Customers

God's testing me. He [yes, He] is always testing me. I hate Him. But that's another entry, even though it's appropriate for this one, too.

So, you know, when it's 10 am and there are 17 cups lined up on the bar and some jerk comes up as I've milk foaming and asks all fakey-polite in an annoying whine: 'Did you forget my drink?'

You know those days that you don't know whether you're glad or you're sad they make you check your AK-47 at the door ...?

Actually, I prefer the Katana ... it doesn't run out of bullets, and that's important when the zombie flood rises ...

'phfina, stay. on. POINT!

Oh, right. Sorry.

So, today I had a doozy of one. This big hulking guy comes in, about my age, but I mean, football player? Hell, he could eat football players for lunch! You could pack, hm, four of me in him and he'd have room to spare. Tee shirt, shorts, flip-flops. His tee shirt proclaimed angrily: "King of the [Effing] Remote!" as he shambled off with his drink, and the look on his face? Sour puss, anyone?

And then his Dad came in: looked exactly like his son, a slob, his tee shirt said: "Still here!" and he looked positively wild with a bandana tying back his long grey hair.

Scary, the both of them. I mean, I'm a nimble thing, so I could use my grrl-ninja-skliz and take them, but if they got a hold of me, I'd be meat pies.

But then they sat down with their drinks and they just sat there, and mostly looked at each other and just talked, quietly ... for more than a half an hour.

And I was like...

And I was like, when's the last time my Dad sat and talked with me for a while, quietly, just looking at me, not distracted by himself or anything? And that man/boy, the "king of the [effing] remote," at least he was king of something, you know? What am I the queen of? Coffee? Am I proud of that? Sometimes. But am I fiercely proud of anything enough to scream it out to the whole world, damn what they think?

And I mean, who the hell am I to judge him? Had I walked a mile in his flip-flops? Did his dad give him a ride in an exclusive liberal arts college to get an oh-so-practical degree that he immediately applied to become an sbux barista? Or have a Dad who would be falling over himself to bankroll him buying a used bookstore in nowhere Greece? Like my Dad would? Who the fvck am I to be judging this father and son who obviously care, no, love each other this much?

And then, later, more customers. A ton of them, all really, really old women, and the cordoned off our big table where the father and son had been before, and they got out their crocheting things, and they started chatting away and ...

... and having fun. They were laughing and smiling and crocheting and chatting. And they were all shapes and sizes, hairstyles, styles of dress. There was one woman in the group, and she was in her 30s or 40s maybe? So a lot older than me, but I thought: how brave! She looked so comfortable in that group because the group was just so comfortable with each other, so warm and accepting. And I felt a pang, because I know they would just let me join them, but I am just so different than them.

Then, oh-my-God! a girl about my age just joined them with her crocheting needles and the group just continued along as if nothing amazing had just happened, because it was the most ordinary thing, this really cute, hot chestnut girl (and girls, hm, she was so cute in that blue tank-top!) joined a group whose average age was senior as in citizen.

And then I saw them all, and they were all so, so beautiful. A smile would light up a girl's face, be that girl 65 years old, and it was just so beautiful to see, them all being with each other and for each other.