The coffee is hot. The coffee is fresh. The laptop is open and fingers furiously pound the keys. He makes a call. He asks a questions and then makes decisions. He clicks his pen. He summarizes. He is a true taco mogul. He is large and in charge. … not fat, just large with his personage. True, …. taco moguls come in all shapes and sizes. The mogul sitting next to me currently owns one trailer. He’s expanding to another one next weekend and will set up at local farmer’s markets this summer. His tacos are vegan with some Vietnamese ingredients here and there. His lieutenant arrives. Her hair is up and she sports bold hoop earrings. Her notebook is open and she is ready to get down to business. They immediately do just that. There will be four locations- the pop-ups at the farmers markets. Tables, ice chests, and various other details emerge. They’ll offer the #1,2,4,and 5. I wonder why they aren’t offering #3, but don’t interrupt their flow to ask, despite my burning curiosity. I am intrigued by their focus and their passion. … and amazed that I don’t have a single negative thought about either of them. I say silent thank you to the fortunes of chance that placed these two fully clothed emperors at the table next to me. They are disrupting, innovating, strategizing, and game-changing without invoking my ire. …. and it occurs to me, no one hates a taco mogul. In a world full of hate, confusion, fear, reality distortion, and chaos, tacos remain peaceful … and delicious. No hate, no anger, no politics, no marketing spin, no hyperbolic esoterica… just a hard or soft shell with some goodness inside. Let's go forth and eat more tacos. …go toward the light y’all.
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.
Malibu Jesus in the Coffee
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.
A muffin on a better day.
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.
Skull & Cross Bones Mug
Coffee in the rain
I wanted to come here. It wasn’t easy. I had to park two blocks away and make my way over in the rain amid construction equipment and chalky mud. ... And yeah, I stepped in the chalky mud and my foot sunk into it, more than I anticipated… as a foot does when surprised by material murkiness.
But, I’m here now. And it’s the same as it has been for 20 years. Yellow walls, long leaf pine floors. Bad art on the walls. There is a gaggle of girls crowding the counter hugging one another. Are they ordering? … or just hugging? Why are they hugging in the queue? There should be a hugging area. And it should be no where near the ordering queue. … A pair of comfortable shoes sits alone on the floor. Their wall flower owner is cradled in a chair, reading a book. Her socks are of the colorful striped variety, and they are enjoying temporary liberation from the hideous shoes. I know this because her toes are curling inward, like a cat when it’s pleased. … His laptop reveals pages of notes written in Arabic, a piece of masking tape with the word “focus” written on it is affixed to the top of his screen. Five minutes later his screen reveals he is also watching a movie.
The masking tape and the striped socks wish they could commiserate with each other. They long to talk shop. They want to vent about the irony of their existance and the tickling cruelty of their fates. I hear them screaming loudly, and I decide to let them in. We talk for a bit. I tell the socks to consider an alternate scenario where they live with a beautiful fashionista. They are excited about this, until they realize they would likely become the wall flower in that scenario. Irony -- indeed. The tape has power issues. …constantly wants to control. I tell him I’m the same way, and offer a couple of Buddhist readings and mediations.
Though they will likely never meet again, they briefly shared space today and in so doing lifted their burdens slightly. The socks, donned as the only shred of mystique or interest on an erstwhile wall flower, slip reluctantly back into the comfortable shoes. The tape, an incompetent hall monitor and ineffective task master, gets smothered when the laptop closes. I hope he is using the breathing techniques we discussed. Their owners, unfashionable and unfocused, exit stage left, out the coffeeshop door and into the world at large. And I am staring at an empty chair and an empty table across from me… feeling a bit abandoned by my new friends. I wonder if its possible for the hugging girls to reappear and bring me into their fold. …. go toward the light... ya’ll.
Gridlock Coffee
I am blinded by the red glare of Austin, Texas gridlock. ... I'm rendered deaf by the cacophony of rattled and erratic heartbeats— each of them beating loudly in my ear like crickets in the night but sounding more like a crowded international city every day.
The light that I often invoke can be elusive. It is most assuredly *not in a car's break lights or an ill-timed traffic light. It’s the ethereal warmth of the moon in it’s fullest form. It’s the first break of dawn. It’s the unexpected glow from a fire fly in the early evening. The pulse of a life-affirming heartbeat from any living creature. A kitten on the internet. A kitten in real life. A botox filled marketing executive with a chipped nail before her big presentation. A ranting drunk in the bank lobby who just peed his pants, who might be a hobo but could also be a pillar of the community. We all have hard days, after all. The above-it-all barista who just got dumped by her aloof boyfriend and fails to see the irony. A pen of fighting roosters on the east side of town. The hipsters with neck tattoos and civil war beards eating local and organic and advertising their righteousness. The woman walking around with her cell phone stuck in her tits under her lululemon cami top and proud about it.
All these heartbeats… swirling this morning.. each in their own car.. driving single file to nowhere in the tyranny that is traffic. It’s unclear where they are headed.. but at this pace they might get there tomorrow, when they’ll wake up and do it again. …. go toward the light, ya’ll.
Sixteen Coffee
She is only sixteen, working her first job as a barista on San Juan Island. The weather is mostly beautiful and she is happy. Maybe it’s a caffiene-enabled happiness, but it’s not manufactured, it’s genuine. Not too perky and not too solicitous or righteous. Part of me is looking for reasons to discount this. She’s only had four customers in the last hour. Surely if she was busy, she’d be have a more somber or aggravated demeanor. She surely doesn’t know yet, ….. the challenges and suffering that life will bring. <...Take a sip of tea and breathe….> And I stop that voice from talking and I let the barista be happy. After all, I am reading essays by a Buddhist nun, who is wise, and I think for a minute the nun would be pleased that I let go of the need to diminish the happiness of a complete stranger who is yet unleashed in this world. Then I remember the nun is Buddhist, so she won’t attach any judgment or feelings to my actions. ..and I go back to the barista. It’s actually likely she knows more of the world than I credit her, although she is still an innocent. I certainly knew challenges and suffering in the world at that age, and tended to carry the weight of it on my shoulders. This one, the barista, isn’t doing that. She made friends with the last four people who came up, including me. Her family travels to the mainland every three weeks to buy groceries because prices are too high here on the island. There are two grocery stores and they are owned by the same person, and she doesn’t understand the point of that. She wishes they had a Trader Joe’s. The twelve year old from room 233 ordered a “decaf” London Fog for his mom who was still sleeping. She didn’t know what that was, but they sorted it out. His sister brought the tea to his mom and he stayed and ate his bagel with the barista. They made fast friends. I finished my tea and wished that we could all work and live with the same weightlessness she possessed today. … but for always. ... when there is more than four customers an hour …. when the new friend at the bar isn’t an easygoing twelve year old. Before and after all suffering and challenges and before, in the midst, and after joy. Weightlessness. ......Go toward the light, ya’ll.
Black Sabbath Scab
It is likely no coincidence that Black Sabbath is playing on the sound system. An ironic retro-choice to the hipster that selected it. But to me, it’s an an old friend. I am in line, waiting to order the black liquid that will course through me and make me real to this world. For now, I am invisible. He is standing in front of me: Charcoal skinny jeans, sandy-gray dessert boots, watch on the left wrist, sterling crafted bracelet on the right. He’s holding a motorcycle helmet in one hand. It has brown leather gloves stuffed inside of it. The gloves have red lining. His fingernails are trim but not too metro. No cuticle issues. His hair is long-ish but does not pass his shoulders. It is sufficiently layered so as to avoid any hippie hair cross-over. He is Gen-X. Not hipster. Aside from his age, this is obvious because otherwise his boots would have been black as would his gloves. Also, his beard is mere scratch stubble vs. full on Civil War. His skin is lightly freckled, and his eyes are hazel. All of this is compelling, of course. Yet, most interesting is perhaps his navy blue henley shirt rolled up slightly over his elbow. This is what lures me down the rabbit hole: A scab on his elbow. The henley is rolled just to it, so that it is clearly rubbing the scab. I guesstimate its about two to three weeks old. Does it not itch? How did he get it? He moves his arm again and again, each time taunting me without mercy. I want to wrestle him to the ground... not to make out with him, although he is quite attractive. I want to touch the scab. I want to pick the scab. I must pick the scab… at least touch it, maybe adjust the sleeve of his henley so it doesn’t rub. hmmm… This is the perilous zone where so much of life occurs. Black Sabbath shifts from War Pigs to Paranoid. He orders migas and a cortado, and sits outside. I order a black drip and sit inside. The line moves, the songs change, adding structure and guardrails to guide our primal urges. I will not pick at a stranger’s scab at the coffeeshop after all. …. Go toward the light ya’ll….