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7.27.2004
Years ago I used to work at an offshoot cafe in a large bookstore. I didn't like coffee, and admitted as much in the job interview, but they hired me anyways, figuring that I was a good loss prevention risk. They never asked about my fondness for cookies. I've since learned to tolerate the taste of coffee, provided its black and watered down. I never did understand the milk and sugar thing people do to their coffee. Does it really taste like coffee after four packets of sugar? I worked there full time, during the days. It was quiet, and I would waste away the day reading magazines from the nearby rack; Adbusters, Popular Photography, Modern Drummer, Electronic Musician and several others. I even managed to read a good chunk of "Infinite Jest" whilst "working", tucking it up next the register, behind the plant. Like any other open public place, we had regulars, people that would show up on such a frequent basis that you recognized them from a quick glance and you knew exactly what they wanted and maybe even a little bit about their personal lives. We gave them nicknames since we didn't know their real names. "Spoon Man" showed up every Sunday, grabbed a massive stack of books from the store and spent about eight hours looking through his selections. He earned his nickname when one day he reached across the counter, grabbed the stirring spoon that we used to mix the drinks, and used it for his own personal beverage. This action drove my co-worker ballistic. From then on we would make sure the spoon was safely out of reach when his drink was ready. "Cafe Breve Lady" substitute taught at a local high school and lived in constant fear of either teaching or being laid off. To assuage these fears she drank two large Cafe Breves every visit. Two shots of espresso and sixteen ounces of Half and Half went into each one. Sometimes she would also eat a cream filled pastry. Stress is a strange motivator. "Oatmeal Raisin Cookie Lady" would stop by just to see if we had gotten in a fresh shipment of oatmeal raisin cookies. I could have just told here that they came from a nearby bakery, but I didn't. "Phillip" was the only regular that I really got to know. He was a med student that spent hours sipping lattes and studying diseases and conditions. Occasionally he would take a break from studying and we would talk about home recording or whatever wasting disease he was studying at the time. He had a multitrack recorder and was in the process of recording his dad's cd. He would bring in his recordings for me to listen to, and I made him listen to my most recent efforts as well. I still run into him occasionally. Still not a doctor. There were others, the "Latte Lady" and her daughter, who went through an entire pregnancy that year; the "gorgeous supermodel lady" that drove the Mercedes and was planning her wedding to a gorgeous supermodel looking guy; the two high school girls that spent their lunch hour eating out of a dinky little case instead of getting real food at decent prices elsewhere, and there were more. The regulars made the job interesting and also, a little irritating. As a private person I have an aversion to letting people know things about me. I like to think that I remain a mystery. When a person sees you, they know where you are and how you are constrained. A random person is full of possibilities. They could be from anywhere, be anyone, on their way to who knows where. But if you see them week after week, you know they too are stuck in the daily cycle of life. They work, sleep, and eat, going from point A to point B and back again. Familiarity either breeds affinity or resentment. I used to avoid being seen at the same place too often. I felt guilty about seeing the same people over and over again. I would know their secret and they would know mine. I knew that they worked at the gas station full time and they knew that I came down the same street every day on the way home from work. So I would go to different gas stations, take different routes to places and avoid going to the same place more than maybe once or twice a year. I think I cared way too much about what other people where thinking, confusing my own over-analytical obsessions with others. Now I don't care anymore. I fill up at the same gas station a couple of times a week, I go to the same grocery store even if its to get a block of cheese and a bag of tortillas. I even go out to the same place to sit and read. I think it all changed with Quiznos. I used to work around the corner from one and it was the best place in the shopping center for food. It was either Quiznos or walking further for worse food. You see, I had no access to my car at this time. Quiznos had two sandwiches that were vegetarian, and I enjoyed seeing the people that worked there. They knew what I liked, and never seemed to mind that they had to see me three to five times a week. In this instance, familiarity bred affinity. I was saddened when the guy there got another job roofing, and pleased when he came back from working the crappy roofing job. They said their goodbyes when I told them that I was moving back to Tulsa. So now I experiment with being a known variable. Maybe its better to be known. It still feels weird, and I wonder what people are thinking, but more so out of a sense of curiosity than anything else. My secrets are out of the bag. Except for my super secret blogger identity. HA! |
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