Category: boheme

Some days at B*heme ain’t all bad. Today, two giant dogs fell in love with me. And I with them. In honor of our love, I kept clicking away, taking crappy cell phone photos. It’s a gift. Still …. Meet Buster and Simba, 2-year-old, 150-pound Great Danes:

Simba in the front. Buster next to him. Staring at the traffic. To be fair, the traffic mesmerized them just as much as I did.

Even enormous canines like Diedrich coffee:

“Oh, Tracey, min elskede ….. here, let me please to kiss you …. pay no attention to deh spittle on deh nose …. may I please to sit in your lap?”

Which he really did try to do. I just couldn’t get a picture of it. I was too busy being crushed under the weight of a giant, lovesick, caffeinated dog.

I don’t know how this will all turn out. Not B*heme. B*heme will be over soon. No. I mean this. These posts about it. I’m literally writing off the top of my head here. And that’s how I’ll do it. I don’t want to overthink it because I’m exhausted about it in general. I don’t need to become more exhausted trying to eke out posts about it. So these will be more like journal entries, I suppose. Likely full of ranting and rambling and hyperbole and fingerpointing. (If you think that doesn’t sound like a journal entry, you’ve never read my journals. And, you know, thanks for that, seriously.)

So. Pointless, incoherent ramblings? Bitter rage and recriminations? You need to jump on this merry-go-round of fun NOWWW!!

Okay. First, here’s a truth: We’ve discovered, MB and I — over probably the longest seven months of our lives — that we really WANT to have a coffeehouse. We really DO. Oh, yes, indeedy. More than anything, we want to lounge behind a large window every morning, sensuously sipping our espressos, tempting all the passersby, you know, like those hardworking hookers in Amsterdam.

BUT.

When people come and knock on our window and want to be serviced, we want — more than ANYTHING, I tell ya — for people to drop money at our lazy feet while we laugh and laugh and laugh and LAUGH.

Hey, I said it was a truth. I didn’t say it was nice. Basically, we want to make lots of money at a coffeehouse that nobody comes to but us. And if I could flop in my jammies, do crosswords, and read, so much the better. I mean, this is just what we’ve learned after lo! these many aggravating months. Really — okay, let’s be honest — we want, as sober, healthy, childless, white US citizens to be richly rewarded for doin’ nuthin’ but hanging out and drinking coffee.

So if any of you know of such an opportunity, you can email me, mmkay?

But do it now, before I implode.

AKA, Reason #1 for the End of Bo-Em:

He is not surprised. He is not scared. He is not standing agape at Britney’s performance at the VMAs. Nope. He is Baby Button Eyes and he looks this way all the time. He is The Overlord. And you just never know if he’s lurking around the next corner, plotting how to make your life impossible at Bo-Em.

And no — no, not Bo-heem, dude. Bo-EM. (Gah. I HATE THAT! That right there is, like, Reason #Something!)

But you must look at this face. I know it’s hard. But you must. I want you to get to know him. Size him up. Try. It’s hard because of the inscrutable button eyes, but just climb into the mania — or whatever it is — that’s there. Because we’ll be talking about ole Baby Button Eyes. Soon.

Oh, yes, we will.

Over the next couple weeks, I’ll be posting a fair amount about the end of my wee coffeehouse, Boheme.

Eh? What’s that you’re talking about, Trace? Did I miss something here?

No, you haven’t missed anything; I just haven’t talked about it yet. But, basically, this has been in the works for a little while now. At the end of this month, little Boheme will be no more. There are myriad reasons why — all of which I expect to beat you about the head with at some point in this epic tale of woey woe woe, so do try to calm yourselves about all THAT.

Please don’t feel sorry for me — on many levels, I am and will be relieved.

On the other levels — well, let’s just say I’ve learned a thing or two.

More to come later.

On the back patio at Boheme. A customer took this picture and emailed it to me.

Ain’t it purty?

“SNINT” is a brief in machine steno for the word “incident.” Somehow, I’ve always had a soft spot for that brief and still sometimes use it as if it’s English. Maybe it’s because it’s close to snit or something. Maybe it’s because I’m a loon. But …. nah. It’s empirically good. I think that’s what it is. Really. Give it a try. Say it: Snint. Snint. Snnnint.

S’nice, isn’t it?

Anyhoo.

This last week or so at Boheme positively bubbled over with unpleasant snints. And I need to purge the memory of these wretched snints by dumping them on you, thereby lessening my burden. Okay? Great.

SNINT #1:

A busy morning. I’m by myself. All my ceramic plates are being used — and I don’t really have that many. Man comes in, orders a coffee and a danish on a plate. I tell him, “I’m sorry. All my plates are being used. Can I put it in a bag for you? He scowls while I go get his coffee. When I turn back to him, he’s holding a dirty plate, sticky and lumpy from a previous danish, obviously. “Well, uhm, I found this in that bus tub. Couldn’t you just wash it for me?”

Washing plates involves leaving the area and going to the back, so I usually don’t do it when I’m alone. Plus, uh, DUDE, you’re sticking a dirty plate in my face! Are you so offended at the prospect of a paper bag that you’d rather fondle someone else’s dirty plate and wait while I wash it off for you? And, also …. well, what is your problem???

I just stare at him.

“Couldn’t you just wash it?” he repeats.

I look down at the gooey mess and I literally don’t know what to say. Some days, I have no fight in me; other days, watch out. This day I just sigh and mutter, “Just a minute.” I disappear around the corner and wash his pissy plate — taking my time, in a nice, passive-aggressive way. I resist the urge to wipe a little spit on there while I dry it.

The day after Snint #1.

Okay. Little Boheme takes up a space that is basically the foyer of the wine lounge that’s open at night when I’m closed. In one corner of my space, there’s a glass door that leads into the wine lounge. (These details are so engrossing, Tracey. Please tell us more!) Just beyond that, on the right wall, is the door to the bathroom. Given my close proximity to the street and the fact that the bathroom doesn’t need a key to get into, I’m constantly having to police who goes in there. Lots of Hobo Joes wandering up from the canyons. Lots of hipsters who know the lounge has a bathroom. Lots of people who just breeze rightpastme, never acknowleding my presence, and use the bathroom. The Overlord refuses to put up a “Bathroom for Customer Use Only” sign, and yet, I’m expected to be the guard dog at the door, barking at people, telling them, “Hey! Customers only, Slappy!” Because Overlord is worried about the wine on the wine racks in the lounge, you see. I, however, am not. Not my wine, not my problem. Put locking cabinets in there if you’re that worried about thieving Hobo Joes.

So let’s just say I’m rather hit and miss about Potty Patrol, quite frankly. If it’s a pregnant woman, she gets a pass. If it’s a shriveled old man, he gets a pass. If I’m busy with a customer, the Pee-er or Poo-er will probably get a pass only because I’m preoccupied.

But this particular day …

It was early afternoon. Not a big coffee time of the day. I was actually sitting behind the espresso machine, doing paperwork. And lest you think I was diligently attending to businessy-type papers — ah, no. I was literally working with paper. There were paints and paint brushes and strips of paper.

A large fellow saunters right past me, through the wine lounge door, and into the bathroom. Not a word. Not a grunt. Not even a glance my way. I do not exist.
Several minutes go by. He comes back out. Without a word. Without a “thank you.” Without anything but a quick tug at his pants. Which is what can make life so unbearable sometimes, don’t you think? Those millions of teensy differences between how you think people should be and how they actually are. I find it all deeply discouraging.

So, knee-jerk, I decide to say something to him. He’s a step or two outside the building but I say — as politely as possible — oh, and this is key: My innocence and general all-emcompassing goodness in this scenario cannot possibly be overstated, mmkay? So I say, “Uh, sir, just to let you know for future reference, the bathroom is for customers only.”

He stops, turns, glares at me and walks on. But only a couple paces. Then he turns around and marches back towards me, face scrunched in anger. Oh, goodie, I think.

He stops at the counter and I notice again that he is very tall. In that moment, I’m grateful for the 6″ tall pallets that I’m standing on. I silently bless the dumpster behind Ikea from whence these were quickly and cleverly stolen because they’re very handy, make my job easier because the espresso cart is high, AND make me feel tough and bitchen in the face of imminent ass-hattery like this.

“What did you say?” he demands.

“I’m sorry. The bathroom is for customers only. It’s the policy of the owner of the building.”

Annnnd he’s off:

“How dare you say that to me! I AM a customer! I come here once a week for my group. Don’t you recognize me?”

Honestly, I didn’t. If he comes to a group, he comes sporadically. Oh, and may I add that his assumption that coming once a week and dropping a buck seventy on coffee gives him a lifetime poo pass is just precious to me?

“Um, sir. I see lots of people during a day and –”

He interrupts me.

“You do NOT understand! I need the bathroom! I am sick! I have FULL-BLOWN AIDS! I am FECALLY INCONTINENT! When I have to go, I only have like 30 seconds to find a bathroom or I will have an accident! I ran in here because I HAD TO GO!”

I try to speak. Maybe talk to him about a quality product called Depends. But he barrels right over me.

“I mean, do you think I left the place in a mess? Is that what you think? Because I didn’t. I didn’t. What — do you think I’m homeless or something? I’m NOT! I have FULL-BLOWN AIDS! I AM FECALLY INCONTINENT! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT??? You totally hurt my feelings and offended me!!”

Oh, brother.

OH, FECALLY INCONTINENT BROTHER!!

Sweet Jesus, will you strike him dead now, just for me, your favorite?

Or alternatively, will you fill my bowels with poo o’plenty that I may pull down my pants and plop on his head?

I mean, I’d be good either way.

But no. No death. No poo-plop. Drat. Instead, I resort to the tired solution of hopeless idealists everywhere: TALKING RATIONALLY. I keep trying to interject, trying to get him to see reason. No, I don’t think you’re homeless, blahblah. No, I don’t think you left a mess, yaddiedoo. It’s just the policy of the building and I get to be the enforcer, yippieskip. Sorry about your butt, etc., etc.

And he just keeps at me, for about 10 minutes.

Mr. Fecally Incontinent is, apparently, fecally incontinent at both ends.

Sad.

And messy.

I don’t know why I let him go on so long. I am just worn down, I guess. When he leaves, I start to cry. At least the little mole man who’s been sitting there sipping his coffee and silently LISTENING TO ALL OF THIS is sympathetic now that the big scary man is gone and he will not be killed by speaking up on a woman’s behalf. And isn’t that nice?

When I call MB later, he says, “Point him out so I can kill him.”

(More to come on this. It’s an ongoing Snint.)

These are chronological. Note my progressive spiral into apathy and aggression.

Dude and his girlfriend walk in.

DUDE: I’m in a big hurry. Can I get a decaf?

ME: Oh, I’m so sorry. I just ran out and need to brew. Can you wait a couple minutes?

DUDE: No, I’m in a hurry. Just give me a decaf Americano.

ME: Okay.

I start on the drink. The girlfriend is trying to decide what she wants. She’s talking it over with him, I guess.

DUDE: Oh, hey. Can you put a little bit of foam on that drink?

Now, it was early in the morning. I didn’t have any foam because I hadn’t made any drinks yet that needed it — no lattes or cappuccinos. And I don’t just make foam and leave it languishing on the counter, hoping someone will want it. It’s against health code. And it’s gross. So it’s made on a per drink basis and an Americano is espresso and water, doesn’t take foam. Plus, he had said he was in a hurry, right? Okay.

ME: Oh. Well, I don’t have any made right now, so it will take a few more moments to make, is that okay?

DUDE (leaning over the counter and scowling at me): Look, I’m just asking for some service, all right? And you’re acting like it’s some big deal to make me some foam. How can you not have any foam made yet? I mean, what time did you open? Look. Okay. Just forget it. I don’t want the drink. Just give me my money back. What was it for our drinks? Four-something?

ME: Sir, I can make the foam — it’s not a problem — you just said you were in a hurry.

DUDE: No! Just forget it!

ME: Okay. Here’s 5 bucks back. This is my place and I think you should go now, okay?

Early in the morning the day after Snint #3, a guy comes in with his friends who are visiting from the East Coast. They order drinks and go out to the bamboo patio in back. After about a half an hour, I decide to go check on them, see how they’re doing. You know, be courteous and such.

I walk out to the patio and stand at the top of the steps.

“How’s everything going out here? Do you need anything?”

The guy looks around the patio and whines, “Wellll, there’s lots of flllies out here this morning. Can’t you doooo something about that?”

For a split-second, I just stare at him. Then — I really can’t say why — I just start flailing my arms this way and that, like a crazy person.

“Uhm, how’s that?”

The guy looks at me, agape. His friends giggle. I turn and walk back to the front of the store.