Sheila spied the time on the receipt as she handed it to a disheveled woman along with two bucks and change. Three-thirty. Sheila's shift would be over in an hour and she could change out of the smell of coffee grinds and muffins, a smell that made her sick even as she noticed the look of appreciation that came over customers as they encountered it.
Behind her stood Jon, a true barista who never seemed to tire of this life, although his constant tardiness seemed to indicate just the opposite. Still, Sheila liked Jon's simple, easy-going nature and appreciated that he didn't hum excessively, click his tongue, or whistle. A dull life is better than one of annoyance.
As she waited for the next customer, a middle-aged regular named Walter, to sift his pockets for exact change, a man with a curious smile entered the shop and took his place in line. He looked around and began to casually clap his hands as he teetered back and forth on his heels. After Walter parted to find a quiet table by the window, the man stepped forward and squinted to read the chalk-drawn menu behind Sheila.
"Oh, boy. Coffee sounds great about now," he said.
"Great," said Sheila. "We've got lots of it."
"I can see that."
Still looking, he stood there for a moment. His smile faded as his eyes drifted down the list of items. When he reached the last drink on the menu, he frowned.
"What's in a Caramel Latte?"
"Um."
Jon turned from the whirring coffee machines to face the man.
"It's caramel. And milk. And coffee." Jon said.
"Oh, oh. I see," said the man. "Sounds good. Think I'll have one of those."
"It's four twenty-eight." said Sheila.
"Funny, I've got three thirty-six." said the man as he pointed to his watch. "I'm just kidding. Here you are."
He handed a five dollar bill to Sheila.
"Keep the change."
"Thanks," she said as she threw the remaining coins into a small plastic cup next to the register.
The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small digital camera. He quickly pointed it at Sheila and snapped a picture. She looked at him dumbly. He winked at her as he waited for the image to appear on the camera's small screen.
"Hey," he said. "You take a better picture than you thought you did."
He showed Sheila the picture that he had taken from where he stood. Jon stepped beside her and placed the man's drink on the counter along with a straw and a napkin. Turning to leave the shop, the man's smile returned to full form and he began to whistle.
"Coffee!" he said as he disappeared through the front door.
"That was weird," said Jon after a moment.
"Yeah, that was pretty fucking weird," said Walter, his back turned.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Camptown Rabies
Camptown Rabies isn't actually a form of rabies. It's a degenerative mental disease brought about not by animals, but by plants. Most scientists agree that there is an inconsistency in the cell walls of these plants that cause them to take on animal characteristics. These characteristics run the gamut from hypochondria to hating a once loved neighbor. In humans, the disease is not fatal, but it does lead to an array of problems such as emotional distress, memory loss, and general sociopathology.
The name, Campton Rabies, comes from Stephen Foster's famous "Camptown Ladies" (AKA "Camptown Races"), a popular song from the mid to late 19th century. Scientists decided on this allusion for two reasons. The obvious first reason is that the disease was discovered in Campton, Delaware and was initially thought to be a simple form of rabies. The second reason actually comes from a line in the song itself that reads: "Goin' to run all day, goin' to run all night." This tireless energy would be the first sign that the human was infected, followed by random acts of violence and dehydration.
Incidentally, Camptown Rabies is also the name of a poem that was written in the mid-1970's by a frustrated youth named Paul Santerfield. The poem describes the song "Camptown Ladies" from the perspective of a rabid dog and it won Santerfield no friends in the English department of his university. However, the poem was eventually published in 1982 after he had become one of the best-selling authors of all time. Many scholars consider "Camptown Rabies" to be Santerfield's most frustrating work.
Your correspondent digresses...
In what has become the greatest signifier of universal consciousness, a human must only think about a plant that has Camptown Rabies in order to become infected. This amazing process has killed or driven insane most of the scientists on the project. In fact, only scientists with amazing skills of concentration are allowed access to key information.
Fortunately, most people have never heard of Camptown Rabies (the disease or the poem).
The name, Campton Rabies, comes from Stephen Foster's famous "Camptown Ladies" (AKA "Camptown Races"), a popular song from the mid to late 19th century. Scientists decided on this allusion for two reasons. The obvious first reason is that the disease was discovered in Campton, Delaware and was initially thought to be a simple form of rabies. The second reason actually comes from a line in the song itself that reads: "Goin' to run all day, goin' to run all night." This tireless energy would be the first sign that the human was infected, followed by random acts of violence and dehydration.
Incidentally, Camptown Rabies is also the name of a poem that was written in the mid-1970's by a frustrated youth named Paul Santerfield. The poem describes the song "Camptown Ladies" from the perspective of a rabid dog and it won Santerfield no friends in the English department of his university. However, the poem was eventually published in 1982 after he had become one of the best-selling authors of all time. Many scholars consider "Camptown Rabies" to be Santerfield's most frustrating work.
Your correspondent digresses...
In what has become the greatest signifier of universal consciousness, a human must only think about a plant that has Camptown Rabies in order to become infected. This amazing process has killed or driven insane most of the scientists on the project. In fact, only scientists with amazing skills of concentration are allowed access to key information.
Fortunately, most people have never heard of Camptown Rabies (the disease or the poem).
Vincent
Stephen Lundz had worked at General Harbor Ltd.'s accounting department for 23 years. He absolutely hated his job, but he stayed for one reason: Benjamin Rappeli. Benjamin had started working in the same office a year and a half after Stephen had started. As a matter of fact, Stephen was on his way to resign when he passed by Benjamin who politely introduced himself.
"Hi, I'm the new guy. Benjamin," he had said.
"Hey, Venjamin. Nice to meet you," said Stephen as he continued walking to the boss's office.
Stephen was about to knock when his confusion registered.
Venjamin? That's not a name, he thought. He turned to apologize when a thought occurred to him. The letter "V" has a very similar sound to a "B". I wonder if he noticed...
It was now almost 22 years later and now Benjamin had become "Vincent" to Stephen. This is how he did it:
Over the course of all these years, Stephen slightly adjusted the way he would pronounce Benjamin's name. Turning the B into a V was easy, that part had been done upfront on accident. The E to the I was also simple, as some parts of the country do this naturally. "Vinjamin." The N remained, of course, but the essential transformation was the second syllable. "Jam" had to become "Cent" and Stephen couldn't figure out how to continue for several years.
Eventually, the answer came to him. The simplest way to explain this trick is to say that it was a combination of things: facial exercises, generous use of diphthongs, and plenty of eye contact. Also, Stephen had filled up an empty jelly jar with pennies and given it to Benjamin for use as a paperweight. This went a long way in the psychological replacement of "jam" and "cent". In the end, however, it was a slow process but it was completely worth every moment to Stephen as he strolled in to the office and greeted "Vincentin" with complete confidence.
As for the third syllable that was mysterious dropped in Benjamin's 14th year, Stephen had a stroke of luck when an assistant Megan asked that everyone start referring to her as "Meg". He simply started doing this for everyone. Unfortunately, Meg mistook his gesture and began referring to Stephen as "Steve"; he fired her soon after.
So, Benjamin had become "Vincent" with complete success. For some reason that Stephen couldn't figure out, Benjamin didn't seem to even notice. If Stephen had remained Benjamin's superior perhaps he could have blamed general ass-kissing, but Benjamin was now Stephen's boss and didn't seem to like him very much. It was something deeper and Stephen became to realize that he had hypnotized this man.
Still Stephen wasn't satisfied. He began to realize that his job was more frustrating than ever. But he was working on a new challenge. He had given himself 6 more years to change "Vincent" into "Vanessa".
"Hi, I'm the new guy. Benjamin," he had said.
"Hey, Venjamin. Nice to meet you," said Stephen as he continued walking to the boss's office.
Stephen was about to knock when his confusion registered.
Venjamin? That's not a name, he thought. He turned to apologize when a thought occurred to him. The letter "V" has a very similar sound to a "B". I wonder if he noticed...
It was now almost 22 years later and now Benjamin had become "Vincent" to Stephen. This is how he did it:
Over the course of all these years, Stephen slightly adjusted the way he would pronounce Benjamin's name. Turning the B into a V was easy, that part had been done upfront on accident. The E to the I was also simple, as some parts of the country do this naturally. "Vinjamin." The N remained, of course, but the essential transformation was the second syllable. "Jam" had to become "Cent" and Stephen couldn't figure out how to continue for several years.
Eventually, the answer came to him. The simplest way to explain this trick is to say that it was a combination of things: facial exercises, generous use of diphthongs, and plenty of eye contact. Also, Stephen had filled up an empty jelly jar with pennies and given it to Benjamin for use as a paperweight. This went a long way in the psychological replacement of "jam" and "cent". In the end, however, it was a slow process but it was completely worth every moment to Stephen as he strolled in to the office and greeted "Vincentin" with complete confidence.
As for the third syllable that was mysterious dropped in Benjamin's 14th year, Stephen had a stroke of luck when an assistant Megan asked that everyone start referring to her as "Meg". He simply started doing this for everyone. Unfortunately, Meg mistook his gesture and began referring to Stephen as "Steve"; he fired her soon after.
So, Benjamin had become "Vincent" with complete success. For some reason that Stephen couldn't figure out, Benjamin didn't seem to even notice. If Stephen had remained Benjamin's superior perhaps he could have blamed general ass-kissing, but Benjamin was now Stephen's boss and didn't seem to like him very much. It was something deeper and Stephen became to realize that he had hypnotized this man.
Still Stephen wasn't satisfied. He began to realize that his job was more frustrating than ever. But he was working on a new challenge. He had given himself 6 more years to change "Vincent" into "Vanessa".
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Perfection in the Lights
Listen up: your "girlfriend" is horrible to you. I don't remember exactly when it happened, but apparently at some point she decided that you were less important to her than her fans; her stupid, drooling, hideous fans. Maybe the quality of her fans would be better if she were more talented, but for now they are figurative morons for her literally moronic music.
Remember when you told me that her lyrics were criminally simplistic? And I said that was why you two were good for each other, because I didn't understand her lyrics and then I said maybe I was just above both of you guys? Well, I should have said something else.
Look: by the time that me and your Dad saw what kind of danger you were in, you had already pushed us out of your life. I guess we deserved it. We might not have had your best interests at heart when we tried to get you to do that movie sequel. But admit it, you were on a bad slide and it's only gotten worse. Now when we see you on the tabloid shows, it's like seeing a stranger making bad choices - not that your Dad would do it any differently, but I think that I would.
Anyway, me and some of the guys are starting a band and we want you to join. Right now we call ourselves Reverse Kick Carpet, but we're open to other suggestions. If you're not too busy quietly sitting in the lobby of your "girlfriend's" recording studio or holding down the furniture in her tour bus, please give me or your Dad a call. (He's not in the band, but he knows some people in the business.)
I hope you get this message and I hope you're still not mad that I told you about your "girlfriend" fucking your Dad. I'm still pretty sure they did, but I guess now I understand why you probably didn't want to hear about it. Anyway, he still denies it to this day and I don't think he has any reason lie about it anymore.
Also, the producers from that movie sequel have asked me to do a rewrite and I want to know if I can use some of your ideas that you had after reading the script. They're a great bunch of guys and I don't want to deny them a quality story. Don't tell your Dad about it though if you happen to talk to him - they kicked him off the project after you left and he doesn't know that I'm still involved.
Remember when you told me that her lyrics were criminally simplistic? And I said that was why you two were good for each other, because I didn't understand her lyrics and then I said maybe I was just above both of you guys? Well, I should have said something else.
Look: by the time that me and your Dad saw what kind of danger you were in, you had already pushed us out of your life. I guess we deserved it. We might not have had your best interests at heart when we tried to get you to do that movie sequel. But admit it, you were on a bad slide and it's only gotten worse. Now when we see you on the tabloid shows, it's like seeing a stranger making bad choices - not that your Dad would do it any differently, but I think that I would.
Anyway, me and some of the guys are starting a band and we want you to join. Right now we call ourselves Reverse Kick Carpet, but we're open to other suggestions. If you're not too busy quietly sitting in the lobby of your "girlfriend's" recording studio or holding down the furniture in her tour bus, please give me or your Dad a call. (He's not in the band, but he knows some people in the business.)
I hope you get this message and I hope you're still not mad that I told you about your "girlfriend" fucking your Dad. I'm still pretty sure they did, but I guess now I understand why you probably didn't want to hear about it. Anyway, he still denies it to this day and I don't think he has any reason lie about it anymore.
Also, the producers from that movie sequel have asked me to do a rewrite and I want to know if I can use some of your ideas that you had after reading the script. They're a great bunch of guys and I don't want to deny them a quality story. Don't tell your Dad about it though if you happen to talk to him - they kicked him off the project after you left and he doesn't know that I'm still involved.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
The New Dog
I got a new dog last night. There was a warehouse fistfight over a union dispute and I went with my girlfriend Paula. She's got twelve years as a lorriehand and she wanted to show solidarity. Plus, she had some money on the fight. Anyway, the loser got his nose broke and Paula stole the new dog which she gave to me.
I don't want to go into what happened to my old dog, but he died a hero in my eyes (if not in the eyes of about a hundred East Mississippians). I'll just say that there's a part of the world that has a lot to learn about jet propulsion and the curious nature of dogs. Yeah...the new dog has a lot to live up to.
The new dog used to be brown, but I painted him white like my old dog. I used an water-based paint - you know, just in case he has to run through fire. It's not that I don't like the way the new dog looks, I'm just used to certain periphial blurs.
So, look out. The new dog and me may not have much of a history, but I love him a lot and I just named him Andy.
I don't want to go into what happened to my old dog, but he died a hero in my eyes (if not in the eyes of about a hundred East Mississippians). I'll just say that there's a part of the world that has a lot to learn about jet propulsion and the curious nature of dogs. Yeah...the new dog has a lot to live up to.
The new dog used to be brown, but I painted him white like my old dog. I used an water-based paint - you know, just in case he has to run through fire. It's not that I don't like the way the new dog looks, I'm just used to certain periphial blurs.
So, look out. The new dog and me may not have much of a history, but I love him a lot and I just named him Andy.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Midnight Madness
I think there was a terrible incident, maybe even a murder, in my neighborhood last night. It happened right around midnight. I'd turned off my TV and was about to go upstairs to get ready for bed. But then I heard yelling outside, an angry voice shouting at someone or something. It sounded like it was coming from my own backyard. I rushed to the kitchen to see if I could see anything through the window. It was a foggy night and, despite the rear porch light, I couldn't see the yard clearly. I went outside to check it out.
It took me almost a minute, I didn't see him at first, but then I noticed a kid, maybe ten or eleven years old, standing beside one of the trees. His clothes were filthy. He looked like he'd been living outside for a long time. And even though he already looked kind of terrified, I started yelling at him. I'm not sure if I was trying to get him to come out so I could help him or if I was masking how frightened I was. Whichever it was, the kid responded by scaling my back fence and disappearing into the night.
I stood there for a minute, just listening. Then I went back inside not knowing if I should call the police or just go to sleep. That's about when I heard a gunshot a few blocks over. I tried to look out from an upstairs window, waiting for the police to show up, but they never did.
I finally went to bed and laid there for hours before I finally drifted off to sleep. I kept thinking that I'd never seen that kid before, didn't know him at all. But all the same, I prayed to God it was him that had fired the gun. Those other things out there are a lot scarier than he was.
It took me almost a minute, I didn't see him at first, but then I noticed a kid, maybe ten or eleven years old, standing beside one of the trees. His clothes were filthy. He looked like he'd been living outside for a long time. And even though he already looked kind of terrified, I started yelling at him. I'm not sure if I was trying to get him to come out so I could help him or if I was masking how frightened I was. Whichever it was, the kid responded by scaling my back fence and disappearing into the night.
I stood there for a minute, just listening. Then I went back inside not knowing if I should call the police or just go to sleep. That's about when I heard a gunshot a few blocks over. I tried to look out from an upstairs window, waiting for the police to show up, but they never did.
I finally went to bed and laid there for hours before I finally drifted off to sleep. I kept thinking that I'd never seen that kid before, didn't know him at all. But all the same, I prayed to God it was him that had fired the gun. Those other things out there are a lot scarier than he was.
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