August 2, 2008

the difference between names and faces is completely fascinating.  I can go my whole day and see a hundred faces. Where I get my morning coffee; it's the same barista, the audience is the same as we play out a joke we seem to have played so many times before this moment.  I feel connected to that person, yet i do not know his name.  if i saw him, not in the uniform of black and white and that silly hat, i may not know why i know them, but I would register that somehow i do.  would i recognize him quicker if i knew his name?

all of this is going through my head as I am lazily standing around sipping my coffee.  its about 8:30 and the day has begun.  nothing much has changed, and i woke up with that same feeling of insignificance as i had the morning before, and the one before that, and the one...

it's not the feeling of smallness i got when i grew up by the ocean.  when my Dr. parents lived at the hospital and provided me with the entertainment of the waves crashing and the seagulls making noise just by staring out of any of the windows.  we had a roof that was protected and had lawn chairs, a fridge, a bbq, and a fire pit, and i remember after a late nights with friends over, sitting up there, and when all was still I would look up at the stars and listening to the ocean and just felt small. real small.  small like the whole thing could come crashing down on me and i would just. be. immersed.  

no, it was not that smallness, it was insignifigance that is rooted in fear and rejection.  it's the deteroration of the sugar as soon as it's placed in my coffee.  the photograph up against the real thing.  and it hits me every morning when i wake up; this reminder that there is nothing better coming, that this, young son, is your life.

so i got up, and i started today like everyday. i got dressed, ate in silence and went for my morning coffee. i know it's cheaper to do it at home, but i live alone and the chances of me actually cleaning that coffee maker are slim to none, plus i like the idea of seeing people in the mornings, even if it's just the normal crowd at The Fix. Ha. that name.  i'm sure it was penned by some guy playing off the words of the caffeine induced culture we live in, or maybe he really thinks that people must get their fix, and as much as i like coffee, i could switch if i needed to.  you know, like if we got a universal message saying that all coffee was extremely bad and we had to switch or our futures and health and families would be doomed, then i could do it.  but not this morning.  not today.  

i'm already here at The Fix and that little girl with her mom is already here and they make me smile. i dont know her name either, and sometimes i wish i did, but you risk sounding more than you bargain for by being a 30 year old guy who is asking little kids their names.  so i smile politely and i just keep going.   

my order has been completed awhile ago, and i have already begun to sip my coffee but i just keep standing there.  i replay the steps of making the coffee perfect, even though i can taste the sweet flavors in my mouth.  i go through the list of ingredients and meausrements and they are correctly there. but i just keep standing.

 i am really bothered that this person, who makes my drink and the guy who takes my money and exchanges it for something smaller, does not know my name.  he knows my favorite drink, relatively what time i get up in the morning, and what dress style my work has me dress in.  he could probably guess my age, although i have been told i look younger than i am, but it's at this shallow level that he must stop swimming.  the pool ends.  no more.  

i am sipping my coffe, watching the little girl, and staring at the barista.  i am so incredibly bothered all of a sudden that he is a stranger to me yet we interact like we are old friends i want to scream and yell my name out loud. i want to shout about my family, about my dad who loved me and my mom who got sick. i want to yell about the sister that i always wanted but never had, about my job that i can not stand most of the days, but that like many good novels, i try and pretend it will all have a happy ending.

my grip tightens on my coffee cup and i am suddenly aware of the fragile nature of recycled cup.  it has never seemed to be malleable and my own strength begins to surprise me.  as my fingers dig deep into the protective sleeve, i start to think about all the faux pas' about me that make me, me. all of a sudden, these private facts that stand between me and the barista are tapping their feet inside my head impatiently and their hands are rattling their cages in desperate effort to get out.  as i make a list of my own secrets in my head i start to wonder if this barista, and this world, would love me just the same if they knew them. i start to wonder if what makes a secret not it's content but it's packaging. what if i just let it out so they could all hear, would the coffee taste different?  would he keep asking me how my morning was? or would it suddenly turn sour and bland, would that be the day that we got the message that we had to switch our coffee habits to something else, something that would sting away the harshness of the sun that has come into my life since i stopped keeping secrets.

suddenly my grip is so much that the coffee explodes, jumps out of the cup and all over the floor.   im soaking wet with the fix, and my skin is burning under my clothes.  like a movie pushed on pause, the entire place. just. stops. moving. eyes are on me, on my tie, on my watch, on my face.  murmurs begin to stir as people loose interest and a few napkins are pushed in my direction.  the barista begins to re-make my drink, i do not even have to tell him.  he seems to realize we all fall out of cookie-cutter patterns, but we just need a reminder, a mark of something familiar to get back on track.  with my clothes stained brown and my ego stained with embarrassment, I reach for my new drink

i imagined hearing, "hey jack. no big deal, you all right man?"

what i got was, "you still have some coffee on your face."