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...