themselves a good party. It's the same everywhere I go now. Makes me feel like a bitter old man, but it's not my fault their parties are redundant and suck.

Well we found one that night. A birthday party of a friend of our friend. More of a distant acquaintance we hoped would recognize our friend really. Interesting crowd. A good blend of people young and old. The birthday boy was turning 40 years young, but I guess you're never too old to be festive. There were hipsters and suits, tattoos and grey hair all conversing amongst each other. The owners of the home were true hosts: offering plenty of food, a cheap keg, signature well drinks, and the names of strangers you were standing next to. A man named Julian was practicing tarot cards in the corner. He was holding a copy of Ginsberg's poem "Howl". When he approached our circle I took notice and quoted the intro, "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked..." Julian seemed puzzled and searching, finally recognizing the words of the pamphlet he was holding, "That's Ginsberg!!" he said, like it was some unconscious incongruent statement I had made for the hell of it. Whatever. This is an odd scene, but that's alright. We wanted a house party, and we found one.

Julian was trying to take credit for the evening's existence, explaining that he had kept the host alive during his addiction to heroine throughout his 30's. I didn't care. It was late and I was hungry. I found a crock pot brewing some queso in an opposite corner that paralyzed me, and a three legged dog waiting for anything to drop. I only came to when the fortune teller was gone, and two tender voices were talking about a box on the shelf that had contained some kind of awesome coffee maker they both had. How does it always end over a cup of jo? To these very bizarre beans at the house party: you know who you are....

Birth Control

I was at the counter waiting to order a drink when I overheard the two female baristas chatting with a friend on the other side. He had complimented her glasses, while her coworker laughed calling them BC frames. I was wondering if I was thinking of the same meaning when she said they were essentially a form of birth control, or male repellant. I guess she wasn't as fond of them as the other friend. I was then waited on, and walked away laughing to myself about what had just unfolded. To this bizarre bean with the apparently unattractive Army issued glasses you found at a thrift shop, now sporting them behind the counter: you know who you are.

Never Talk to Strangers

It was 11pm, and the place was packed. Someone somewhere decided it is inappropriate to sit with those you do not know, so many tables are taken by a single person rendering many open seats, but nowhere to sit. I had a saucer and a mug of English Breakfast steaming while scanning. There was an empty couch in the back corner. Directly left of me, two men were at two top against the wall. Directly right of me, a young woman sat down with a book in a smaller love seat.

The men were babbling loudly about something, almost to the point of a nuisance except that there was a speaker directly above me blaring Nirvana of all things, and drowning out the legibility of their words. I was working anyways, and wasn't trying to listen in, but that girl to my right; yes, there was something about her. She was pretty, not sexy or flashy, but elegant and pretty. The kind of girl whom no one ever paid attention to in high school, because she obviously didn't go to parties or put out, but will be taken notice of at the reunion for sure in less shallow circumstances.

She is reading an intense Russian novel with deep seeded themes of communist tyranny and religious undertones. However, she is wearing a plain top with a modest skirt, but trying to turn and position herself, attempting to throw her legs over the side of the couch without exposing too much of the underside of her thigh, or worse; as if she were at home, and no one was watching. It took time. It took a few tries. And, it took finesse, but she finally found a comfy ladylike position.

The men to the left spoke of poet's fears of death. I contradicted out loud. She chimed in. We all spoke for hours. I got a call at 1:14am explaining some sort of emergency that required my assistance elsewhere. I meant to tell her she was pretty for the sake of a deserved compliment, but couldn't get past the piece of spinach caught in her teeth, and forgot in my quick scurry out of there. To these bizarre beans: you know who you are.

Why is that?

Have you ever noticed that certain accessories tend to make people appear more distinguished/intelligent than they really are? Or, in some cases maybe even give them the legitimacy of intellect for pulling off the look. It is also possible that there is no correlation whatsoever, but regardless, I'm talking about: glasses, silk robes, beards, fedora styled hats, a blazer and jeans (how did that happen?), kilts, certain suspenders, NOT bow ties though (that just makes you look like a pretentious deuche outside of the black and white tux), and the rarely seen pipe.

Last night, three separate men sat at three successive tables outside in a diagonal line from me. Each wore beards, and each were smoking something different. Unfortunately for me, I was sitting down wind, and picked up a second hand bombardment of assorted styles.

The first, and closest beard was older and gleaming in well seasoned maturity. He was smoking a minty clove. The second beard was middle aged, grungy, and hardened. He smoked a cigarette; Marlboro Reds no doubt. The last beard looked mid to late twenties, and recently introduced to responsibility. He was the only one who sat in the company of another, a young lady, and he was puffing on an old tobacco pipe. I've never smoked a cigarette, nor wanted to because of any actor on t.v., but damnit, I'd kind of like a nice smoking jacket, a glass of scotch in one hand, and a finely made pipe in the other. Maybe then people would think I was more distinguished and intelligent than I am.

What does this say about socioeconomic status and trends? How the hell should I know? To this bizarre bean, who swiped Old Man Jenkin's pipe, and tried to impress that girl over coffee outside though: you know who you are...

Hangin' in There

During my momentary break from written word, I noticed her standing in front of me across the way. Her side was turned to me revealing an intentional tear in her t-shirt giving way to the illegible writings tattooed on her right flank, as well as the edge of her breast. Not to say that she was scantily clad by any means, but her visible shape behind the single layer left little to the imagination.

We exchanged glances, eye to eye, on her way past towards the counter. She is neither exceptionally pretty, nor unsightly. You might think she was calling for attention, but I've seen the look of a seductress, and this was not of the same class. Despite a careful fixation on her facial region now, she glares at me with disdain in anticipation of the inevitability that I had perhaps peered at her brazier-less contour; like I was somehow supposed to be more mature than thousands of years of deep seeded primal desire. I am not, but who is to blame? To this bizarre bean who gave me no choice but to look: you know who you are.

No Need to Look

I was below in a basement listening to jazz, with its stone walls, small windows offering a glimpse of the successive steps of passerby's on the downtown streets above, and open spaces mostly lit by candles and a neon sign illuminating a green cocktail glass hanging over the stage. No, it's not a coffee shop, but I'm sure they would throw on fresh pot of liquid pick-me-up for the band if they needed it, but they don't. I was drinking whiskey on the rocks.

I have just sat down while the other settled patrons clap for a drum solo that has just ended. The bassist takes his place immediately after as the lead instrument. He resembles a heavier set version of the violinist from Dave Matthews Band; elegantly braided clean dread locks, a pair of dark sunglasses (in the dark), and a huge grin on his face as he traveled up and down picking away at the length of the fret board without ever looking at his quick moving finger placement. Throughout his entire musical improvisation he seemed to be staring at everything, and nothing at the same time. After earning his own personalized claps and soft whistles, their song ended, along with that set. He set his bass guitar down, stood up, and waited for the drummer and pianist to take each arm while guiding him to the bar. He was blind. But, boy could he play. To this bizarre bean: you know who you are.

Bad Night

She had a shaved head, a tank top to show off her rather masculine features, was at the end of a late shift, and wanted everyone there to know she was having a bad night. Apparently customer service was nowhere near the top of her priority list, based on whatever was causing her to slam coffee mugs down on the counter for otherwise innocent people. I still tipped her $1, despite the cup of coffee being $1.50, and the fact that I wish they had an unlimited refill price. It's $2 for a large mug, but that always gets cold half way through. Regardless, this cafe is open 24hrs, has an abundance of comfy seats, and is very close to where I live. I do like that. It is always packed though until around 11:30 or midnight. I had gotten there a little bit earlier, found that there was no room in the parking lot, and got a spot on the adjacent street next to an apartment complex.

Did her anger have something to do with the shift itself? I don't know if this lady was new and hated the shift, or if she was a veteran, and pissed that a newbie got better hours. We do a lot of food orders also at our shop with many big tabs, and I have to avoid taking it personal if people consistently don't tip me, but still wonder if I just have a controversial face. It couldn't be that. I smile a lot, and she is scowling at everyone who comes in, and still has a full tip jar. No, it couldn't be that.

I sat down, began writing with headphones on and some music playing, but still heard the shrieking, "EXCUSE ME!" go reverberating through the room. I don't frighten easily, but something about her tone/volume caught me off guard, and damn near made me shat my pants. When everyone had tried to tuck their heads in like turtles and turned around she continued, "If you are driving a white Honda CRV, you're blocking someone in and need to MOVE!!!" Holy crap. I drive a white mid size SUV. It's not a Honda, but it's white. Could it possibly be mine? I didn't even park in the lot and was still terrified. I felt the worst for the guy who had to ask her to make the announcement. He was standing there looking close to embarrassment and sucking his own thumb to make everyone stop staring at him for turning her lose on us all, instead of the one bastard who knowingly did this. A couple of minutes went by. Standard procedure. Let the eyes subside, and calmly slip out the door after the rest of us went back to our business. I know I went right back to my book, putting on a happy song, and not wanting to see someone get their head ripped off. Then it happened again, but with added wrath. "EXCUSE MEEE!!!!!!!!! If you're driving a WHITE [gasp for breath] HONDA C.R.V. move your CARRRR!!!!" It was enough to make us all want to go check what we were driving, but again, no one got up. Soon there after, she left, along with most of the others, and a lady with a kind sweet demeanor took over the grave yard shift.

To this bizarre bean who scared the buhjeebus out of me: you know who you are.

Not Too Shabby

I walked down a tiered seating area looking for the proper spot to sit outside. This place is incredibly eclectic despite being situated directly next to a building filled with predicability. There are Christmas lights strung throughout its trees paired with an uneven assortment of faded painted patio tables, a bathtub in the back pouring a fountain over a sculpted baby angel, and cuckoo clocks on the walls. I knew there had to be someone here who would stand out tonight, and there is. A shabby elderly man (definitely shabby, not sloppy) is sitting surrounded by a lake of young age. I learned to be careful trying to distinguish older generations while visiting friends in San Francisco after a man, whom I was positive was homeless, was invited in and asked them if he could light up his doobie. It was already lit, and it turns out he was the editor of a major magazine.

This shabby elderly man across the way before me now is wearing shorts, a t-shirt that has lost much of its coloration, and a nice white long sleeved button up shirt over the other rolled up his forearms along with: collected coarse grey hair pulled back in a pony tail, and an experienced beard. He has found a chair that not only allows him to scan the entire flock, but also a chair that sways and rocks. He does this wearing a final accessory in the form of a relentless smirk. Depending on which side of his face he determines his "good side", one would either perceive this scanning smirk as creepy, or an arrogant air of wisdom. You might think he is staring at you, but in all actuality he is reliving the many versions of himself, and that melancholic archive keeps him smiling now. Once more he is delighting in his childhood watering hole, a hike through the Appalachian Mountains, the jungles next to his buddies from the war, the many successes of failed relationships, protests, movements, lost jobs, an empty wallet, his first born, and the persistence of a seemingly senseless business that now affords him the last laugh at everyone here while exhaling a puff of smoke that evaporates as quickly as his own years have, and thinking to himself, "All you kids have no clue what real hardship is." He is right.

To this bizarre bean: you know who you are.

Dish Washing Madness

He wore self done cut off jeans, a scraggly t-shirt, and a cycling hat with the bill folded upwards in front. He is draped in the almost unanimous uniform for all hipsters in this town, but somehow does so with originality. I presume he settled on this dress never expecting it would become fashionable by those who spent years trying to cope with social exclusion for being different; ironically having finally found inclusion in looking the same. He was quiet and alone, probably pissed and bitter that he of all people would be the one forced to change. But these are just semantics, and have nothing to do with what struck me.

Instead, as I went to the back to grab clean coffee mugs, I couldn't shake his lean against our wall with an intense awkward gaze through the opening that offered him a glimpse at our dish washer who was fervently scrubbing plates. He was so concentrated, in fact, that he never saw me awkwardly peering back in bewilderment that he might actually be THAT infatuated with what others consider to be a disgusting job. It's amazing to hear stories of people who can relate their dream careers back to a single childhood memory. It might have been a first time on a plane being given a pair of plastic wings, the initiation to a theatrical performance, or the radical professor that made you look at everything differently. The man looks as though he is reliving one of these enlightening moments, though I can't imagine what could have possibly inspired this man to want to be a dish washer.

Maybe he grew up in a small place adoring a hometown hero on Friday nights that never made it beyond a letter jacket, and had no backup plan. Surely a family friend gave the incompetent wash up a dishwashing job just to keep him on his feet while he figured things out, and the younger version of the hipster I see now remained loyal to his lingering idol in between seasons. That kid is now grown up and cynical in a big city wondering why he can't achieve his dreams here. He blames it on some kind of conspiracy of reverse racism, but really there is typically a language barrier and an over qualifying college degree, along with the fear that anyone who doesn't have higher aspirations definitely doesn't have the drive to be a quality employee. All of this is a possibility, or maybe he was simply waiting to use the restroom. To this bizarre bean: you know who you are.

Genghis Khan

This is one of the very few times I will ever use a real name, and the only reason I do is because I am not convinced it is in fact this person's actual name. To start a blog about the coffee culture, and those who comprise it, it only seems fitting that I begin with an outrageous character who comes into the shop where I work. He introduces himself as Genghis, and somehow completely fits the part in a whole new context. If there were some sort of hierarchy for all of the people who consistently come in, Genghis would be the pimp of the "regulars".

Knowing our market prices like the back of his tattered weathered hands, he works the street corner panhandling to make enough to come in and get a "refill" price on coffee, and snag a $0.50 "day old" price on muffins or bagels for a snack. We are in a constant battle with the most obnoxious breed of birds you've ever seen. They terrorize our customers the second someone leaves any food unattended outside, but of course Genghis loves to feed them.

He sports a long flowing greasy white Einstein hairdo on his head that matches his unkempt beard, a pair of faded black jeans, and a thick cream colored long sleeved shirt that is worn no matter the temperature. Out of all of the baggage he totes around everywhere with him, I wish he would suddenly whip out some kind of summer outfit; maybe an old school pair of neon Nike running shorts to show off his tall slender frame with an aloha shirt and some dark shades.

Genghis is absolutely annoying and lovable at the same time. He had been coming in every day for years, and was finally told he could not return because of accumulating complaints. He is homeless, obviously scheduled his entire day around us, and I wonder what that did for his routine. Did he have to start sleeping closer to another cafe? Did he find somewhere else to go, or were there territorial wars with a similar figure there? He cruised in once more yesterday like nothing ever happened, was served, then asked to leave again, but I raise my mug to you Genghis Khan. If that IS your real name. To this bizarre bean: you know who you are...