The day was off to a good start. I had seven uninterrupted hours of sleep and the room wasn't cold when I climbed out from under the blankets. Breakfast consisted of my favorite cereal, yogurt and a Bloody Maria. When I arrived at my favorite coffee house, the barista had a smile on her face and clean mug in her hand awaiting my order.
I had a good internet connection and was hacking my way through the paper work jungle with my ink filled machete when I hit my first stumbling block...my pen runneth dry. Luckily, I was able to borrow a pen and make it to a good stopping point. Okay, I can deal with this, I still have my book. I didn't get as much work done as I was hoping to but I have a lot to read so this is just the universe telling me it's time to pick up the book.
At some point in the day, there was this woman who came in and was camping out as well. Pretty face, nice figure, sharp dresser, simple taste in coffee; a pleasant distraction between chapters. If you're waiting for me to say that we struck a conversation somewhere between James Patterson and Chris Radant, keep waiting, because at this point I'm still in the good part of my day.
You know you've been in the coffee shop too long when you can get twice as many refills than you're supposed to because the shift that sold you your first cup left a few hours ago. I didn't set out to bilk the system, it just sort of turned out that way. Where normally you get your first cup and a free refill, I think I had at least three. I kind of lost track after a while, like when you drink out of a keg.
By this point, I've been there longer than the employees and my ass is going numb like I've been in a cross country car ride. I pack my stuff and head to the grocery store to get a new pen. As I've written a lot through the ages, I've learned one thing-the medium point Paper Mate Write Bros. Grip pen is truly a gift from the Gods. If Harper Lee would have had one of these pens, she would have written more than one book. This is truly the Glenlivet of writing instruments. On a scale of 1 to Tori Black's legs, this is easily a 25.
The night wind blows across the cold pavement and into my face with a reality-like harshness. I just have to make it into the store, get the pen, and then I can go get dinner. Walking past the same old selection of books and magazines, I get to the stationary aisle. Ticonderoga number 2 pencils (might work for Stephen King but not for yours truly, of course, he does put out a book a year so maybe he's on to something) followed by the many flavors of Bic (for the most part, a fine instrument except for the erasable ink pens which smear the page when you write more than a grocery list) and finally, we get to the Paper Mate section.
There are the fancy retractables and the felt tips and the gel tips and even Sharpies. Suddenly, like a vision, it appears at the end of the rack. Write Bros. Grip, a pack of 10 for $1.95! I find the blue easily enough but it's not my thing. There is an empty hook with a sign over it that reads Write Bros Grip blk. I'm beginning to understand how Nicholson felt in As Good As It Gets when he went into the diner and Helen Hunt wasn't working. Who is responsible for this outrage? Bring the head of Alfredo Garcia and the son of a bitch who didn't order enough pens!
For about five seconds I seriously considered tracking down a manager and dragging the back room until they found my pens but having worked in a grocery store before I knew that what they had (or didn't have) on the shelf was all they had in the store. Now I was faced with a bigger problem, do I get 10 of the pens I want in the wrong color or two pens I don't want in the right color? After debating the problem for a couple of minutes and suppressing another urge to tear the back room apart, I settled on the Bic Cristal. It's not a bad pen and it's guaranteed to write the first time every time, but it doesn't feel as good in the hand as a Write Bros. Grip. At least I could get two for a buck o'three.
Thinking that the Universe was done with me for the day, I went out in search of food. I had developed a craving for some French toast, somebody probably mentioned it in a book. I knew just the spot and it was on the way home. I should have seen it coming but you just don't expect a 24 hour diner to be closed at 8:00 at night. Chubby's, open 24 hours, just not always in a row.
Looking to my right, I saw the golden arches. The clown is open 24 hours in a row, that greedy pimp bastard. I order by number since all of the employees have been conditioned to not think in words anymore. The burger was what it was, they haven't had good burgers in years. The salt lick, I mean, the fries were okay. For being the mecca of fries, it was a little disappointing. Have they always been that salty or is just because I haven't been in for a while? When did I turn into my dad on this matter? I do have to admit that the egg nog shake that I had been told about was pretty good. I had been led to believe that it was just this side of Manna from Heaven though, so again referring to the 1 to Tori Black's legs scale, it was about a 4.5.
The night ended on a fairly positive note though since I made it home without my car dying or anything of that nature and I saw my land lady whom I have not seen in so long, her hair was noticeably longer. If it wasn't for the internet, we'd probably have forgotten each others names by now.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Saturday, December 8, 2012
The Drunk Whisperer Off Duty
It's damn near 4 a.m., closing time. I've worked four days in a row dealing with humanity at it's basest level. I stepped into the little cafe expecting to be turned away but the girl behind the counter seems to be a nice person.
The Eggs Benedict is really good here and reasonably priced. Whenever I get a little extra money in my pocket and make it out of work in time, I like to indulge. Eggs Benedict, fried potatoes and coffee, a breakfast worthy of a British spy or an American bouncer.
There's a couple sitting at a table by the window and an old man sleeping at a table in the corner. He looks like he could be homeless. The girl behind the counter doesn't look as if she has it in her to wake him up and push him out. If he's still there when I'm done maybe I'll do it for her. Captain Fucking America at your service, ma'am.
He wakes up shortly after my food arrives. He says something incoherent that maybe sounds like a girls name. I think he's trying to summon the girl. A couple of bites later, he says it again. This time I make it out. Excuse me. He's talking to me. I look up and he asks me for the time. He has a thick lipped, Eastern European accent that's a little slurred. I tell him it's 3:50. 3:15? No, fifty, five zero. He's still confused. Ten minutes until four, I clarify. Good food, bad acoustics. The place is high ceilinged and all concrete and glass. The radio is at closing time level also.
He mutters something about the minute hand on his watch as he resets the time. I smile and nod and go back to eating. I don't want to be rude but dealing with people in a similar state for the past four days, I just want to eat in peace.
He starts talking again and I can only make out about every third word. Something about back home and family and community. I smile, nod and shovel hash browns into my face. I'll play the part of an attentive listener but not at the expense of warm food.
Smile, nod, shovel. This goes on until the plate is empty. Luckily, he doesn't seem to be asking questions, just rambling on about something. I kind of wish I could make out what he's saying because I'm always interested to hear about life in other places, especially foreign countries, but I'm just too tired to care. This will probably be me in twenty years. Homeless, incoherent and prattling on to anyone who'll listen. Shit, I already do that now sometimes just out of boredom.
He gets up and puts his coat on as I've finished my coffee. I want to beat him to the door before he gets a chance to ask me for a ride. Note to self-when you're homeless, don't be that guy that asks for rides.
I take my plate and cup to the counter as he asks the girl to help him with the zipper on his coat. I guess he's a regular since she seems to be expecting it. She thanks me for coming in and I respond with have a good night (even though it's really morning). She says thanks and he says you too, sir. That always fucks with me when people older than me call me sir. I understand it in customer service situations, but on the street? I'll never get used to it.
The Eggs Benedict is really good here and reasonably priced. Whenever I get a little extra money in my pocket and make it out of work in time, I like to indulge. Eggs Benedict, fried potatoes and coffee, a breakfast worthy of a British spy or an American bouncer.
There's a couple sitting at a table by the window and an old man sleeping at a table in the corner. He looks like he could be homeless. The girl behind the counter doesn't look as if she has it in her to wake him up and push him out. If he's still there when I'm done maybe I'll do it for her. Captain Fucking America at your service, ma'am.
He wakes up shortly after my food arrives. He says something incoherent that maybe sounds like a girls name. I think he's trying to summon the girl. A couple of bites later, he says it again. This time I make it out. Excuse me. He's talking to me. I look up and he asks me for the time. He has a thick lipped, Eastern European accent that's a little slurred. I tell him it's 3:50. 3:15? No, fifty, five zero. He's still confused. Ten minutes until four, I clarify. Good food, bad acoustics. The place is high ceilinged and all concrete and glass. The radio is at closing time level also.
He mutters something about the minute hand on his watch as he resets the time. I smile and nod and go back to eating. I don't want to be rude but dealing with people in a similar state for the past four days, I just want to eat in peace.
He starts talking again and I can only make out about every third word. Something about back home and family and community. I smile, nod and shovel hash browns into my face. I'll play the part of an attentive listener but not at the expense of warm food.
Smile, nod, shovel. This goes on until the plate is empty. Luckily, he doesn't seem to be asking questions, just rambling on about something. I kind of wish I could make out what he's saying because I'm always interested to hear about life in other places, especially foreign countries, but I'm just too tired to care. This will probably be me in twenty years. Homeless, incoherent and prattling on to anyone who'll listen. Shit, I already do that now sometimes just out of boredom.
He gets up and puts his coat on as I've finished my coffee. I want to beat him to the door before he gets a chance to ask me for a ride. Note to self-when you're homeless, don't be that guy that asks for rides.
I take my plate and cup to the counter as he asks the girl to help him with the zipper on his coat. I guess he's a regular since she seems to be expecting it. She thanks me for coming in and I respond with have a good night (even though it's really morning). She says thanks and he says you too, sir. That always fucks with me when people older than me call me sir. I understand it in customer service situations, but on the street? I'll never get used to it.
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