our friday night plans

My Beloved and I have been invited to Jack’s house on Friday night. Jack, as I already mentioned, is one of my dear old queens from The Beanhouse. He’s about 75, bald-headed, flush-faced, with a body like a soggy dim-sum dumpling. He power-walks to The Beanhouse from his place, so the weather system around him is always a wee bit humid.

But I adore Jack.

And he calls me “sweetness.”

“Hello, sweetness.”


“How are you today, sweetness?”

Then he presses his moist dumpling cheek against mine and kisses me. Every time he sees me.

Every day, he sits with his “peeps” (yes, he calls them “peeps”) and sips his “small dark coffee in a ceramic mug, please.” Frequently, he nibbles a butter croissant. He has not become a weathered dumpling for no apparent reason. Sometimes I hear him randomly singing to them in his rich basso profundo voice. They always roll their eyes at him, but he loves to sing, wants to sing, asks my advice about singing lessons. And if the discussion with his peeps turns to theatre, he waves me over.

“Trace, have you seen …..?”

“Sweetness, what do you think of …..?”

“Oh, you would just DIE, Trace! That show was SO bad!!”

I adore Jack.

He loves the arts, the theatre, good books. He’s full of vim and vigor, still, and stories to tell that should be heard. The 20-somethings I work with have no idea what they’re missing by not engaging our older customers. Frankly, they’re the only ones of much interest to me.

One Sunday afternoon — a day off for me — MB and I, feeling lazy, wandered over to The Beanhouse with a bag full of books. My co-workers ribbed me for being there on my day off, but, hey, the coffee’s great and it really is an inviting place just to hang out. So we sat there, engrossed in our books, sipping our coffees, when suddenly over my shoulder, I heard, “Heeey, sweetness.”

It was Jack. Peepless.

We invited him to sit down and within a few questions, he was opening up his life, his stories.

Jack was in the Army during the Korean War. When he came home, he had no clue what he wanted to do, but he’d always liked to draw, so he started shuffling his work here and there, seeing who’d bite.

He landed a job as Art Director for Mademoiselle magazine, of all places.

“I was the only guy there, Trace,” he said. “And the whole time I worked there, everything was ‘fun.’ All these women constantly with the ‘Oooh, Jack, isn’t that FUN?’ ‘Let’s do this — won’t that be FUN?’ ‘I adore that layout, Jack. It is just SO FUN!’ Good God. I was so sick of ‘FUN’!”

We were howling with laughter. He smiled this sweet, pleased little smile. He had a rapt audience.

“Oh, and you know who ALWAYS kept coming around with his little drawings?” he said, irritated.

“No!! Who??”

“Oh, that Andy Warhol.”

Um, WHATT?? MB and I had stopped breathing now.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes. “What a pain in the ass. I thought he was SUCH a hack.”

Spitting up coffee now, both of us. He regaled us with his life for two hours while we just sat, transfixed and dumbfounded.

So we’re going to Jack’s house Friday night. He has a little society he’s put together called The Norma Desmond Film Society, an eclectic group of peeps and others who gather regularly for an evening of film and noshing and conversation.

The requirements for membership?

1) You must have seen “Sunset Boulevard.”

And 2), I’m just guessing on this one, but — Jack’s gotta like you.

The other day at work, when he invited me, he spoke softly, seemed almost shy. I offered to bring something, anything, to eat. “Okay, great,” he said.

“So how many are you expecting so I know how much to bring?”

“Oh, well …. just you two. I wanted this one to be special.”

I felt tears lumping in my throat.

“Jack, that is so sweet. I can’t wait.”

“Yeah, me too. I’m making a little program for the evening!”

Can you believe that?

He’s making a little program for the evening.

May I tell you something?

I just adore Jack.

oh, great

So this guy was all upset at The Beanhouse the other day because we weren’t brewing his favorite coffee right at that precise moment. He fussed about like a big stupid baby and then said:

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to come in here with an AK-47 next time.”

Uh, is this funny? Am I just not getting it? Am I simply too uptight and old-fashioned and humorless, thinking, as I do, that it’s somewhat gauche to threaten people with bloody violent death?

Whatever, dude. Guess who’s gonna start carrying her .22 automatic in her pocket?

where I demonstrate my coolness

Me, at The Beanhouse, talking to an uber cool, 22-year-old gay dude I work with who, prior to this exchange, thought I was one cool foxxay chick. Let’s call him Coolio.

Self: (in response to something Coolio says) Okay. Well, whatevs.

Coolio: Did you just say “whatevs”?

Self: (NO) Umm, yes.

Coolio: Baby, you can’t say “whatevs.”

Self: Really? I can’t?

Coolio: You really should not.

Self: (But I really like it!) Oh. So it’s not cool?

Coolio: Honey, it hasn’t been cool for, like, 10 years.

Self: Wow. Huh. (long pause ….. light bulb!) All right. But is it kinda cool if I say it even though I know it’s NOT cool? You know, kinda daring and counter-cultural?

Coolio: Uhh, no.

Self: Are you sure?

Coolio: Yes, honey.

Self: That sucks.

Coolio: (a deep well of compassion for the elderly) I know, honey.

Self: So I really can’t say it?

Coolio: No.

Self: Okay. (walking away, thrown over shoulder to Coolio) Well ……… whatevs!!

No wee baby chile be takin’ away my “whatevs,” people.

then I killed her

The other day, this dented old lady walks into The Beanhouse. She is squat and smushed-looking, a bruised peach.

She is the only person in line.

Self: What can I get you?

Dented Old Lady:
Well, I want something sweet. Do you have something sweet?

Self: Er, yes.

(Another person enters, stands behind her. Two people in line now.)

DOL: Well, because, I want something sweet, you know.

Self: Uh-huh. Do you want something cold or hot?

DOL:
Well, I don’t know.

Self: Sigh.

(Another person. Three people now.)

Self:
Well, it’s pretty hot out. How ’bout a blended drink?

DOL: Wha’s tha?

Self: Um, it’s like a smoothie with coffee.

DOL: Ummmm ….. well ……

(Another person. Four.)

DOL: ….. ummmm ….

Self:

DOL: Oh. I know! I know!! I want a Mocha Coffee Vanilla shake.

Self: Excuse me?

DOL (Enunciating for the mentally challenged barista): A Mocha. Coffee. Vanilla. Shake.

Self: Ma’am, we don’ t have a Mocha Coffee Vanilla Shake. That’s just —

DOL (pointing): It says so right up there!

(Five people now, including Dented Old Lady.)

Self: Riiight. Those are individual flavors, ma’am, separate items.

DOL: Oh. But it sounds really good.

Self:

DOL: Okay, then. I’ll just have a Mocha Shake.

Self:
All right. 3.95, please.

Dented Old Lady tugs at her lumpy purse, pulls out a wallet. Searching … searching … searching. Bupkis. She stuffs her dented hand deeper into the bag, pulls out a coin purse. Digging …. digging …. dig …. oh, look! there’s a fuzzy Lifesaver …. and look! there’s a grimy coin …. annnd, look! Bupkis.

(Six people now. Nope. Seven.)


DOL:
Oh. Look. I guess I need to go to the bank.

Self:

I bury Dented Old Lady in the canyon deep in the scotch broom thicket where there’s a dent that matches hers, anointing her lumpen frame with Mocha Coffee Vanilla Shake.

beanhouse kooks

I’m very, very far behind on my Beanhouse postings. So far behind, I don’t know how to catch up. Here are just a few people I need to write about:

Dirty Santa

Dog Boy

Porn $tar!

Lemon Lady

Robbie, the Oh-no! Lady

Crappy Writer

Barista with the Book Deal

Old Yeller

Michael

“Sarah!”

Mr. “You’re So Pretty”

That’s just a brief list. I’m actually quite dismayed at how far behind I am. Some are long-ish stories; others are really just momentitos. Still, I can’t seem to choose or get started. So let’s throw it over to you. Maybe that’ll snap the inertia:

Any requests on which one you want to hear first?

why don’t you just KICK me while I’m down?

Oh. Lord. Sweet GOD in Heaven.

You know how sometimes people come up to you and say, “Has anyone ever told you you look like so-and-so?” We’ve all heard that, right? And don’t we think, generally, when people say that, they mean it as a compliment? That, from their perspective, this news is a good thing; that you will see it as a compliment, too? I think we think that, right?

Sometimes, though, it’s too horrifying and you simply cannot see it as a good thing. You. Cannot.

Like today.

Now I’ve heard many different “you look like so-and-so’s” over the years. You probably have, too. Mine seem to vary based on my hair color and haircut: Madonna. Princess Diana. Donna Mills. And when I’ve been a redhead: Gillian Anderson. Julianne Moore. Whatever. Those ain’t too bad, I s’pose.

So today I’m at The Beanhouse, the place where, just recently, I was “really beautiful without my glasses,” when I walk by this woman and she jerks her head around in my direction. I wipe down tables; she openly stares at me. I’m aware of her stare, but there’s weirdos aplenty ’round that place, so I chalk it up to that. Suddenly, she rushes me. I am more afraid of her tight white pants with the little pink flowers than anything else. That is, until she opens her mouth to share with me, all breathless and googly-eyed:

“Has anyone ever told you you look like Hillary Clinton??”

AH! AH! AH! AH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

What?? WHAT am I supposed to say to THAT? “Thank you”?

“THANK YOU”??

Oh, yes! Thank you for telling me that I look like a bug-eyed harridan whose face bloats and sags like a loaded diaper and whose body … bloats and sags like a loaded diaper??

Knee-jerk, I gasp and shoot back, “NOO!”

Then my brain decides it is just too awful to be borne, shrivels up, and croaks.

The lady tries to rally, tries to make this, THE WORLD’S MOST HIDEOUS INSULT EVER, seem better somehow. She rattles off some claptrap about striking coloring. Uh-huh. I stare at her pants.

“Uhm …. okay.”

I just walk away without another word.

And I thought the brink of the financial abyss looked bad.

But HOW CAN I GO ON LIVING, peeps, if I look like the woman that no woman anywhere at any time would ever want to look like or BE?!?

That’s it. I am dead to me.

be still my heart

Oh, I received my favorite kind of compliment the other day from a Beanhouse customer:

Wow. You’re really beautiful without your glasses.

Ooooh, thank you, thank you!

But without my glasses, how ever will I see that I’m spilling scalding coffee on your pants whilst swooning deliriously?

michael and william

See that tiny slip of a thing, that delicate, refined old lady, sitting in the corner at The Beanhouse, daintily sipping her coffee and eating her gooey cinnamon roll? That’s Michael; she’s a regular. And I love Michael. She always accessorizes herself with something unusual, handcrafted — a carved necklace from Guatemala, an embroidered scarf from India — and she’s always on her way to the nearby art museum, where she is a docent. This is her routine every day … with the coffee and the dainty and the gooey. Obviously, Michael is some kind of magical cinnamon sprite to be able to do gooey while being dainty and staying tiny.

She looks frail almost, but she is one zesty old lady. She lives like she really means it. She relishes everything. I love to watch her, secretly, as she finishes her gooey gob of cinnamon roll, smushing every last buttery bite beneath her fork. She dabs the crumbs from her lips, waves a wrinkled hand to me and grins, declaring, “Mmm-mm-MMM! Tracey, that was so good!” Then, as she scurries off to her gig at the museum, we always have a brief conversation and she always has something interesting to say.

Like yesterday.

I was telling her about the drama camp I do every summer. Her eyes grew large as she smiled and said, “Oh, Tracey. My father taught drama, too.”

“Really?” I replied.

“Oh, yes! And do you know who one of his students was?”

“No! Who??”

I was dying.

“William Holden.”

Was she kidding me?? William Holden? WILLIAM freakin’ HOLDEN?? I felt giddy and grabbed the back of a chair for support.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “And do you want to hear something else?”

(Did I ever!?!)

“All the teachers there thought he was just a pretty boy no-talent. Except for my father. He would always say to them, ‘No. NO! You watch him. Just watch. You’ll see. He’s got something. You’ll see’.”

Wow. WOW.

I sputtered this word several more times, slack-jawed and senseless. Michael chuckled and patted my arm as she walked by.

“Yeah. Now think about THAT.”

My mouth was still hanging open as she grinned and left me.

WOW.

See why I love Michael?

parade of kooks and malcontents, scene 5

A lady who looked normal but wasn’t came into The Beanhouse and I, lucky girl, got to converse with her:

LADY: So what kind of stuff do you have here?

(Seriously????)

ME: Uh, coffee …. tea ….. pastries ….. you know.

LADY (looking at menu board over my head): What’s a “Beanhouse Cappuccino”?

ME: Well, that’s our specialty. It’s a layered drink: steamed milk, espresso, foam, topped with whipped creme, shaved chocolate, and cinnamon.

LADY: Ew. Sounds really sweet. Does it have sugar in it?

ME: Well, the whipped creme has some.

LADY (visibly shuddering): EW. No. Okay. What’s a latte?

ME: Espresso, steamed milk, and foam.

LADY: Does it have sugar?

ME: Not unless you put sugar in it.

LADY: Okay. Because I don’t want sugar.

ME: I see that.

LADY: Hm. What’s an au lait?

ME (listen, Quizzie Borden): It’s coffee and steamed milk ….

LADY: D —

ME: ….. and it doesn’t have sugar either.

LADY: Okay. What’s a con panna?

ME (LordinheavenkilloneofusNOW): Yeaaah. THAT is espresso with whipped creme.

LADY: But the whipped creme has some sugar, you said?

ME: Yesss. You probably don’t want that one.

LADY: Well, then, what’s a macchiato?

ME (!!?#@%!??): It’s espresso topped with …… “death,” Tracey, SAY it ….. uh, foam.

LADY: Hmm. Okay. Well, I’ll just have a cup of coffee.

And then, just then, my eyes rolled back in my head and the thousand hell demons inside me roused, rumbled, and growled in fiendish chorus:

GETTTT OOUUUUUUTTTT!!!!! GETTTT OOUUUUUUUUUTTTTTTTT!!!!!!

But then ….. well, the moment was over and my eyes rolled front and center again, and she was still there, staring, staring, a persistent wench, unmoved by my thousand growling hell demons and I had to pour her a damn cuppa coffee.

But you know what?

I did NOT tell her to have a nice day.

parade of kooks and malcontents, scene 4

Ah! The ongoing saga of my not-quite-life at The Beanhouse.

A couple weeks ago, I had this exchange with a customer we’ll call Scary Buzz-Cut Girl — a person I know is gainfully employed at the store across the street:

Scary Buzz-Cut Girl: I want a small, soy, sugar-free vanilla latte.

Me:
Okay. (ringing it up) That’s 2.60.

SB-CG: Oh. (searching her pockets, handing me 2 dollars) That’s all I have.

Me: Hmm. Well, it’s 2.60.

A couple of people had lined up behind her.

SB-CG: Well, I don’t have 2.60. (eyeing a jar on the counter) Can’t you just take the rest from your tips?

Me: I could, but I won’t. I’d be taking tips from my coworkers.

Yeah, yeah. Such a small amount, you might say, what’s the big deal? But, silly me, I actually think it’s the principle of the thing. How can you even ask that, Scary Buzz-Cut Girl? She never once said Okay, just forget it or I’ll go across the street and get more money while you help these other people who also exist on the planet or anything remotely like that. No. If memory serves, her response was:

SB-CG:

I admit it; I was getting flustered — and the line was growing behind Scary Buzz-Cut Girl. She just stood there …. you know:

Me: Okay. Here’s what I’ll do. (digging in my pocket) I’ll put in 60 cents myself.

SB-CG: Oh.

I dropped her money AND mine into the cash drawer while she walked away to retrieve her prissy drink …. without another word, without even a backward glance. Nuttin’.

If memory serves, my response was:

Me:

So fast-forward with me, dear reader, to just the other day, when Scary Buzz-Cut Girl came into The Beanhouse again. She strolled up to me, nonchalant, la-di-da.

Me (effusive with fake emotion): Oh, HI, Scary Buzz-Cut Girl!! Hey, you kNo-o-Ow …. don’t you owe me 60 cents?

SB-CG: What?! What for??

Me:
Oh, you know …. when you came in here about two weeks ago and didn’t have enough money for your latte?

SB-CG:
Oh …. yeah. Well, whatever. Here. I’ll just put it in the tip thing. (plopping money into the “tip thing”)

Me (despicably fake): Okay! Great!!

As she walked away, I took my money out of the tip jar.

And you know what? I never would have even asked — if only she’d said

Thank you.