When I Need A Pick Me Up, by my friend Ryan King

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

When We Last Left Our Hero At "My Night Job..."

... I've realized the name I must give the new English co-worker, hired a few weeks ago. She was raised in a small town in rural England and she very much telegraphed every bit of it. So, and I mean this with every bit of respect I can muster, I shall dub her "Scullery Maid". Because she's incredibly service-oriented, very socialable, and when she gets going, you could close your eyes and visions of Angela Lansbury on crack, scrubbing His Lordships floor with a toothbrush will go skuttling through your mind.

So last night, I worked with Baby Boy and Scullery Maid. Baby Boy likes me a lot. I think he admires me in some skewed white-boy way--emphasis on the "boy". You see, I've come to recognize a certain fog that certain white youth get about black people. I both love and hate these types of lads. (George's Son was one of them, and he was of the "I Hate" variety.) What happens is, they glorify the image of the Black Male. They imbue us with some kind of power, that I think back in the day caused their fathers to hunt us down and hang us. He seems to think I'm wise and that I'm good with women. When he talks to me, he leans in WAY too close, and waggles his head like Eminem in midverse. Both he and Snapper like to share their drug stories with me, instantly including me in their "smooking's kool" club. As though every black male knows where to score. Yoyoyoyoyoyo-yo BOYYYYYYYYYYY! I mean, hey. I only know where to score by accident. I wasn't looking. They just came up to me and offered. Twice. On different days.

I guess Baby Boy looks at me with a filter the same way I look at a white dude in a suit and think "Money."

It's all love.

Anyway, The Bull came in last night (on a Monday. Unusual.) And I shared my teeth-pulling woes with him as I fixed his drink. I don't usually give my personal business out, but it's The Bull! I want to know more about him. And so, I did! I gave him the right line for him to tell me more about himself. Such as the fact that he doesn't eat a lot of sweets because he was a hyper child and his parents (aha! So there were two parents!) gave him only fruit to eat. I told him that I wished they had raised me. And then I told him that he had a great set of teeth. At which he flashed them. You know who he smiles like?

The Bull could be Lyle Waggoner's twentysomething, if not thirtysomething, bald, hyperactive, weightlifting son. Wouldn't you go gay for him? So we progressed a little further in our relationship. lol! Thing is, and seriously, he is jumpy. Seems socially awkward. He's not as silvertongued as I am.

I know! The nerve of me! I'm telling you, I am a Sexy Beast when I'm in my apron. I'm amazingly confident! If I were on the other side of the counter, I know I'd be about as stumbly as he is. But not that stumbly. I mean, I only need a little encouragement and my with sharpens. How I write actually is how I speak. You can ask Childhood Bud. So ... it makes me wonder if The Bull has a sense of humor at all. I haven't made him laugh yet, and in return, he hasn't said anything funny either. Despite the fact that he's fun to look at, I just don't think we'd make a good pair of friends. My heart goes out to you, ladies. I've heard several horror stories about you hooking up with this kind of guy, and how torturous it could be to try to make it work just because he ________________ (has a great job, is so good-looking, has a really kind heart, etc).

In other news, Carmine Macchiato came in solo last night, and he ordered .. A CARAMEL MACCHIATO!!! I LOVE Carmine Macchiato!! He too is a little awkward. While he's waiting for his drinks, he tends to fidget a little and he even murmurs -- or at least his lips fidget, as if he's about to join the conversation that I might be having with another employee or another customer. You know what I mean? When someone on the side is paying attention to you and your convo, and they might chuckle when someone in your cypher gives a witticism? But Carmine doesn't seem to know when to jump in. I mean, I've given him plenty of ins, or I'll throw him a question while he's waiting, but it doesn't go further. He's paying attention, but he doesn't commit. He's like someone right at the edge of the spinning double-dutch ropes who never jumps. And here I shall quote Sheena Easton,
"But when he shines, oh when he shines
Yes when he shines, he shines so bright"

And that time is when he is with Lady Macchiato. He never seems to be awkward or hesitant with her. He makes her laugh. He brings her drinks. He takes care of her. And you can see that she appreciates him. And that he's comfortable with her. She gets him.

Oh. That's what you guys are talking about. Yeah. That is nice.

I had to suppress a whoop of joy while handing Won't Go Away Girl her drink late in the evening, because she supplied the unsolicited fact that she wouldn't be coming in tonight (She's like the Anti-Carmine While Carmine won't jump rope, WGAG will snatch the ropes from the turner and try to do it herself.) She also began going into detail about the reasons why she was skipping a night, but by then the Hallelujah Chorus was cascading in the background and I couldn't hear another word she was saying. I batted away the tear of joy trickling out of the corner of my eye and bid her a safe night.

A maiden wearing Muslim headkerchiefs flirted with me last night, as well. It made me want to give her the Toffee Bar with a "Asalaam Alekhem, My Queen" but I'm not trying to worship Muhammed. (No offense, Childhood Bud II!!). She had a tablemate who had come to get a drink and snack before her, and THAT one wore no rag. Her 'do, in fact, was ghetto fabulous. She started out with an attitude, but but the time she left with drink and snack on tray, she was smiling. Yes, my barista-fu is THAT good.

Drawing back a little from my narrative, I have to shake my head in amazement. I actually mean what I'm writing. I was/am this guy. As sure as I am that I'm a good therapist when in the moment, I actually become possessed with the spirit of some kind of lounge lizard. No woman is too much to handle, and no guy is too hetero.

If I'm going to pick up a date, it's going to be from behind that barista machine! I swear, I think that's the truth! I actually think that the customers see me the way I need to be seen -- which in turn transforms me into the person I need to be! Which is why I have not quit yet! And which must also be why there are actual books about being a barista and "The Starbucks Experience." There's something going on in the coffeehouses across the world!


I wonder what tonight holds for Our Hero?

Well if I don't stop pounding this keyboard, I'll never know...I have 7 mins. to punch in, and I haven't even changed my clothes yet!

Catch yous lata' !


SolarisGal said...

wow - I have to give it to you! You must be a smooth charming dude, who's "duty is to please that booty" if a muslim womam actually flirted with you! That's like, wow. If you can get a woman like that to flirt with you, then Alan, what are you complaining about?! You must have it in you!

LOL, my word verification was "suave" - there must be software in here that fits the occassion!

Alan said...

Solaris, I certainly do feel like a smooth charming dude. But I'm now going to post another entry and you'll see what's going on ...