Postcursor
I am still a regular at Common Grounds. If anything I'm even more regular
than the last time I wrote about the place. I have learned, for example,
that John-whose-name-may-be-Brad is, in fact, named Brad. Earlier this
week, there was a new employee ringing me up who didn't know what the
register code was for grilled cheese and soup (it's not on the menu). I was
able to tell her.
A few weeks ago, when I was spending a lot of time there grading papers,
someone from the Arlington Connection, a local-interest paper, was mulling
about, taking pictures, researching for an article on the place. She asked
Alan (the owner) if she could interview a regular, and he gave her to me. I
gave her all kind of juicy material to use, including a lengthy discussion
of the music and how the idiosyncratic selections of the diverse collection
of people who work there, rotating in and out of their 5-tray CD-player
behind the counter, creates the kind of genuinely eclectic ambience that the
canned music at Starbuck's can only dream about. But the article, when it
finally did come out, was bland and awful. She quoted some of the stupider
things that I said and boiled down my music spiel into "Nate comes here
because the music is cool" or something equally inane.
The last time I wrote I was just becoming aware of a vague religiosity about
the place, definitely present but hard to pin down. Since then I've found
out all about it. Alan has an M.A. in church music and a Ph.D. in theology
(or vice versa). Ten years ago he was a pastor at a megachurch down in
Atlanta. He moved to Arlington way back then with the dream of setting up a
coffee shop that would become a genuine community center, and it took him
almost ten years to get it together.
He teaches as an adjunct, occasionally, at Eastern College, a hip nondenom
school in eastern Pennsylvania. When Common Grounds was finally ready to
open, he convinced a number of his former students to move to Arlington and
work for his new place. Probably two-thirds of the people who work there
moved to Arlington because of Alan. I learned most of this from Keri, to
whom Alan said (I kid you not) "Keri, God has a place for you in Virginia.
Come with me and work in my coffee shop."
So that's Alan. Brad, Keri, and the others are good people, not his little
zealots or anything like that. In fact, given Alan's strident underpinnings
I think it's a credit to the place that it doesn't at all come off as being
hokey-religious, and that he isn't turning it into a crucible for fundy
evangelism. The best part is that the whole "we want to be a place for the
community" schtick is one hundred percent genuine. They're donating money
left and right even though they're not quite profitable yet. Scruffy
homeless people aren't turned away, but welcomed.
Anyway, they have a brand new computerized cash register. The attached
graphic represents my attainment of the next level of regularity. They
haven't invented a term for yet it. I slouched in there earlier this
afternoon, in a pissy mood because I had just had to get the car towed to a
garage a few blocks away. I ordered an iced tea. Brad, perceiving my mood,
gave me a "pissed off discount" and (see the graphic) immortalized my mood
in a text message on the receipt. I don't know if I should put that thing
up on the fridge or what.
Ugh. Just got bad news about the car that has depleted my desire to
continue this message. Ah well.
Cheers,
Nate
|
|
All this [] was fine by me, though I had no overwhelming desire to begin
listening to Over the Rhine. What happened next was freakier, though. As I
was paying at the counter (as a regular regular, I am the sort of person who
does not pay for my coffee and grilled cheese when I get it, but rather,
pays at some later point, usually close to when I am leaving, because the
employees are very clearly Not Worried About It), the Girl who reminds me of
someone I can't quite put my finger on, and whose name I don't know just
yet, though I'm sure I've heard it before, said to me "When are you going to
be back here?"
I did not know. Further, I did not know why she asked. But I said,
"Friday, probably," which at the time was well-intentioned although it
proved to be a lie, since Friday I was actually spending much of the day
driving to and from the Atlantic Ocean with Matt, as I mentioned before. It
has been mentioned twice despite the fact that it has nothing to do with
this narrative, which seems excessive.
"OK," she said. "I have an Over the Rhine mix tape that I made for a friend
but he left town so now it's extra. I'll bring it for you if you want."
Now then: she was not, in fact, asking me my underwear size. But for
someone like me who's spent some time comfortable with the Java Shack norm
of coffee shops, and the traditional Employee-Customer relationship, her
offer seemed unusual, to say the least. And then I remembered: I accepted
the coffee cake. Everything had changed.
I said, "Sure."
Perhaps you've guessed by now, but a little while ago, as I was writing, the
Girl who reminds me of someone I can't quite put my finger on, and whose
name I don't know just yet, though I'm sure I've heard it before, came up to
me and gave me the mix tape. It's sitting next to me now. And what I'm
wondering is: if I listen to it, do I advance to some still further level of
Regularity? -Is- there another level? Have I already advanced simply by
accepting the tape?
These are strange and dangerous grounds. The other day I was back at the
Java Shack, and by comparison the people there now seem cold and callous. I
ordered my coffee, and a bagel, and Samantha, even though I've ordered stuff
from her a hundred times before, only gave me a marginally more familiar nod
than the people who were in line before me, who I -knew- had never been
there before. Somehow, Java Shack has started seeming insufficiently
familiar.
And yet, and yet -- there is still something freaky about Common Grounds.
Case in point. I have formally introduced myself to Alan as Nathan. Nathan
the English Professor. And though I know the names of most of the employees
by now (granting the grey areas surrounding the girl and
Brad-who-may-be-John), I have never been formally introduced to any of them.
Given all of this, it's not surprising that they would know my name. I can
picture their staff meeting:
ALAN: All right. The Turkey Club will be $5.75. That's settled. What
else . . . ah. Brian.
BRIAN: Yes?
ALAN: How's the list of Regulars coming along?
BRIAN: Pretty well. There's Theresa, of course . . .
(EVERYONE: Appreciative nods and kind words about Theresa and how cool it
is to have a House Poet)
BRIAN: . . . and then there's Seth [Seth is the guitarist whom everybody
knows. I have not heard him play the guitar, but based purely on surface
observations he stands a better chance of being good at the guitar than
Theresa does being good at poetry. Now that I think of it, his name might
not be Seth, exactly, but is certainly something very Seth-like.]. And of
course Nathan.
AARON: Which one is Nathan?
BRIAN: You know, the English professor.
AARON: Oh yeah.
(etc.)
Anyway, it doesn't surprise me that they know my name. And at last we are
coming around to the event that prompted this letter in the first place, and
the very source of the caffeine (which, you will recall, is not simply refills).
Today, Brad-whose-name-may-be-John came up to me with a mischevious grin on
his face and said:
"Hey, Nate..."
Nate. Nate. The short version of my name. Not Nathan, but Nate. Nate. A
simple syllable, but one that I am one hundred percent certain I had never
uttered in the presence of anyone at Common Grounds. And yet, Brad-etc. saw
fit to use it.
I ask you: is Nate a universally acceptable nickname for Nate, in the same
way that one might address a Jonathan as John, or an Edward as Ed, without
particular worry? Because in the past, I have frequently been -asked-
whether I preferred Nathan or Nate, at which point I have been wishy-washy
and said "Oh, either is fine." But I was always happy that they asked. Not
here. I am just Nate.
"Hey Nate," he said. "Have you ever had Vietnamese coffee?"
"Um, no," I said.
More of the mischevious grin. "Want to try some?"
This time, of course, I knew perfectly well that this was another one of
those gratis things. Even more than that, as I learned afterwards,
Vietnamese coffee requires a Doohickey that was Brad-etc.'s own and not
something directly offered by Common Grounds. In other words, something not
only free but completely Off the Menu.
Having been called Nate, I could only assume that I had already achieved
whatever the highest level of Regularity already was. At this point I am
expecting an invitation to the store barbecue to celebrate their first two
months of existence. So I saw no further harm in accepting Vietnamese coffee.
Which was, in a word, sublime. Brad-etc. brought it to me in a regular mug
with the Doohickey on top. He carefully explained that the hot water in the
top of the Doohickey was seeping down through the grounds in the bottom of
the Doohickey into the cup, where cream was already waiting to mix with it.
He described, using techinical coffee details beyond my ken, how this would
result in a deeper flavor and Intensely More Caffeine than normal.
And he was right. Oh Lordy, he was right. The stuff barely filled half the
mug when it finished seeping, and was as sweet as death by chocolate, but
packed a punch like all the coffees of yesteryear together. For an hour I
kept grading papers and, finding myself with excess energy, spread three of
them out and tried grading them AT THE SAME TIME. When Aaron came by to
talk literature I talked very very quickly and listed for him some books
that he HAD TO HAD TO HAD TO read. I am fairly certain that I did say "had
to" three times in a row. Then, I started writing this.
I thought I knew what caffeine was. I didn't. Now I do. It's probably
just as well that's it's not on the menu, because the altered state that I
am just now coming down from isn't the sort of thing one should operate
under all the time. If for no other reason than this letter is way, way,
way too long, considering that it has no point. Except that, maybe, if you
like having your legs bounce up and down uncontrollably for hours at a time,
try Vietnamese coffee.
I am of two minds about being a Regular at Common Grounds. If all it
involves is playing the professor role and getting free things off the menu
now and again, I think it will be rather pleasant. However, I would rest
much easier if I had incontrovertible evidence that everyone who works here
does not belong to some Friendliness Cult that is currently recruiting. I
think it's possible. I will be listening for hidden messages in the Over
the Rhine tape.
Rock,
Nate
* * *
* * *
|
