BLUE CUP COFFEE

The two dudes working the counter have that 1990’s video store vibe. In addition to slinging coffee drinks, they also select the music. And by “select the music”, I mean they select which vinyl to spin on the record player, each selection requires a recitation on a bit of liner note trivia. The older one is an older chubby hippie. I don’t know why chubby is spelled with a “y” but hippy is spelled with an “ie”. … separate topic, but someone should sort that. He likes to hang in the background and heat up slices of pie and wash dishes. He also likes to smoke pot. This takes the edge off his caffeination and prevents him from being an annoying a-hole, as sometime people with too much caffeine in their system can be. The younger one, is a nerd, attempting transition to hipsterdom. He isn’t there yet. His caffeine to pot ratio could use a little more of the herb and a little less of the bean. He is incredibly efficient though, thanks to his current state of caffeination. When I order in my usual deadpan style, which I’ve been told invokes the fear of God or maybe that Javier Bardem character in “No Country for Old Men”, he is undaunted. I specify that I want a black cup. He instantly recognizes that I mean business and this isn’t a chat fest opportunity for me. He jumps on it and brings back a very dark blue cup, which borders on being black. He acknowledges the gap in the deliverable from the stated requirement, and politely asks if the dark navy will suffice. His forthrightness is rewarded with a concession on my part. I take the blue cup. Next I request cocoa powder. He is also quick with this. The choices are Mexican Chocolate and something else. The something else is irrelevant because I choose Mexican Chocolate. He executes flawlessly. He changes the music from 13th Floor Elevators to the White Stripes, skipping over Gogol Bordello because the chubby hippie can’t abide.

I’ve made friends with a sweet pooch on the porch. I’m inside, but I see him through the window, wagging his tail. His owner is of the LGBTQ ilk, blending the L,T, and Q a bit while on what appears to be a blind date or a new-ish acquaintance date. The dog owner is pretty cool, (cool Tom Boy hair, outfit, and shoes…) and I wonder if the date is disappointing or enchanting. The pooch has gotten tangled in it’s leash a couple of times. Each time this happens, I make eye contact with it, and send messages on how to unwind. When I exit, if it’s still on the porch, I’ll stop for a cuddle as my reward.

There is a fellow here who challenges classification, but I’ll try. Long hair.. like falling below the belt line. The belt line in question covers a small pouchy gut, but one that doesn’t yet register on the gross scale. The belt also holds a large buck knife in the back. This is Texas. So.. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. But, it seems like, one could easily snatch the knife. There is nothing about his sloppy black cargo pants with too many pockets and pouches that suggest ninja. So, the blatant buck knife seems silly. Also, his long hair has split ends. I’m confused by all the converging elements of his ensemble. Not my concern…. moving on. The hippie is serving coffee now and has a laugh that makes me wish he would retreat to the back and heat up some cherry pie. It’s shift change for the baristamaniacs. Mr. Caffeination handles the transition. A fat man in the corner wearing mom jeans is playing Pokemon Go. The mom jeans are not worn in a Norm-Core ironic way. They are his real pants. The Not-a-Ninja hippie with the buck knife keeps eyeballing me. I was probably eyeballing him a little, in an effort to sort out his situation, and now he’s giving me a bit of a vibe like we are in a club on Ladies Night. Ah… yes. he’s a roadie of some sort. I’ve been out of that business for quite a while, hence I didn’t pick it up at first. But as I watched him walk, it became obvious. Has that swagger like the fellow who runs the Himalayan Carnival Ride at the fair.

The pooch on the porch has finally settled, laying down with closed eyes. It’s owner is leaning in, talking comfortably to her date. The fat man in the corner is congratulated for getting all the pokemons by a young kid as he walks by. The shift change is complete. A new pot of light roast has brewed. Chubby Hippie is cleaning the bathrooms before he leaves, which means he isn’t laughing. D’Angelo’s Black Messiah replaces the White Stripes on the turn table. I breathe easy and enjoy my coffee.

MALIBU JESUS PITCHES HIS START UP

He’s wearing a black lizard belt that matches his black lizard boots, both high gloss and recently polished. I should like the boots and the belt. Normally I would. But, they are so completely misaligned with the rest of his clothing and overall persona that I can’t like them. Seriously. I can’t. Further, I cannot concentrate on drinking my coffee because of his hair. And his beard. …and the outfit/costume he’s donned for the day. I can’t. But, I’ll try. …. tried and failed. The aforementioned boots have a soft oval point. Navy slacks. Well made. Bespoke shirt with an English cuff and cuff links. Thomas Pink flavor. Gray vest. …. more aptly ‘grey' vest. Surely, I am being punked. That’s the only explanation for this. My friends are hiding behind the corner, waiting for me to explode. They know me too well. The boots simply don’t go with the outfit. But, back to the hair because I know what you’re thinking… you’re thinking the shirt and vest sound nice. They are nice. But, in context with the hair, they become overstated hipster irony. Overstated with a red hot poker in my eyeballs. If he had a buzz cut with a mohawk combover, we’d be in business. But, he doesn’t. If he had a neck tattoo, or kitchy knuckle tattoos, we might be closer to fine. But, he doesn't have those either. Let me explain the hair.

In the 1970’s, Mattel made these giant Barbie heads. Little girls bought them to learn how to apply make up and fix hair. He has that hair. Dirty blonde and it has a blunt cut, recently done because there are no split ends- you can see the sharp edges are recently cut with scissors. He used a hair dryer and his wife’s brush this morning… but only for basic utility. There is still a bit of a messy wave, so.. there isn’t a metro thing happening. .. it’s more of a Malibu Jesus thing, except with blunt, recently cut ends. .. Not hot Jesus Christ Super Star hair with layers and a cool mustache. This is Malibu Jesus.. all one-legnth .. a thick righteous Breck-girl mane. The beard is Stage 2 Civil War, trailing roughly one inch below the chin. My brain hurts. If he wouldn’t have worked so hard on this look, I might not be so upset. But, this took planning and preening. And it enrages me for reasons I don’t quite understand. Perhaps the true source of my consternation, is that he's pitching his start up to potential “Employee #1”. In order to live through this start up pitch, I decide that if he quotes Steve Jobs, I will pull his Barbie Head Jesus Hair with my left hand and punch him in the throat with my right.

He senses me staring at him and meets my gaze. My hair is shaved and I have two half-sleeves of tattoos. Therefore, I automatically win this stare-off in less than one second…. before I even exhale, expressing my disgust for everything that he manifests today with his wardrobe selection and startup chat. But, I see that he believes. And he has no idea that his cowboy boots, Barbie Head Jesus Hair, fancy slacks and cuff links are atrocious in their pairing. He also doesn’t know that he is really late to the start up game, and his pitch isn’t that great. I would know. I’ve heard a million of them. In that moment, I let go and find some peace. But, I hold onto the Steve Jobs quote commitment .. just for kicks. Potential Employee #1 finally leaves, and he stops talking. Quiet. It’s nice. I can drink my coffee now. Some days and some people bring harmony, and others bring discord and mayhem. I try to set aside the disharmony when possible, but some days I fail. It’s a daily battle... … go toward the light ya’ll.

RIGHTEOUS MUFFIN COFFEE

She is wearing clogs… the full-on kind that cover her heals. She’s wearing “socklets” with them. Gray skinny jeans rolled up/cuffed twice. Soft tank top that is forgiving/flared at the waist. Her hair is buzzed below the ears and the rest is up in a trendy “man bun” .. except she’s not a man. She is loud. Megaphone loud. She works here and I think her shift is over, but she is lingering and visiting with someone she knows at a table. A young woman and man sit at the table where she lingers. Peaceful hipsters. Not edgy tattooed hipsters.. more like hippies. Do-gooder hippies. She tells them about a summer camp that does interventions for wayward youths. I think she works there too. The hippies play in a band. She tells them “that’s tight”…. and then asks if they need a back up dancer and begins shaking herself to the beat of a song that is not playing. She touches his shoulder several times. The hand is familiar and caresses. I’m not positioned well enough to gauge the reaction of his table companion. It’s revealed that the hippie-not-hipster couple is planning for a trip to India, where they will work with orphans. Their face scrunches up when they say the word “orphans”. The clogged-shod megaphone finally leaves, but not before giving her friend a free leftover taco and a muffin from the breakfast shift, and offering nothing to the female hippie-not-hipster. The couple is now left to plan activities they will do with the orphans. You know.. like drawing pictures of Ganesh, collecting feathers, splitting up in groups based on their favorite animal and various other Anglo-lensed ideations. He finishes the taco and starts on the muffin. He doesn’t ask his companion if she wants a bite of either. She gets up to get water, and offers to get him one. He says yes. This happens twice. The second time, she doesn’t ask him, but he stops her and hands his glass. He’s wearing a bright green headband that angers me more than his dry muffin stinginess. If I were a dragon, I would exhale in their direction and be done with this torture. I quickly chide myself for conjuring all this rage and judgement. After all, I’m trying to release darkness and anger… not grow it. So, even if I was a dragon, it would be wrong to burn them to a crisp over these minor offenses. I pause. I’ve had some water now and taken some deep breaths. I see that he will have intestinal problems on the trip, (… because sometimes I see the future…) He will writhe in pain and she will fetch water, as is her lot until she decides it’s not. …. that is her journey… not mine. He will gobble everything offered to him without thought and without sharing. That is his lot, until he decides it’s not. Invoking fire-breathing dragons... well, I suppose that's mine. …. go toward the light… y’all.

Santeria Coffee

I can’t see the coffee cups. They are under the counter, and the shelf opens on the barista’s side. She doesn’t look as she grabs one and sets it on the counter. It’s the wrong one. I’m not a regular here, so it’s not like I have a cup that I always get. I don’t even have anything in mind. I just know that I’m not drinking out of that burnt orange oval mug today. It just doesn’t feel right. So, I stare at the mug, and then I stare at her. “I can’t use that mug. Can I have a different one?” She looks at me. She looks hard. I look hard back, knowing that I will fight to the death on this if need be. She had dreadlocks. In a peaceful Rasta sort of way. I am bald. In a “you can’t kill me if I’m already dead” kind of way. Her pupils and irises are black coffee, blended together via gentle smoke right before her coffeeshop shift. The clock ticks slowly. There’s a line behind me. I don’t care. I am surefooted. A heavy stone. I breathe in and I breathe out, quietly and intently. She takes the offensive mug off the counter. She hunches down below the counter, digging through the coffee cups presumably. Either that, or she’s getting a weapon, and it will be a full on Kung Fu show down. I’m ready in either event. The Rasta dreads pop back up, she sets two cups on the counter. “You choose,” she speaks softly. Both mugs are black. One has a yellow Batman logo. One has a Skull and Crossbones. “Both of these seemed like they could be the right one,” she offers, seeing me evaluate both mugs. It’s quiet. People are waiting. “My aunt (pronounced “aahnt”) practices Santeria,” she offers …. for reasons unknown. But then she explains, “She can be kind of spooky…” which I suppose she intends as a compliment. The clock ticks slowly. “I’ll take that one,” I spoke softly also and pointed at the Skull and Crossbones. I picked up the mug, and examined it. “Everything is a little bit Angels/Devils isn’t it…” I told her … a nod to her spooky Santeria Aunt. She smiled and rang me up. I smiled and paid. … No actual Kung Fu required. Go toward the light… y’all.