What's With These People?

The move from Austin to San Diego went swimmingly. I'm staying three blocks from the beach, have made friends with a neighborhood grocer that has a fantastic little wine selection, and recently found the perfect coffee shop, along with bars, sushi, and taco stands.

I have a few glasses of wine before I tuck myself into my sleeping bag around 11 PM at night. The doors are left open every evening, and I rise to cool Pacific breezes sometime between 7-8:30 AM every morning. After a bowl of oatmeal and a granny smith apple I walk to the beach, and take my place in the waters of a cliff lined coast. After I kick the shit out of some mediocre waves I head back for a shower and a sandwich before cruising over to the little coffee shop I was talking about to hopefully finish the next book sometime in this decade.

Don't get me wrong, it's perfect, with hardwood floors, nice artwork, friendly patrons and open windows, it's just that people aren't weird here at all. So far they all do what normal people are supposed to do at cafes: read, work, and sip on hot drinks, all while showing totally acceptable forms of behavior and polite banter. I don't get it. I'll keep my eye out, and all of you posted though for any damn-the-man anarchy speeches, or a stick-up, or something, but so far everyone seems content with riding their bikes everywhere and the sunny 70 degree year round weather. Whatever. To these un-bizarre beans: you don't know who you are, yet...

Burnt Coffee and Bridges

I moved into a new place in the middle of May. There is only one parking spot per unit, and the sublet didn't include one for yours truly. No biggie. The landlord said there was a spot I could use if I didn't block anyone in. Perfect alternative since the building is just north of campus, but still swamped with students. She said everyone who lived there was as quiet and quaint as the building, and that the tenant directly below had been there the longest. It had not even been a week when I received a letter on my car from said tenant below. It read: "Hey, I want to be a chill neighbor, but I was hungover this morning and almost hit your car trying to back up. Could you not park there. -Cullen"

This is how I was parked when I received the letter.

I wrote back explaining that there are only three available parking spots out front, if everyone parks correctly; the rest are either 2hr limits, residential permit, or blocks away. Furthermore, I said I had permission, and parked as uncomfortably close to the bush on the hill you can't see, and had factored in everything he would need to back out except for his driving abilities under the influence, or its lingering remnants. Students were finally going home though, and I said I'd make every conscious effort to park out front, but would park in the back if I had to. Last, I encouraged him to speak to me personally if there were any other issues.

A month later, after only needing the back spot once I received a notice of a formal complaint from the landlord about the parking. He must've been waiting. She clarified that the spot was now only to be used for small allotments of time i.e. unloading groceries or friends stopping by. Fair enough, but my only apology to her was that she was involved at all because my neighbor wasn't mature enough to speak man to man.

Two years removed from college, I feel old for being near campus. He is living in a one bedroom and has gray in his facial hair, and started watching movies with the volume up pretty high at night, which makes me think he is an only child that never grew out of territorial tantrums. I am awoken around 7:30am every morning to the smell of burnt coffee. I can live with that annoyance. Who am I to judge how a man takes his coffee? However, recently the passive aggressive bastard has been coming home hammered at 2:07am, slamming his doors, and blaring this terrible base heavy Dracula rap for hours.

I let it slide the first time thinking that he may have just passed out accidentally with the music on, but it happened again last night. This time the music finally stopped at 4:41am. I had to be at work at 6am. Well, you should have seen the look on his face when he answered the door, after I began pounding at approximately 5:47am; to which I proceeded to explain how I was the storm uprooting his false sense of entitlement, and shed light on his contradicting character. He then got a lesson in how adults communicate, considerately share close living spaces, and was given a chance for a rebuttal that he didn't have the courage to take. To this bizarre bean, who WILDLY mistook me for some sort of punk bitch: you know who you are...

Basket Case

I've seen him twice in my hang out now. The first time I thought he was having a bad day, maybe lost a silly bet, was in a rush, or at worst was trying to simply attract some attention after a break up or something. I'm never surprised by what a man will do have a conversation ready and in the open when they've been out of the game for a while. In any case he came into the coffee shop with a laundry basket. The basket's contents were comprised, not of clothes, but instead with normal stuff you'd see in a coffee shop. Inside there was: a computer, computer charger, a notebook, pen, books and car keys. Alright. Obviously carrying your crap in a laundry basket is not a crime, but someone much brighter already found a more convenient and space efficient way to lug your stuff. It wasn't even a nice basket with the re-enforced rails and sturdy handles. It was one of those older flimsy guys that always caved in and sent you flying when you maybe had a drink or few and tried to start practicing for your spot on the Jamaican bobsled team by riding down a staircase in one.
It seems believable enough that he was just doing laundry and had a vacated spot in the basket while his clothes were doing their thing at the place where people go to clean their clothes. However, he came in again with all of the same things along with some napkins and a muffin this time. This made me pretty suspicious because I had seen him twice in about a week and a half. And, EVERY man knows that is not enough time to necessitate another wash. Just based on undergarments alone he would have had gone to a first round of smell checks for already worn first, followed by a switch to the more uncomfortable briefs next, and lastly followed by a shredded pair of undies left in the drawer for the sole purpose of being a reminder that the situation had just gotten real and it was officially laundry day (tomorrow). My deductions were confirmed when a girl made an inquiring joke about the reason for the basket and he got defensive saying, "What? I needed something to carry all of my stuff..." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37OWL7AzvHo --Riiigghht. To this bizarre bean who is way behind on the backpack revolution: you know who you are...

Life Lessons via Espresso

He came in and asked for a large cappuccino. Right away this order didn't seem to make sense. While there are many different definitions of a cappuccino, it is traditionally known as a drink of modest proportions made in thirds (1/3 espresso, 1/3 milk and 1/3 foam) and served in a smaller cup or mug on saucer. Being that all of our large drinks are served in a 20 oz cup with an additional shot on top of the two that we always start out with, I had to fill the other 17-18 oz left in the cup with equal parts milk and foam.

The man was upset with his immodest proportions when he took a sip and complained. Here is when we both inadvertently learned an important life lesson:

-Sir, this isn't what I ordered. There's too much foam.

-No, that is what you ordered, but maybe you wanted a latte. Lattes have mostly a sweeter mixture of steamed milk with a much smaller portion of a little foam on top.

-Yeah, that's what I want. Can I get one of those instead.

-Sure. That'll be $4.13.

-What!? I don't want two drinks! I just want the drink I originally wanted!

-Well, you have to tip at least a dollar to get a mind reading. [I could tell he didn't like this line and quickly switched gears.] Sir, I get that the cappuccino is not what you originally had in mind, but our company can't take the hit for our customers' mistakes. You have to know what you want to get what you want...

The last statement definitely took hold of both of us as we looked at each other bewildered with equal parts irritation and insight. Not another word was spoken as we both mulled everything over. The mind reading was taking place. We were both thinking: "You have to first know what you want in all walks of life to get what you want. Ain't that the damnedest thought to come from a coffee shop." To this bizarre bean who will probably never get a coffee drink order wrong ever again: you know who you are...

Ice Age State of Mind

People, people, peeeeoople, let's get one thing straight: I recognize that sarcasm can be a low form of comedy, especially when precisely directed at a less worthy adversary. I don't ever pick on intellectually deficient folk, BUT I do aim to challenge everybody to maintain a certain societal standard of reason, aptitude and basic common sense while in my presence. Anyone who doesn't similarly do this is simply un-American and contributing to the day that our public schools recruit Chinese citizens to come over here and teach our children the English language.

As this here story goes, our ice dispenser broke recently so we did the most logical and time efficient thing we could to keep our customer's drinks cold. We put a big bucket of ice in a convenient spot next to the soda machine on an elevated position with a scooper. Problem solved, right? Bah! Not in this day and age. What happened next turned into the greatest social cafe experiment the world has ever seen. Once we have concluded our findings and compiled them into a comprehensive report, I'm convinced that our contribution to humanity will be one that makes Dr. Zimbardo's obsolete.

1st: The big out of place bucket of ice was placed in the middle of the drink window to split the difference of those who get sodas on the left and a choice of 1 of 3 iced tea options on the right. This failed miserably to grab the attention of more than of those who stood irritated with nothing being dispensed from the broken ice machine.

2nd: We moved the bucket underneath the soda machine since everybody always went there regardless for ice independent of what drink they were getting. This attempt failed even worse as 3/4 of people never bothered to look down at all.

Last: We moved the elevated bucket out a foot so people would quite literally have to reach over it or go around to get to the soda machine where they previously got their ice. While this final attempt did drop the rate at which people "informed" us we were out of ice to well under 50%, it was still shocking how many continued to miss the mark altogether.

The play by play...

"Uhhh, like, you're like totes out of ice!"

"Calm down cool guy, there is TO-TAL-LY a bucket right in front of you."

"OHHHH." -- "Yeah, better luck next time, doofus."

Sure an out of order sign up could've been a quick fix, but that would've just hurt these patrons in the long run. To these bizarre beans who have had their ice handed to them on a silver platter their whole lives: you know who you are...

Cool Beans on a Warm Evening

Tis another suffocating summer swelter in the Lone Star State; the kind of mugginess that makes your buttcrack sweat even in the evening. This heat isn't good for hot chocolate, safe upward extensions of the arm, corduroy pants, nor hipsters that think cutoff jeans are stylish (or ever were for that matter), but it is good for one thing in particular: ice cream! Yes, this is the perfect evening for some ice cream with a righteous place down the road to go. That being said, Amy, her dog, Snoopy, and yours truly all started our walk for Amy's Ice Cream of course.

Well, when we got there the line was whack, Amy had to stay outside in the sauna with Snoop dog, she couldn't decide which flavor she fancied and said she'd just have a bite of mine, I told her another place would have to freeze over before that happened, and tensions were pretty much flaring up all around when one of the scooper dudes tried to do a trick with the ice cream and dropped it on the ground. Pit stained arms went up in accordance with grumbling in the crowd about a mutiny, and being closest to the door I decided to get out while I still could.

As fate would have it, we walked another couple of blocks further to get a pint at the corner store and came upon a bum before we could cross the street. Anticipating his begs I was instead caught off guard when he asked if I had any food. We were empty handed. Rather than consider him wildly un-observant I took this as a genuine request. I know what you're thinking. We got the chocolate chip cookie dough flavor. While walking back home I gave the bum the sandwich and chips that would've never been necessary had it not been for all of the people in front of me pissed off about ice cream at the other place. The bum's response was priceless, "Whoa! Cool BEANS!!" Ha! He also apologized for his appearance and for asking me for money before, but said he hadn't eaten in days. I reminded him that he didn't ask me for money, but for food. He replied, " You have a good heart. I don't know what your brain is like, but you have a good heart." To this bizarre bean: I should've gotten you a beer too...

A Tidbit About Tiles

While writing one evening I stopped for a restroom break. Amidst my business I looked ahead at the writing on the walls following left to right and casually scanned upwards. In a precarious position, and with no rhyme or reason, a random tile closer to the ceiling, which had obviously originally been blue, was at some point painted over yellow with a streaking brush. In a black marker two different writing styles shared a significant short conversation on the lone tile. It read:

Pen 1- "A blue tile pretending to be yellow."

Pen 2- "Aren't we all..."

Wow. Try getting hit with that truth while attempting to get through a quick piss. To these bizarre beans who somehow saw life's lessons in a single tile: you know who you are.

Nothing Comes Between a Man and His Yarn?

I drove in from Houston yesterday just in time to hang out with some old college friends I hadn't seen a while. We did nothing more than stay in the place where they were crashing trying to change the world in a single night, and came up way short. By the time I realized how late it was I was too tired to drive home. True to college form everyone found the coziest couch, and in my case corner on the floor. Rising to realize these aren't as favorable of conditions as they used to be it was decided that I needed to get on with my day and make good use of my time. Grimy and gross, the conditions were instead ripe for sitting outside writing and sweating out the previous evening. Two cups of coffee in, a beer on the way, and two written pages down this younger guy came strolling in with a couple of tote bags.

Had he not kept looking over each shoulder spotting his investigative peers I probably would have never looked over my computer or hunched position over the leather bound journal. It's all good man. Rambeau's not looking. Whatcha got in there? Boom! Out comes some yarn and chop stick looking things. Duuuude, are you croqueting!? Hold up, that's a lawn game I think. Crocheting? Knitting? I don't know the difference if there is one, but right on. Do your thing bud. I'm not judging. I'm just interested to understand your interest in the delicate intricacies of your yarn. Carry on. To this bizarre bean who isn't afraid to get pointed at and picked on by his peers in class anymore: you know you are...

The Point is...

Exactly one week ago I was sitting in exactly the same place as I am today, outside at a coffee shop writing and enjoying the day; 12o hand written pages into yet another novel. My concentration was broken by several emails, texts, and phone calls which were all heartfelt explanations of what my mom's teachings in my recently released book, God from the Grave: a story of life, even in death, had done for them.

My mother took on the biggest battle of her life, and lived to serve others; acknowledging that it was going to take a miracle for her to survive, but that her prayers for a miracle would be answered because she said God could not use her from the grave. The book was written to overcome that last notion in a positive way, and to own up to the natural circumstances all of humanity is subject to, when we seemingly lost her. In every way people were taking the time to reach out last week, each were emotional and even tearful explanations of forgiveness, re-kindled relationships and friendships, and the power her faith now had on their every day lives.

With more clarity than ever before, I realized that her prayers were answered, and her body did not wilt away in the grave because now she quite literally embodies the miracle she asked for. Needless to say, I had a hard time keeping it together in a public place, and nothing more got done, but my life is made that much better knowing her miracle lives on through others.

This Stall Ain't Big Enough for the Two of Us

I am happy to announce that apart from the book that I just released, I starting writing again in another project. I'd like to consider myself a minimalist, but having recently moved into more humble digs I noticed I still had too much stuff. The day started off well. I sold a couple of shirts to a retail exchange, and gave the rest away, making $8.40; enough to pay for lunch. Fantastic. I read a good chunk of an awesome book while waiting, and found a nice snug spot outside to eat. Moving right along, I had a meeting with a dear friend, and author of the book mY Generation, at a coffee shop at 4. This presented the perfect opportunity to pound out a few pages of my own beforehand.

Again sitting outside, with coffee on my left, a beer to my right, and my creative juices flowing, other juices needed to flow as well. Everything was going fine. There were nice breezes and uncluttered paths paving the way for a calm, but brisk walk to my destination, with plenty of time to hold the front door open for a lady. I proceeded with confidence through an unlocked door to the small men's room only to find it already occupied.

Whoa. Dude. C'mon, lock the door. That's not kosher. I realize there is a urinal and a toilet, BUT THERE IS NO DIVIDER. Therefore, man law, section 3 line 7 clearly states: "two dudes must never engage in relieving oneself without a divider unless there are multiple urinals side to side while said dudes face directly forward, and respecting one urinal spacing between each other whenever possible. If amenities face each other without any divider, dude must lock door." Trust me, this is a credible quote, and confirmed on the tv show, Myth Busters. While waiting outside wondering what kind of rookie this guy must be, he soon came out and cruised back behind the counter. To this bizarre bean who should know better in his own place of business: you know who you are...

Just a Little Out of Place

I was running a little late to work one morning. At approximately 6:04 AM I pulled into the empty parking lot before the sun had awoken. This was rather strange considering the promptness and reliability of my boss and the head cook. Approximately 48 seconds after peering through our dark windows another car pulled up. It was a co-worker sharing the same bewildered look I was giving her. "What are you doing here," she asked. "Do you work today?" - "Ha. That's funny. I was just going to ask you the SAME thing, SHAWNA." My call was going to my boss's voicemail when Shawna realized she had a key. We walked into the cafe, lit only by the eerie red glow of our exit sign.

Walking in, neither of us had any clue what was going on, who was supposed to be there, where the others were, if day light savings time had come and gone early somehow with us being the only people to not receive the memo, or even where the light switches were. Waiting for the Twilight Hour theme song to start playing we began shouting at the top of our lungs.

"WHAT IS HAPPENING!?"

"WHERE IS EVERYBODY!?"

"WHHHYYYY!?"

At approximately 6:17 AM the main phone line rang. It was the name of a girl who went to my high school, but one grade below mine, on the caller ID. "This isn't helpING!!" I thought to myself. Even stranger, when I answered saying, "What do you want?" it was the voice of her older sister, who I graduated with, and a Paris Hilton wannabe. She sounded just as frantic as Shawna and I did.

"Is this Austin Java???"

"Yeah."

"Do y'all serve mimosas??"

"Who is this?" [she didn't respond well]

"Excuse me? Why do you want to know who this is??"

"Recognized your name on the caller ID. I think we went to h.s. together, unfortunately."

"Well who are YOU?"

"Rambeau."

"Yeah, I don't know... [Psshhh my friends and I threw the majority of every decent party in h.s., which she frequented, and I had the misfortune of seeing her downtown several months before looking like a train wreck while receiving an incredibly fake hug from her]

... but this is Becky Drunktastic*."

"Whatever."

She laughed that I didn't acknowledge the esteem she said her name with. "Ha, whatever? Anyways, do you serve mimosas!?"

"Yes."

"What time? I will drive up 30 minutes from San Marcos RIGHT NOW if you will serve me a mimosa."

"When we open at 7 AM."

"Really?!? I'll be there at 7 on the DOT!"

"Well, our computers are 5min off so I actually won't open the doors for you until 7:05 AM."

"FINE, 7:05. Get ready to rage."

"Whoa. Don't think that I won't hesitate to cut your ass off if you come in acting amuck in my establishment."

"Are you serious?"

"Damn straight I am." [CLICK]

Shawna thought it was a prank call, and couldn't believe I'd talk to a customer that way. It wasn't, and you get what you deserve. Sure enough, she showed up, accompanied by friend; both sporting a heroine chic, at approximately 7:03 AM. I guess the stern tone was effective. They were served mimosas and breakfast tacos, were very polite, tipped well, and left quietly. To these bizarre beans apparently finally finding the right fix: you know who you are...

And the Hits Keep Coming

As I have continued to work and put up with an abundance of customers, some of my coy one-liners have been honed and perfected, while others have had to be shelved for more appropriate times. Case and point: when a man bought into me telling him we had a $17 minimum on cards hook, line and sinker, I felt bad when his embarrassment was blatantly apparent due to a woman pissing her pants in merriment at his gullibility behind him. I tried to apologize and explain that I had an unfair advantage of a practiced delivery, but wasn't taken seriously while I too was laughing. I couldn't tell him it was because of the size of the woman's gap in her teeth behind him. Here are some new ones to watch out for though so you don't find yourself in the crossfire.

Customer: "What are those Morning Glory muffins made out of?"
Me: "Rays of sunshine."
Customer: (playing into the sarcasm) "Oh really?"
Me: "Yeah, they're fresh caught each morning and certified organic if you're into that sorta stuff."

I misjudged the thickness of one customer's skin with the cake jar lines and have since tried to tone down the punch line.
Customer: "What are those Cake Jar things?"
Me: "It's cake in a jar."
Customer: "Oh really? That's what I thought. (Sure you did) Well who makes them and how do they get the cake in the jars that way?"
Me: (Obviously not the baker and getting flustered that I just refrained from openly questioning their intelligence) "It's the same company that puts wooden ships in bottles, and I have no idea how they do it. Trade secret I suppose."

Boys Will be Boys

She was a tall jovial robust woman that laughed aloud with the raspiness of a former chain smoker. We got along immediately. She was accompanied by this curly headed squirt flailing his chubby little arms about at nothing while running in an occasional circle and dragging his slimy hands down the length of any clear window or exposed glass case. He was cute for an absolute heathen. I'm not good with numbers, but I'd say he was around 3-4, maybe even 6-7. I take that back. Five got left out and he was speaking in Ebonics to himself. We'll just say the kid was 3-5.



Anyways, the bugger had chocolate stains on his face and wore a shirt that read, "Dirt Magnet." His mother ordered him a glass of orange juice, and I politely asked if she'd like me to put that in a cup with a lid for him. She said, "Oh no, [casually flapping her hand down] he's a big boy. Just give him a regular cup." However, when I walked around the counter to hand the uncovered glass to the little terror, who was karate chopping with a stupid off beat kick up to me, he jerked the dickens out of it and splashed the OJ all over his magnetic shirt. Score.



To this bizarre bean, running un-supervised through my establishment, about to get beamed in the dome with a nerf ball by yours truly: you know who you are...

Smoke Breaks and Wooden Benches

I consider myself to be a decently healthy person with decently healthy tendencies; one of those being a regular morning BM. I know what you're thinking, "Okay, we're off to a good start." That's what I always say to myself too. During the week I work from 6am to the butt-crack of noon or so. Since I can't arrange my social life and sleep schedule around an appropriate bed time for this shift, my body's internal processes usually don't have a chance to catch up before I have to leave for work. Don't worry though, everything happens in due time.

Several hours into my shift the time always comes. I ask my manager if I may take a few minutes or so to go for a smoke break. They always say, "You smoke?" I reply, "No, it's a polite euphemism for taking care of bathroom business." Too much information? Too bad, I'm just getting the toilet seat warmed up for ya.

All of about three of us were sitting in the back room of a cafe spread out well enough, or so I thought. A large L-shaped wooden bench seat runs the length of the back wall. A young lady and I sat somewhere to the tune of ten feet apart. We were both working on our computers, respectively, when I felt an undeniable vibration. I looked for my phone. It was in my pocket, and had not rung. I looked down the line at the girl, still feverishly typing away, only to see her phone resting on the table, not the bench seat. Trying to further investigate the situation without causing a scene, I noticed the crumbly remnants of a muffin (banana nut) and Cholula sauce...? Hot sauce on a muffin, WTF mate?

My first inclination was to send a retaliation shot reverberating back at her; not having had my smoke break yet today though, considered this to be too risky of a move. Damnit! Instead, I sat vexed over the dangerous compromising situation she left me cornered in. To this bizarre bean ripping ass down the bench from me: 1. that's messed up, and 2. you know who you are...

Cookies Mean Different things to Different People

He came in lookin' all, whatever. "Give me a cup of coffee and a cookie," the guy says to me. Textbook squatter order at 10:30am. Knowing this guy would be lingering around for a while I charged him for a bottomless refill price. The total came out to $5.07.

-"Five dollars for coffee and a cookie!?"

-"Uh huh, yeah dats right sir."

-"How??"

-"It's $2.69 for the coffee and $1.99 for the cookie plus tax. Our prices are listed on the board."

Truly, that's not a bad deal considering we're a local shop that employs people to make and store our own coffee beans. Not to mention unlimited refills and a to-go cup for no additional charge if the customer asks. As for the cookie, well I don't buy many cookies, so I wouldn't know the market trends. He wanted chocolate chip. Already flustered, the man came back to announce he had gotten the wrong cookie. My bad homie. At a quick glance the oatmeal raisin looked like chocolate chip; honest. He explained that fortunately he had a keen eye for cookie ingredients, but had he bitten into the other cookie without catching the mistake it would have RUINED his day. Really? Ruined it? It was just a cookie man. I would've given him a free cookie no questions asked. Feel free to check my math, but that would've potentially made for a different cookie in each hand all before noon! That's the kind of awesome shit that MAKES most peoples days.

To this bizarre bean who obviously has bigger issues than cookies: you know who you are...

For the Love of June (part 2)

She was a middle aged woman who had come in before. Like June, she was reserved and slightly rude out of what seemed like a necessity for all of the people who had been unnecessarily mean to her, rather than the disposition she would've wished to have consistently carried herself with.

The woman approached my counter ignoring my pleasantries and skipping any of her own. She said, "This is going to be a difficult order. I don't care how it looks, just make it happen." With that I was completely determined to make whatever she asked for work in an effort to make her happy somehow some damn way.

I pushed buttons. I manually typed things in for her. In the end, she walked away only to turn back with a genuine smile and said the words to me, "Thanks, you guys are always so nice to me every time I come in here." I am not easily emotional, but those words nearly melted me. This woman looked ragged and beaten down by a malicious world; like she had been picked on unwarranted her entire life. Now, in this seemingly small act, my cafe had become somewhat of a safe haven. I treated her and everyone else who walks through our doors the same way because of the lessons I had learned inadvertently through June years before. This was the pinnacle of my coffee career. When I looked down she had tipped me $7.

To her, all of the Junes out there and anyone else out there desperately searching for someone to simply be nice to them: come on into my place of business. I'll serve you up a sincere smile too.

For the Love of June (part 1)

Her name was June; a summery sound to match the warm month. Her poise and mood, however, did not complement the title on the plastic badge attached to her blouse. She was an older woman who worked the cash register at the end of the lunch line I went through every day my sophomore year of high school. I smiled and said, "Have a great day." There was no response. I assumed she mistook the sincerity of my generosity for some punk kid messing with another lunch lady. Days, weeks, and months went by without any reciprocation of my kindness. There were no, "Thanks," "You too's," or even an "Okay." It wore on me wondering why she never returned a single word. June didn't seem to fit the part of a bitter elderly lady. I never stopped going through her line, and I never stopped smiling and telling her to have a great day.

Finally, mere days before school let out for Christmas break, she was waiting; even looking down the line past the other kids, with a smile she had stolen from me harping about the holidays and wishing me a lovely day. I was shocked. It was a complete transformation. The rest of the next semester I never saw June without her new signature grin. We would chat as long as possible, and she even spotted me some of her own spare change when I was short once.

That was the most pleasant lunch line I have ever gone through, and I'd like to say that she can say the same. I don't know what had beaten her down during the previous semester; maybe the loss of her longtime husband, an estranged relationship with one of her children, or economic troubles. What I do know now though is the power of a sincere smile, and what it did for June. I never saw her again after that year, and I don't know the extend to which it helped, but those few moments each day seeing that sweet old woman light up to reveal her true colors were pure gold. I've never forgotten that lesson, and June is the sole reason I smile like a big goofball to everyone who comes through my lines today; even if it's just for coffee.

To this bizarre bean hopefully still servin' up smiles somewhere: you know who you are...