FlamingText

Day-old blueberry muffin.

   I have an hour to kill downtown between 5 and 6 PM, so I decide to go into this little coffee shop nestled into the corner of some big glass-and-steel corporate box. The cafe is doing its best to hit that right blend of homey and hip: muted earth tones, comfy chairs and funky artwork all struggling to overcome the most decidedly un-homey, un-hip surroundings. This cafe reminds me of a scrappy little scrub brush clinging to the side of an eroding shale cliff on an old stripmine. But then again I'm an Ohio boy, so lots of things remind me of stripmines.

  The lighting is low enough that at first I'm not sure it's open. This cafe features an enormous and what looks to be load-bearing pillar situated right in front of the counter, and in a misguided attempt to mitigate the bad Feng Shui of this somebody has painted life-size silhouettes of people on the side of it. I think it's intended to make the place seem more social, by making it look like there are always people milling around even when the room is empty, but it always makes me jump when I realize that the people I thought I saw from outside are actually just painted on. Like I've just walked into a trap. Looking around I see one or two real, three-dimensional people sitting around sipping coffee so I decide it must still be open. I walk inside and up to the counter and look at the board to figure out what is the cheapest rent I can pay on a seat by the window. I know I shouldn't have coffee because I've already had plenty of that today and eventually, given enough, I will start to oscillate. I look over at the glass case of muffins and cookies and the like but nowhere do I see any prices. I guess if you have to ask you can't afford it.

  I settle on a cup of herbal tea, and I ask the barista what varieties they have. He is a late-twenties, indie-rocker looking dude, with sort of mod hipster bangs and a cardigan. In response to my question he gives a barely audible whispered reply, something like "mint or chamomile" as best as I can make out. My immediate reaction is to lean forward slightly to hear him better and to wonder if I'm going deaf, but when he rings me up and tells me the price I notice that even at close range he is barely making any sound. I wonder if he is going for a Clint Eastwood effect or if he just can't muster the energy to talk at a normal conversational level. Maybe he has a cold?

  I sit down and start writing in my little book when I notice sounds of motion as he begins doing sidework to prepare to close the joint, and I realize now that this is the end of his day, the hour when he can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I am that one last customer who comes in, orders something cheap, and intends to hang out. Suddenly loud, angsty rock breaks the near-silence of the room, pealing guitars and high, wailing male vocals blaring forth, and I conclude this music serves the dual purpose of getting him pumped up to bust out that last hour of work and get the hell out of here, as well as sending the message to the lingering customers that they are on his time now. No more Mr. Nice Guy! In sharp contrast to his downcast eyes and whispered delivery of a few minutes ago, this music is loud and angry and doesn't take any shit from anybody, and I can hear him singing along from back behind the counter as he hurriedly cleans and races around putting things away.

  "Well," I ask myself. "Who knew he was such a tiger deep down inside?"

   I am smirking away at this classic display of passive-aggressive behavior: the people who speak in whispers and can't seem to muster up the courage to make eye contact but who are plainly seething just beneath the surface with unspoken hostility, all the more intense for never finding its proper expression. I am also brought back to my own experiences working in restaurants and memories of the music we would use to give customers the hint that it might be time to think about leaving. I conclude that service positions seem to demand a certain amount of passive aggression.

  As I'm sitting here scribbling my own passively aggressive mockery of this fellow in my little book, fully ripping into him for being such a sullen, pretentious embodiment of a Seattle stereotype, he comes out from behind the counter and approaches me. He has removed the cardigan and is now wearing a plain blue t-shirt and jeans and I realize he is dressed almost exactly like me, except that he's wearing a cooler belt. He is carrying a tray full of the muffins and cookies. He asks me if I want one. Yes, for free.

  This small act of kindness completely short-circuits my previous scorn. I realize that it's the end of the day and he's going to throw these baked goods out anyway. It's not like he's giving me something precious and valuable to him; But the fact is he didn't have to offer and he didn't have to approach the strange old lady in the corner who is talking to herself and offer her a cookie either. Here I was all set to hate the guy and now I don't know what to think. Maybe his haircut doesn't look so silly after all. It kind of works for his face. And you know, not many people can pull off the cardigan look, but he's really running with it and that's admirable. This music isn't so bad. At least the guitars are crunchy.

  So now you know the way to my heart, in case you were wondering. And, apparently, it's a day-old blueberry muffin wrapped in Saran Wrap.

Posted by flamingbanjo at November 19, 2004 12:00 PM