06.29.07
Why I sling…
Wiped. It’s been a long week. Good and busy and full of info but long.
Today I worked the coffee shop, and even though I was slammed most of the day, it served as a reminder of why I wanted to be doing coffee at least one day a week.
People.
Characters.
Ideas.
It’s minimum wage, I can make three times that at a “real” job which I do four days a week, and only part time so I can still write – but what I can’t fake, what I need a little of each week is humanity.
Personal interaction with the masses. Let me sum up a couple of characters I met today that will inevitably make it into a story somewhere…
“Bill” has a lazy right eye and knows he can use it to make people uncomfortable, he’s charming and outgoing and could even be called “bubbly” which is understandable as soon as he orders a quad shot Irish cream latte in a 20oz cup. Who wouldn’t be bubbly when they just got amped? Bill’s a sweetie, and a regular but to make sure he knows where you stand with him as a patron – he will intentionally make eye contact on a regular basis (every other sentence)– forcing some people who might be squeamish to look away from the white of his sideways eye. I’m not squeamish – I find him charming and his obvious banter a relaxing start to what would ultimately be a busy morning.
Bill comes in with “George” who has a cleft palate which, I believe causes him an enormous sense of insecurity. George won’t make eye contact, he whispers all his orders and when I try to engage him in chatter or morning barista banter – he clams up and shuffles to the corner to wait. Between the two of them Bill more than makes up for George’s shyness and George came in three separate times today for coffee and to attempt conversation before changing his mind mid-sentence and looking at the floor.
“Marcy” can’t make up her mind to save her own life. “What’s good?” She’ll ask. Then every option you give her goes like so, “Not, a sandwich, no. How about a soup? No soups on the menu? How about a Kabob? Wait do I want a Kabob?”
“The kabobs are delicious,” I offer.
“Do you think I’ll like it?” But before I can say anything she’s off again – “I might like it, I could ask but how would you know what I like?” Precisely. “Soup? Right, no soup on the menu. How about a sandwich? Yes, a sandwich – but what kind?” “What’s good?” She begins again, and the cycle starts all over as the line backs up and people shuffle impatiently.
The characters who come in are so much better than fiction some times. This is why I do a day of sweaty, dirty slinging. This is why my feet ache and my hands get ruined in the washtubs.
To be a witness.
To watch George try to open up to me each time he comes in. To witness Bill become more and more comfortable with my own brand of eye contact and snarky humor. I want to be there for the day that Marcy walks up to the counter and states firmly EXACTLY what she wants without asking for anyone else’s opinion. I’m a voyeur of other people. I write what I see, I spin tales with the events and personalities that I encounter and I love every minute of it. Even when it’s hard. Even when it exhausting or frustrating or flat out gross. I love it.
From now on, I hope I’ll get to do my people watching at least once a week there so I have plenty of fuel to use in my real work. Now I need a nap.
