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High Concept Am I blogging...or am I pitching my existence? |
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![]() Saturday, April 05, 2003 The Title: It's like Fast Times at Ridgemont High meets The Secret Sharer! Jeff is leaving the cafe I go to, and it's a damn shame. Apart from being a pretty nice guy, Jeff is the only barrista whose name I've been able to remember (and for obvious reasons).I've been going to the cafe for a while because, at least on Mondays and Tuesdays, I write in the morning (on Saturdays, I just need the caffeine). At this cafe, as at others of its ilk, the barristas and cashiers make it a point to learn your name and also your drink--it'd be a nice little thing if I didn't suspect it's a corporate mandate and these people are just doing what they have to in order to keep their job. Still, almost all of them are also incredibly friendly. In fact, this one top-notch barrista who had my name and drink done after day four, and would ask me about my weekend and my morning and whatnot, was so cool, I actually asked him his name. This was a horrible mistake. This was tall, blonde guy, very lanky, young. I had him pegged as a 'Brad' or a 'Matt' or whatever the name is that go to tall skinny white guys these days. His name is--Farouz? Faroud? Farhouz? An incredibly Muslim sounding name, which he kept repeating patiently as I went, "I'm sorry? Come again? What's that?" And of course, I would say his name and he'd repeat it back to me, which meant I either had it exactly wrong or precisely right, and the whole time he had a little smile on his face, which was either the smile of saint-like patience or the smile of "Dude, this guy totally thinks my name is Farouz and my name is so totally Brad!" It traumatized me so much I never asked another barrista's name again. I of course hate the horrible condescension of acting not using their names, like they have to know mine but I could give a shit about knowing theirs, but the deeper scars of the whole Farouz debacle linger. (And, honestly, the guy has always been so pleasant and top-notch and willing to tell me about helping his grandmother move when I ask what he did over the weekend, I'm sure now it was the smile of saint-like patience and he's a tall skinny white Muslim, or child of Muslim parents, and there you have it.) And of course, I'm so traumatized by the whole thing that if they did tell me their names, I would never remember them because I'd be too busy thinking "shit! what if I forget their name!" that it wouldn't register. So Jeff, good old affable Jeff, was a godsend. I didn't even ask to learn Jeff's name, I heard someone behind the counter use it, and I latched onto it. In fact, so traumatized after the Farouz incident was I, I'd always say it as a question. Like, "Hey, thanks, Jeff?" And he'd just smile, again the smile of either "well, yes, that's me" or the smile of "I can't believe this guy thinks my name is Jeff when my name is so totally Brad!" But as I stuck with it without his correcting me, I grew more confident: as if, even if it wasn't his name, it was like our private little joke (which is the exact sort of smile you have with someone who shares your name most of the time anyway). So today, while he was making the coffee and I was talking with him, he said, "Yeah, today's my last day." "Here?" I said. "Your last day here?" "Yeah, my dad wants me to pay more attention to my schoolwork since I graduate in May." We made a bit of small talk about what he was studying (3-D animation) and how he had to put together a portfolio and I shook his hand said, "well, sorry to see you go. It won't be the same without you!" And even though I've worked at jobs long enough to know that, really, that's almost never the case except in a small number of cases, I had no way of telling him it'd be true for me: all I have now is a cafe staffed by friendly nameless people who, as in the worst nightmares, seem to know all about me while I know nothing about them. Admittedly, that's overstating things a bit. Even if I don't know their names, I know them on sight, and little pieces about them. For example, the Monday decaf latte tastes different from the Tuesday decaf latte. There's Farouz/Brad's grandmother (who I think of as "the light cool guy"), and there's the girl who works Saturdays and some Mondays who I call "Ace." (I'm still not sure why.) There's the guy who's the manager on Tuesday who I call "Eddie Murphy" because he acts like Eddie Murphy's imitation of a gay guy in Beverly Hills Cop II. There's the guy who comes in on a razor scooter and wear a helmet (who I think of as "the dark cool guy") who is Asian in a way I can't nail down (as opposed to Jeff, who kinda looks, still, like one of those Chinese babies you'd see on revolution posters but may also have a bit of Korean too) and has the world's most calm-sounding voice and is easily the best barrista in the lot. There's Laura, who used to work the morning shifts but now just comes in for coffee (and I only know her name now that she comes in for coffee) who works the ghetto fabulous thing with her open-toed shoes and her toe rings. And there's Colin Farrell, the new barrista guy who thinks he's The Man, but seems pleasant enough in a completely professional way that somehow only heightens his air of arrogant capableness and whose decaf lattes have gotten better and may well end up taking the bitter edge off the Tuesday morning lattes overall. posted by Jeff Lester | 11:00 AM | |
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