Good Coffee Bad Coffee

I once got such a bad cup of coffee at a bookstore coffee shop – one of those big chains – that I couldn’t drink the thing. It tasted like soap. However I did not feel like dealing with people and I didn’t really want another cup of coffee so I took a pen to the lid of the cup and left them a message; this tastes like sanitizing solution. And left.

The Books Outside the Store

I feel sorry for the books that the big chain bookstores put out on the sidewalk or in between the doors of their entryways. All those books sitting on carts and rolling shelving units outside of the security sensors says “we don’t care if someone steals you”. Those are the books I feel bad for. They’re books. They made it. They grew from some small idea, someone invested time in them (and then money!) and now they’re not even good enough to bring in within the safety of circled wagons.

I feel bad for them. Almost to the point where I want to buy them just to raise their self-esteem and make them feel like someone believes they’re worthy. But then I look at what they are and know there’s no way I’d spend money on them either.

But I still feel sad for them; it’s not their fault they’re crappy books.

Observations

Whenever I spend too much time in this city I find myself wanting to be one of those women who wanders around town somehow looking both earthy and sophisticated at the same time. With her lightweight black turtle neck and a-line khaki skirt, neither obviously ironed. Her hair pulled back severely into a low ponytail and a whole row of piercings along one ear. Just two in the other. Okay the number of piercings fluctuates but there's at least two per ear. She wears either dress flats or Birkenstock sandals and carries cloth bags of groceries home from Whole Foods. She's the (sub)urban adaptation of the hippy. Worldly things concern her - as does not paying too much for them - but they don't rule her life. Or so she'll casually inform you in a way that doesn't seem like a lecture but really is one. She'll never give up her car, but she might buy a hybrid. Actually I don't think I want to be one of these women at all (thankfully I'll be leaving this town and this perception of 20/30-something cool shortly). What I'm actually attracted to her is confidence. How she seems to be so secure of her place in the world; of what the world means to her and what she means to the world.

Next.

I just saw a guy drive by with an entire drum set packed into the back of a station wagon. Cymbals pressed up against the side window.

Next.

Everytime I relax now I feel like falling asleep. I'm good at falling asleep. I don't let thoughts or worries run through my mind because I've just stopped thinking. Turns out, it's more painful than it sounds.

Next.

A guy with the bass cranked up so high that I shook sitting at the sidewalk cafe just drove by. All the women eating lunch around me frowned and made noises that sounded like "rude" and "bad for the body". I do not comment. He turns the corner and I check to see how his muffler's holding up. It must be reinforced because it's not noticeably shaking.

He zips off out of sight, the bass fading slightly then holding steady. He must have reached the next stop sign. The bass filters through to us. Touching everyone within its radius. We feel it and pulse with it. Like we all have the same heart beat.