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.