Category: beanhouse kooks

Today, a little old lady came into The Beanhouse, plopped her shopping bag on the counter and requested, in a faint, crackly voice, a “small dark roast, please.” As I handed her the coffee, I spied something fuzzy poking out of her shopping bag and just had to ask.

“Whatcha got there?”

A huge smile crinkled as she unveiled the fuzzy thing.

It was a big floppy lavender bunny.

She stroked one of the ears. “Feel it,” she cooed.

I did, sinking my hand into its velvety plushness. Suddenly, I wanted my whole life to be covered in this silken softness, my clothes, my sheets, my chairs, my floors, everything.

“It’s so soft,” I murmured. I was just about to ask her who it was for, assuming a granddaughter or a niece, perhaps, when she seemed to read my mind:

“It’s for a friend of mine who hasn’t been feeling very good.” She paused, briefly uncertain.

“Do you think she’ll like it?”

Was she kidding? I wanted it. In that moment, stroking the bunny’s soft lavender ear, I longed for my little girl bed, for my bears and my Eyeore and my stuffed dog, for their constant, cushy comfort, for the long ago days when that was okay. And here was this tiny wrinkled lady bringing it full circle, making it okay again.

“You know what?” I said. “I think she’s gonna love it.”

She smiled again and gently pushed bunny back into the bag.

“Okay. Good. Thank you.”

She teetered out the door on her sensible old lady heels, lavender bunny a quiet secret in the bottom of a bag.

I try to make the occasional dishwashing at The Beanhouse interesting somehow. I almost like the task, as it can be rather quiet and contemplative. My mind can wander where it wills, free from customer demands — and I never really know just where it might roam. Last night, to my surprise, the bus tub came to life, a lively, sudsy little world.

The Players:

— a cold mocha tide ebbing and flowing across the bottom of a grey plastic world, a sloshing excess, too much of a good thing

— a large white ceramic mug, coffee smeared up the side, milk foam like soggy lace covering it all; cappuccino, puddling, lonely at the bottom — wait! a crumb — a swimmer, slicing through the lonely brownness.

— a small white ceramic plate, fluffy crumbs dotting its glossy field, little remnant sugar lambs, still and quiet in their place

— a paper coffee cup, crumpled but not thrown away; paper sleeve dangling, trying to hold onto the sudden wrongness of the shape

— two stir sticks, snapped in compound fracture, jagged wooden edges waiting to jab unsuspecting fingers

— a plastic straw drowned in the drink in its paper wrapper, perhaps thrown to the java sea by coffee mobsters with a grudge

— a Splenda packet, ripped neatly open, all the way across, perhaps by a woman, or a Felix Unger

— a straw paper wrapper, soaked from coffee spray, clinging to white ceramic cliffs, a weary climber losing hold over the roiling coffee tide

— two Pelligrino bottles, giant green bullies muscling for space, tiny contents in the corner quailing at their boorishness

— a knife and fork, tangled together, fork spotted with sticky cherry redness — lipstick of a lover’s embrace or blood of an enemies’ duel?

— a gob of Kleenex, once white, now coffee-sogged, perfect for wadding and throwing back at the runny-nosed rudey who carelessly tossed it here

— a dented Pelligrino bottle cap, green bully’s missing hat, ruined and never to be worn again

finally,

— a half-eaten chocolate croissant, caved-in and sodden, a floating buttery island jutting from the mocha waves

just a grey plastic tub and its players, remnants of rudeness and ritual

(There is language in this post that may be offensive to some. I am quoting when I use it. I thought about how best to post it and decided to spell out the word fully. It is for the emphasis of the moment as it actually was.)

If you are a guy who’s 25 years old or younger, according to My Beloved, you are a “Little Dude.” This is NOT a compliment. It is not an endearment. It is always uttered with disdain, a shake of the head, a curl of the lip.

How to tell a Little Dude? You can’t go just on looks. You might think you can, but you really can’t. This is how you will know you’re in the presence of a bona fide Little Dude:

He will think he is brilliant when he is actually deeply, desperately stupid.

I now work with several bona fide Little Dudes. They are some of the most idiotic boys I’ve ever known. Yesterday, one of the LDs — having just attained the ancient sagacity that comes from being 20 — was venting loudly:

“I was so STUPID when I was 17!! These tattoos are so LAME!!” He thrust out his arms, palms up, so I could see the tattoos snaking down from his upper arm to the underside of his forearm. I’d noticed them before, but they were always partly covered by his sleeves. He continued:

“I mean, LOOK at this one!”

I did. It was not an image. It was simply words: “Never Forget.”

“‘Never Forget,'” I read aloud, my heart swelling a little. “Is that in reference to 9/11?”

His look had such disdain, such HATRED. He seemed to swagger.

“NO WAY! FUCK 9/11!!!”

The look in his eye did not fade as he stared at me and I stared back.

Oh, you stupid, STUPID Little Dude. You picked the WRONG person to blast with that little phrase.

Inside, I was smoldering. My body felt instantly hot. I actually think I could have turned his phrase around on him, substituting “YOU” for “9/11.” It was literally the closest I’ve ever come to saying that to another person. Somehow, though, I kept my gaze steady on his as I said, with the most careful enunciation I could muster:

“Well, you may feel differently if you ever have family members killed in an act of terrorism — as I have.”

I couldn’t breathe, but somehow these words came out.

He slumped right before my eyes. The swagger was gone. His head hung down and his gaze went with it. He would NOT look at me. I have no idea WHAT I looked like when I said this, but if my face was as blazing as my insides, well …. I may have looked a little scary. I was utterly still. I just looked at him. Finally, he spoke, looking at me, looking away, looking at me, looking away. His voice was barely audible, a mumble:

“Ohhh …. God ….. uh …. I didn’t know …… I’m …. sorry …. uh ….. sorry.”

I said nothing.

The Little Dude tiptoed off, boxers hanging out his pants.

I just stood there, trying to breathe again.

This was just today.

Me: Would you like room for cream in your coffee?

Man, 60-70-ish: DON’T ASK ME THAT!! THIS ISN’T STARBUCKS!! YOU DON’T ASK THAT IF YOU WORK HERE!! WHY WOULD YOU ASK ME THAT?? JUST DON’T DO IT!! DON’T DO IT!! DON’T EVER ASK THAT!!

Old Man continues to rave like this as I pour his coffee, my back to him. Then I turn to him with his damn cuppa coffee with NO ROOM — NO ROOM — FOR CREAM. It is only some mysterious act of God — like when He held back the Red Sea or something — that keeps me from throwing it on him, screeching, “ROOM FOR CREAM WITH THAT, SLAPPY??!!”

Instead ….

Me: Sir, I’ve been here two weeks. I’m just the new girl. Cut. Me. Some. Slack.

It’s been 2 weeks at Joe’s now. It is, truly, a parade of kooks and malcontents. Allow me to present some random scenes.

SCENE 1:

Um …. I hate to say this, but in order to get the right tone of the man’s voice here, you must imagine a — God forgive me — uhh — okay. He sounds like Jack from “Will and Grace.”

Man (demanding): Are you new here?

Me: Yes, I am.

Man (sniffily): Oh. I just HATE new people.

Me (looking at him, he’s “new” to me): Me, too!

Man: NO. I mean, they seriously FREAK ME OUT!

Me (he’s so bizarre, I just play with him): I’M FREAKING MYSELF OUT!

There is …….. a pause.

Man: I don’t …. know what to say.

Me: I know what. If it makes you feel less freaked out, I won’t talk to you when you come into the store. How about that?

Man (horrified) : NO! Don’t do that! That will FREAK ME OUT EVEN MORE!

Me: Okay. Well, how about the opposite? (extending my hand to him)

Hi. I’m Tracey.

(And I’m going to hell.)

Man (extending his hand – in slow motion, unsure): I’m ….. Tom.

Me (smiling): Nice to meet you, Tom! Now we’re not so new to each other anymore.

His mouth takes several seconds to spread into something like a smile. We are shaking hands. He doesn’t look at me directly. I just keep smiling.

He shuffles off.

Me: See you next time, Tom!