Precursor
I'm sitting on the red couch at Java Shack in Arlington, doing dissertation
work. Reading Cormac McCarthy and, when my mind clears from alternating awe
and bafflement enough, typing in a few observations or shreds of ideas into
my laptop. I like working in environments like this. I think I'm the kind
of person who feeds off of having others around. Working at home is
quieter, I suppose, but I get stir crazy doing that for too long. Most
times I'm intent on my work and don't even notice the people coming and
going in front of me.
But this couple comes in and I notice them, mainly because the guy looks
just like John Turturro. Or perhaps what John Turturro would look like if
he didn't have a successful acting career to lend him an air of
self-confidence. He moves like someone newly introduced to his body and not
quite sure how to move it without bumping into things. The woman he's with,
on the other hand, moves with a casual elegance. She's forty years old or
so and seems like the kind of person who manages to get more beautiful every
year and not less. She's very quiet.
They sit down at a table at the other end of the place, but everyone else is
on the patio and we're the only people inside. It becomes clear that
they're on a date. When I glance up again at them a few minutes later, it
becomes clear that it's an awkward date. The woman sips her coffee
thoughtfully as the Turturro lookalike tries to find things to say. Things
in the vein of "good coffee" and "oh, look, they sell t-shirts and mugs."
The woman barely acknowledges his observations and remains intent on her
coffee. There's some rousing swing music in the background. The guy starts
fumbling with his fingers as if he's playing the piano for a few seconds,
then laughs at his own antics. She smiles a little, and I can't really tell
if she's charmed by his awkward attempts to entertain her or whether she's
just being polite. At any rate she doesn't say anything, and in a split
second the guy stops laughing and sips his coffee seriously.
I try to focus on my work but I'm kind of curious, now, as to whether this
is a date that's going terribly or whether this their normal way of
interacting. I can't be sure but I'm leaning toward the former and
reflecting on what an incredible relief it is to be married, to have someone
with whom conversation and silence can be equally comforting, equally
natural.
He notices me. It's right in the middle of a big whopper of an awkward
silence for them, so he decides to break it by bringing me into their little
world.
"Whatcha working on?" he says in a loud voice. It takes me by surprise.
"Reading," I say. He keeps on looking at me as if that's not enough of an
explanation. After all I have this laptop too and I spend a good bit of
time clattering away on it as well. I realize that he -has- to wait for my
answer. If he simply nods at "reading" and turns back to face his date, if
his whole attempt to start a conversation is aborted, he'll end up looking
sillier than he already does. I decide to play along.
"Cormac McCarthy," I say. "Are you familiar with him?" I've had pleasant
luck with McCarthy name recognition in random situations like this. Better
than with Buechner, anyway. But the two of them look at each other and
shake their heads.
"Is it fiction?" he says. I nod. "I don't read fiction," he says. The way
he says it, it sounds like a point of honor with him. This annoys me.
"That's a shame," I say.
"But I write," he says.
Oh boy.
"What do you write?" I ask.
He waves a hand nonchalantly. "Oh, you know. Some poetry. Some songs." I
can tell from the expression on the woman's face that this is the first
she's heard of it. He continues: "Those are stories in a way, right?"
"Sure."
"I have enough of my own stories. So I don't really feel the need to read
other people's."
"But you don't read stories because you lack ones of your own. You read
them because they're well-written, they're fun to read," I say.
"Yes, but don't you already have the stories of you and your friends? Why
do you need to read something somebody else wrote? Why we do just publish
the stories of some? Why can't we embrace everyone's? It seems a cruelty
to say that this person's stories are good to read but this other person's
aren't. Everyone's stories are valid."
I set aside for a moment the muddle between story-as-tale and
story-as-autobiography that lies unresolved in our discussion. I resist the
urge to ask him whether he hopes anyone else will read his own poems.
Instead I say: "It's not a matter of whether the stories are valid. It's a
matter of how well they are expressed. Everyone has stories but not
everyone can communicate them in a way that makes others want to hear."
He doesn't have an immediate answer, and returns to his coffee. All the
while the woman has been watching me with an attention that's unnerving. A
few seconds later, the guy nods to himself and says: "Good point." But he
still seems profoundly unnerved by what I've said. Or maybe it's just his
muffin.
I go back to my reading, and a few minutes later they leave. "Good bye,
friend," he says to me on the way out. The woman smiles at me, almost
apologetically, and follows him through the door with more than enough grace
for them both.
"Friend." I can almost feel him reconstructing the entire encounter in his
mind. Better to his liking. A hip coffee shop, his beautiful date, erudite
talk with fellow patrons about art. I watch them as they cross the patio
and turn the corner and I can almost feel him wishing the world into what he
wants it to be with the power of his will.
Not the strangest coffeeshop encounter I've had. Just the most recent.
Cheers,
Nate
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Before today, I thought I knew what a caffeine buzz was. I really did.
Lord knows I've consumed enough caffeine in my life. But my pride has been
that it's only occasionally been an addictive thing, and in recent years it's
never been a daily thing. I don't need my coffee in the morning or anything
like that. That way, when I -do- consume significant amounts, the chemical
effect is . . . material.
One of the high points of moving to Arlington was that I'd be within easy
walking distance of my favorite coffee shop, the Java Shack. I believe I
have mentioned it from time to time before. It's not that big or anything
but there's a nice couch on the inside and a nice patio for warmer weather
and generally friendly people working there. Last year it got to the point
where I was a semi-regular (showing up once or twice a week for a few hours
to grade papers or somesuch) and they definitely Recognized Me and were wont
to say "hey, how's it going" when I walked in and even knew what my regular
order was, your basic mug of coffee in my very special 16 oz. Java Shack mug
for which I got $.25 off on drinks I think. Anyway, it paid for itself.
After a few months I knew the names of everybody there . . .
OK back to the caffeine thing a sec. I'm writing right now at the Other
Coffee Shop which hasn't yet made it into my narrative but will very soon
and JUST AS I WAS WRITING one of the people who works here came up and gave
me The Tape which, too, will prove a very important part of this
narrative -- just second in importance, actually, to caffeine.
. . . everybody there, just from hearing them talk to each other and
whatnot. Cliff, Samantha, Trent, etc. All very nice people, most of them
musicians on the side. Java Shack is one of those places where everybody
who works there is there, all the time, whether they're working or not.
It's often difficult to tell, at any given moment, who is
actually -working-, especially when there's no one behind the counter and
they're all sitting at one of the tables outside, chatting.
But this narrative is not particuarly about the Java Shack. That place is
important because it has been pretty important in forming my normative
expectation for what a Coffee Shop is. i.e.:
A nice place
not too big
with coffee
and other stuff
including a couch
which is the best place place to sit if you can get it
and, more to the point,
where the people who work there are friendly,
and recognize you,
but nevertheless aren't Too Familiar
and, essentially,
still treat you like a customer.
Once again I have been interrupted in my narrative by another encounter in
the Other Coffee Shop where I am currently sitting but rather than delve
into that right now I'll save it for later, thus maintaining continuity. We
cannot do without continuity.
Somewhere around about the beginning of the year, over in Clarendon, which
is the next neighborhood down from Court House, a new coffee shop popped up.
At least the building did. "Common Grounds". Clever name. On the door,
though: "COMING SOON." Clarendon was far enough away that it held only a
passing interest for me. Walking there would be much more of an affair than
Java Shack. But I figured it would be worth a visit at least once once it
opened. Why not, right? A new coffee shop is a new coffee shop.
It opened . . . hmm, well, let's see. About six weeks ago, give or take a
week. Five to seven weeks ago. I showed up on the first day to check it
out. It was more complicated than that. I showed up on their originally
advertised first day to discover that they weren't open yet. Peeking
through the window, there were people, but the sign in front said that they
were opening the NEXT day, and that THIS day was some sort of open house
for, heck, I dunno, the employees and owners and their friends or something.
Even as I was peeking through the window, I saw someone hustling forward to
open the door for me, maybe thinking I was an employee or an owner, or maybe
just to explain to me what was already clearly explained by the sign, that
is, the bit about the delay and the open house. I foresaw an Awkward
Conversation, and slipped away before he could get to the door.
Then I showed up for the real opening day. Common Grounds' first violation
of the coffee shop norm is that it is Big. A big, open room with lots of
pretty nice tables and some comfy couches in one corner. A plug along one
wall for laptops (crucial). A Back Room with still more comfy couches, if
you fancy a wee bit more privacy or comfiness.
It being Opening Day, the owner was there, and all the employees seemed
pretty excited. Every customer, like me, was an Exciting New Person that
would help them Keep Bread on the Table. So they were super-duper-friendly.
Alan, the owner, was even making the rounds of the tables, stopping at every
one and introducing himself and inquiring after everybody's health and
whatnot. He asked me what I did and I gave the completely fallacious
shorthand ("I'm an English professor") rather than the whole
still-in-grad-school-but-mostly-teaching spiel. He stuck around for twenty
minutes or so asking about stuff, and by the end had mined out that I was
teaching a Lit of Fantasy class. By the end of the day, Brian, the manager,
and a couple of the employees had also come around to the table to ask me
about my class and what we were reading and what fantasy books they should
read, etc. etc. To my Java-Shack-conditioned mind it was all a little
unusual. "But Heck," I thought. "It's their first day. They're allowed to
be Familiar. I don't mind."
When I decided to go back to Common Grounds and NOT to Java Shack a few days
later, it was all because of the sandwiches. They hadn't finalized their
Menu yet, so instead they were making sandwiches a la carte for three bucks.
And, because they were in the full flush of just being open, they were being
Lavish with the sandwiches. A "Turkey and Swiss on Rye" became this vast
conglomeration of meat and cheese with three different kinds of lettuce and
several varieties of tomato on a heaping plate with the mother of all pickle
slices. All for three bucks. I knew it was a temporary thing (only until
the Menu was Finalized), but it was too good to pass up. So I kept coming
back to CG, on account of those sandwiches.
Then came the Moment. My second day there. Sitting in the corner.
Reading. Alan, the owner, was walking by, on the way to talk to someone.
Saw me out of the corner of his eye. Full stop. Met my eyes.
"Hey there, Nathan. Welcome back."
That's when it began. The Familiarity. How the deuce had he remembered my
name? Was he just one of those guys that was Preternaturally Good at That
Sort of Thing? Turns out he is, but he's just part of a larger picture.
Everyone there is like that. And have continued to be.
Friendly. Almost too friendly.
I have compounded all of this, by coming back. At first it was those
glorious sandwiches. That deal is over now, but they still offer grilled
cheese and a cup of soup for $3.50, which is very respectable. And their
coffee is very good, with free refills, unlike Java Shack.
You may be thinking right now that those free refills are what the whole
caffeine part of this narrative is all about, and that would be a logical
thing to think. Certainly caffeine is directly responsible for the extreme
length of this message, and the intense concentration of completely
superfluous verbiage. You should be warned right now that it is caffeine
and caffeine alone that is responsible for everything thus far. From a
writerly perspective the only thing that could possible justify the length
of what I've written would be if the narrative was moving to a climax SO
SUPRISING AND STRANGE AND WONDERFUL that it's guaranteed to knock your socks
off. If you've been reading in that hope, turn back, gentle reader! Turn
back now! The story, I will pause to admit, is actually quite boring! But
the caffeine has nothing to do with free refills. No no, that's something
else entirely. I will save it for last, or second to last, so if you demand
a certain amount of suspense and want to console yourself for having read
all of this without any evidence of a Thesis, Purpose, or other Overarching
Focus, you may at least read on in the hopes of discovering the Amazing
Caffeine Secret.
The reason the words Thesis, Purpose, and Overarching Focus leapt into my
mind just now is that I've just finished grading a handful of student papers
which notoriously lacked those qualities. I must admit I was pleased as
punch that the papers that were written by students that had had me for
English 101 last year DID have those qualities, while those of other
students whose 101 training I cannot account for were largely deficient.
However this will be small comfort while piling through the rest of the 65
papers of which only 10 or so are written by former students of mine.
I was talking about how I compounded the friendliness. It's true -- I've
been coming back here again and again, and thus making myself a Regular.
It's very easy to be a regular at place that has only been open for five to
seven weeks. Show up twice in the first week and you're a Founding Regular.
Show up once a week or so after that and it's easy to maintain your status.
I could probably disappear for a couple weeks and come back and I still
wouldn't lose my Common Grounds Regular decal badge.
Alan, the owner, it turns out, is always always here. Like Java Shack,
everybody who works here is always here and it's often difficult to discern
who's actually working. In this case, though, there's a vast Upstairs where
they often disappear to. The upstairs is going to be transformed to a game
room / community center at some point in the future. If they have fussball
I will be in heaven. But I was speaking of Alan. You can tell that he has
a clear mental image of what he wants his place to be, which is a place
where unique, interesting people gather and have erudite conversations. I
am flattered that he considers a Young English Professor (oh, how the lie
lives on!) who teachs Unusual Classes very much within his "unique and
interesting" category. So he is pleased when I am here, much in the same
way he is pleased by the indirect lighting and the degree to which the
windowsills are kept free of dust. He has introduced me to Theresa, the
eccentric, crone-like old lady who is apparently a poet. I have not yet
read her poetry, and I feel a wee bit cynical to say so, but she strikes me
as the kind of person who is all poet and no poetry, as it were. La
poseure. But she is ancient and has clearly made a life of this, and
everyone who works here absolutely adores her -- when she is present, she
sits at her table and holds court among the employees and the patrons,
showered with love and admiration. Considering the fact that her voice is
raspy and she looks like a troll, this is no mean feat, and pulling it off
is at least as difficult as actually -writing poetry-, so I have come to
admire her.
Last week, familiarity reached a new level. I was there twice. The first
time, Brad, whose name I think may actually be John but I'm not sure, did a
strange thing. He was tidying up the counter, and the coffee cake platter
had one, slightly unevenly cut piece left on it. Clearly, he wanted to be
able to get the platter out of the way. He looked at me from across the
room.
"Want the last piece?" he said.
For a brief second I thought he meant, did I want to BUY the last piece, and
I was annoyed in the same manner I am by people from credit card companies
who call on the phone, but then I realized that that's not at all what he
meant -- he meant I would get it for Free. Because, you know, I'm a
regular.
I took the coffee cake, knowing that it made me, not just a regular, but one
who is complicit in his own regularity, who embraces the frequencies of his
visits. Who is now permanently obligated to give a friendly nod of
familiarity to each and every employee when I enter. To engage in Small
Talk instead of just getting food and drink, paying for it, and retreating
to the corner. In short, to no longer simply be a customer.
I ate the coffee cake. Guiltily, warily, though it tasted quite good.
Later last week, Brad-whose-name-I-think-might-be-John, who snatches my
coffee cup the instant it is ever empty and gives me a refill without me
having to ask, noticed that I was reading Till We Have Faces, and mentioned
that that was the name of an album by a band called Over the Rhine. That
band name sounded vaguely familiar, so I said so.
"They're good," he said. And nodded. We had had, by now, a shared context
of appreciating certain music -- Tom Waits, Belle & Sebastian, Aimee Mann, a
Grateful Dead live album. There should be a name for the category of
listener for whom all that stuff naturally fits. He nodded again, very
meaningfully. "REALLY good."
That, I did not get. Deciphering the "really" required the help of M.
Adrian Sahr, who is usually better at complexifying things than deciphering
them, but proved invaluable in this case. This was when we were driving to
the Atlantic Ocean, specifically to Assateague Island where the wild horses
roam, although that has nothing to do with this particular narrative. He
remembered more about Over the Rhine than I did, including the fact that
they had played at Calvin and were, sort of, a Christianly Oriented Band. I
think that that "really," unpacked, would mean something like "Over the
Rhine are good in a peculiar way that only certainly people might appreciate
if their worldviews bore a similarity to that of the band as evinced in
their lyrics. Based on your reputation as an English professor regular here
who teaches a class on fantasy and thus reads things like Tolkien and Lewis,
it seems at least reasonable that you are one of the people who have an
appropriately-shaped worldview and, in this, we may have something in
common."
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