Name of Place Visited: JG’s Pizza
Street Address: 195 Lark Street
Date, Time of Day: 1/31/08, 1:30-2:30
I discovered JG’s Pizza quite randomly. I’ve never been here before. It seems like a pretty scary place at first because the music is so intense—some creepy, Halloween- style music. Oh well, I’ll make the best of it. I usually listen to all kinds of music, but I’ve never heard anything quite like this before. I wasn’t completely comfortable when I first walked in because it was new to me, but as the hour progresses I become more and more at ease. I like the place. It has me questioning my musical tastes—some of the songs are pretty cool—maybe I need to expand my collection even further.
I’m sitting in the chair by the door, so the few times somebody comes in my left leg gets the brunt of a cold gust. The song changes to one that has more screaming in it. Not exactly screaming—more like short bursts of sound being extracted from some primordial animal unwillingly. There’s a fair amount of sunlight in the front of the room, from the street-side windows, but towards the back is pretty neutral lighting-wise. There are posters everywhere: Led Zepplin, Sabbath Bloody Sabbath, Tom Waits: Downtown Train, Motorhead England, Pantera, AC/DC, Sex Pistols, Isis, and Ramones. The square tables are covered with magazine cutouts and comics, most of which are strange and/or unorthodox. There’s a shirt hanging in the window behind me that says 195 Lark St. followed by “Live Fast-Eat Pizza” which pretty much sums up this place. There’s a Family Guy calendar behind the counter. I can hear Counter Chick in the back shutting doors, and the soda cooler in front of me starts to hum.
From where I sit I can see into the back room, where Pizza Guy is making pizzas. He’s a middle-aged, cool, tattooed guy. I order two slices of pepperoni pizza from the Counter Chick. She’s pretty intensely pierced (on the body parts I can see at least). She has handcuff earrings and a bar through the bridge of her nose. I feel a sense of camaraderie, as I also have tattoos, and a fairly unique set of piercings on my back. Counter Chick is wearing a black bandana with red skulls on it, and a black zip-up hoodie. She’s wearing a white apron around her petite waist. She’s small, like 5’1” or 2”. She’s a lot friendlier than I expected. I can hear Pizza Guy in the back room patting down pizza dough. It happens every so often and it always catches me off guard because it sounds like a large sumo type individual patting his belly before wrestling. There’s a guy sitting at the middle table on the other side of the room. He’s white, in his late 20’s, chewing politely and shaking the foot of his crossed leg quite rhythmically. He seems nervous and a little out of place here, but it looks like he feels at home. Like an alter ego of his could be the one screaming on this track or playing the drums maniacally. Nervous Guy leaves, so I start observing the guy at the last table on the right. He’s the only other person here but me and Counter Chick and Pizza Guy. He’s a middle-aged black guy with thin-framed glasses and combat boots. His moustache moves as he also chews politely. So many quiet and polite people, myself included, are here in this fairly loud, chaotic, demonic sounding place. Weird. Maybe we all have some inner demons to contend with. Pizza Guy comes out from the back room. He has two full tattoo sleeves, and he’s wearing a LarkTattoo t-shirt and a black skullcap. He looks pretty badass, but he nicely asks Counter Chick if she wants anything “from the outside.” “Coffee, if you’re going that way,” she says. He leaves but comes right back in for some reason. I assume because he noticed a guy come in who stocks supplies of some sort. A young guy in a beige beanie with a brim comes in and asks Pizza Guy if they need any help. Pizza Guy says, “Not right now, it’s pretty dead.” The guy says “Thanks” and leaves as quickly as he came in. Counter Chick cleans the three empty tables on the other side of the room. A new song is on now that’s mostly drums and some psychedelic sounds in the background. It’s pretty mellow—a total stoner song. I feel like I’m floating right now—maybe I should check the ingredients in this pepperoni pizza. Fuck, I just bit my lip. Damn that really hurts. Now I taste blood along with my pizza. My Mountain Dew isn’t helping the situation either.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
As the Arbor Hill Express Comes and Goes, so does the feeling in my toes.
Name of Place Visited: Bus Stop
Street Address: in front of Rite Aid at 23 North Pearl St. in Downtown Albany
Date, Time of Day: 1/25/2008 4:25p.m. - 5:25 p.m.
Wanderlust at its best.
There’s no better way to kill a Friday without class than wandering aimlessly through Albany’s streets and watching people go about their business. It’s a guilty pleasure of mine, but at least it doesn’t really hurt anyone else. Most folks wouldn’t believe half the things you hear in passing on city streets. That’s how I ended up here. I followed the flow, and landed on a hard wooden bench in this glass-capped bus stop. I am sitting on the right hand side of the bench across from the Crowne Plaza Hotel where the Arbor Hill/Mt. Hope bus picks people up en route to Arbor Hill.
Behind me is a large Rite Aid and across from me is a Starbuck’s (they really are everywhere). I am also facing a bus stop for the same two lines, which seems to draw more people but fewer true characters than this chilly haven for commuters. However, the general feeling of this particular structure is a tad ghetto.
I didn’t really predict that coming into it, I just figured it would be similar to the average Western Avenue bus stop; lots of college kids, the occasional hobo smoking a cigarette outside, you know, the usual.
It sure isn’t like a bus stop back home in Gloversville where all you see is alcoholics, crackheads, and me—maybe all I am is just a rough mix of the two? Gloversville will do it to you.
As far as comfort is concerned, this is really not the place for it. This bench isn’t bad for the first ten minutes, but I’m starting to get kind of sore.
I also feel a bit out of place being the only person who is not:
a.) wearing boots b.) wearing black
c.) naturally black d.) fluent in Ebonics
e.) all of the above
Stalkers and Chicken Wings.
However, I’m much more comfortable here than I was an hour ago, even if just because I’m the only thing constant here besides the discarded Dunkin’ Donuts bag to my right. It reminds me of being in a place that is a cross between Saratoga and Schenectady—classy globe light fixtures mixed with ten word conversations mumbled between drags of cheap cigarettes.
People have surrounded me almost the entire time as they waited for various buses. This is an unlikely place to meet people, but apparently it happens, whether it’s just observation or conversation. Sometimes these meetings are jewels, just for some raw snippet of what those around me are really like. For example this dialogue between a woman whom I’ll call Clunker, based on the noise she made plopping down next to me, and a man who came in about five minutes later who I’ll call Colonel Sanders.
Sanders: You waiting for the bus?
Clunker: Yeah. What’s for dinner?
Sanders: If you come over I’ll cook ya some chicken wings. Ya want some wings?
Clunker: Yes!
Sanders: Fo’ real?
Clunker: Yes.
Sanders: I wanna watch some movies.
Clunker: DVD, right?
Sanders: Got it all. DVD, VHS, TV. Everything.
She smiled and then they boarded and left. “I’ll cook ya some chicken wings” is my new favorite pickup line.
Not once has anyone come up to talk to me, I guess I must look too busy scribbling away in this notebook. I’m probably the crazy guy that I’m used to searching the streets for. Sitting somewhere and jotting down thoughts on a legal pad like a TV detective on speed. Yep. That’d be me.
Or maybe it’s because a dude with a notebook looks a tad sketchy. I definitely feel like a creep as I listen to people on the pay phone. The first is a lady with a leopard print hat who mumbles into the phone and I can’t understand a single word of it. She gets up soon after and walks back over to the phone. Again, I can tell the conversation and is rushed and probably important. She’s speaking like she’s afraid all of us are watching her. Probably because we are.
The next guy is more understandable but draws far less attention. Maybe because he doesn’t pretend to hide anything from us. He says: “Are you kidding me? I’ll be there in like five minutes. I’ll give you 10-15 minutes. Half hour? We’re on Pearl. We can be there in 10-15 minutes.” Click.
He makes another call: “Yo! What up? Chop Chop! You just drove by us. Alright.” Click. He and his friend walk out.
There have been a lot of people in wheelchairs. One man in a wheelchair with about a week of stubble and long gray hair seemed to have a really hard time climbing up the small slope toward Rite Aid and I wish I could disobey the rules of the sit-down and help him. As if someone could hear my thoughts, a man holds the door open for him and then pushes him into the store. There are still nice people left in the world.
This blind man walking down the street is impressive. He is wearing a suit and tie, and walks with his cane almost as fast as I do with my eyes open. It makes me wonder: does he have great senses that allow him to quickly navigate this busy street, or has he just done it so many times before that he’s memorized the whole route? I suppose I’ll never really know.
Another guy came in as the bus stop filled up in anticipation of the Number Six and started offering small manila bags to people for $5, asking if they needed “any”. There were at least two buyers but I have no idea what he’s selling. I’m guessing drugs, but maybe he’s a traveling—small paper bag salesman.
The Sights and Sounds of Rush Hour (minus Jackie Chan)
It’s busy right now. Cars, buses, and taxis whiz by; carrying people home from work as rush hour begins. My ears are filled with the sounds of traffic and people walking. Casual businessmen’s conversations, powerful bus-driven vibrations, and the small talk of the people surrounding me in the bus stop. I can see many different colors from where I sit. The stoic brick of the office complex across from me, the white sides of buses, the red, white, and blue of the Rite Aid logo, and the omnipresent black of the down jackets around me. It’s much darker and colder now that the sun has gone down. When I first sat down, I was still in the shadow of downtown buildings, but at least there was a beautiful blue sky above me. Now I’m freezing and it’s getting tough to continue using my hand to write this. Looking around for something to keep my fingers busy, I pick up a discarded Dunkin’ Donuts cup. Too bad it’s cold. And empty, not that I’d drink anything I found on an Albany street. It’d just be nice to have a tangible trace of someone else’s experience between my frozen fingers. It makes me really want some coffee right now. I wonder if I’m breaking the rules if I do it just to warm my hands up.
A businessman walks by looking angry. Walking fast like he wants to avoid this stop and all of its occupants. It makes me feel kind of bad for sitting here. Maybe I’m bad for thinking that he sees us as lower individuals than him. Then again, it’s kind of cool I’m included in a group that he has an opinion about and I haven’t even had to say a word. Sometimes placement makes all the difference in the world.
Arbor Hill bus shows up. I’m all alone now.
WHY do I have the song from Reading Rainbow stuck in my head!? Levar! How could you do this to me?
23 minutes to go and I can’t feel my toes.
The sun is leaving me and the streetlights are all on. I feel like I’m in the beginning of an Arthur Miller play as 5 o’clock rolls around and businesspeople leave their imposing towers behind them.
For people all up and down the East Coast, it’s now the weekend!
Can’t feel my left big toe. That’s probably a bad sign. That’s the price you pay for doing things the creative non-fiction way.
This is a completely different road once the sun goes down. I love the neons, the reds and blues. Pizza joints, bagel shops and bars; this is where Albany comes alive. The smell of cigarettes, spit, garbage and exhaust with a slight hint of Mr. Boston vodka fill the air around me. This is what it feels like to be alive in the heart of banAlbany.
Somebody’s laughing but it sounds like tears to me.
Street Address: in front of Rite Aid at 23 North Pearl St. in Downtown Albany
Date, Time of Day: 1/25/2008 4:25p.m. - 5:25 p.m.
Wanderlust at its best.
There’s no better way to kill a Friday without class than wandering aimlessly through Albany’s streets and watching people go about their business. It’s a guilty pleasure of mine, but at least it doesn’t really hurt anyone else. Most folks wouldn’t believe half the things you hear in passing on city streets. That’s how I ended up here. I followed the flow, and landed on a hard wooden bench in this glass-capped bus stop. I am sitting on the right hand side of the bench across from the Crowne Plaza Hotel where the Arbor Hill/Mt. Hope bus picks people up en route to Arbor Hill.
Behind me is a large Rite Aid and across from me is a Starbuck’s (they really are everywhere). I am also facing a bus stop for the same two lines, which seems to draw more people but fewer true characters than this chilly haven for commuters. However, the general feeling of this particular structure is a tad ghetto.
I didn’t really predict that coming into it, I just figured it would be similar to the average Western Avenue bus stop; lots of college kids, the occasional hobo smoking a cigarette outside, you know, the usual.
It sure isn’t like a bus stop back home in Gloversville where all you see is alcoholics, crackheads, and me—maybe all I am is just a rough mix of the two? Gloversville will do it to you.
As far as comfort is concerned, this is really not the place for it. This bench isn’t bad for the first ten minutes, but I’m starting to get kind of sore.
I also feel a bit out of place being the only person who is not:
a.) wearing boots b.) wearing black
c.) naturally black d.) fluent in Ebonics
e.) all of the above
Stalkers and Chicken Wings.
However, I’m much more comfortable here than I was an hour ago, even if just because I’m the only thing constant here besides the discarded Dunkin’ Donuts bag to my right. It reminds me of being in a place that is a cross between Saratoga and Schenectady—classy globe light fixtures mixed with ten word conversations mumbled between drags of cheap cigarettes.
People have surrounded me almost the entire time as they waited for various buses. This is an unlikely place to meet people, but apparently it happens, whether it’s just observation or conversation. Sometimes these meetings are jewels, just for some raw snippet of what those around me are really like. For example this dialogue between a woman whom I’ll call Clunker, based on the noise she made plopping down next to me, and a man who came in about five minutes later who I’ll call Colonel Sanders.
Sanders: You waiting for the bus?
Clunker: Yeah. What’s for dinner?
Sanders: If you come over I’ll cook ya some chicken wings. Ya want some wings?
Clunker: Yes!
Sanders: Fo’ real?
Clunker: Yes.
Sanders: I wanna watch some movies.
Clunker: DVD, right?
Sanders: Got it all. DVD, VHS, TV. Everything.
She smiled and then they boarded and left. “I’ll cook ya some chicken wings” is my new favorite pickup line.
Not once has anyone come up to talk to me, I guess I must look too busy scribbling away in this notebook. I’m probably the crazy guy that I’m used to searching the streets for. Sitting somewhere and jotting down thoughts on a legal pad like a TV detective on speed. Yep. That’d be me.
Or maybe it’s because a dude with a notebook looks a tad sketchy. I definitely feel like a creep as I listen to people on the pay phone. The first is a lady with a leopard print hat who mumbles into the phone and I can’t understand a single word of it. She gets up soon after and walks back over to the phone. Again, I can tell the conversation and is rushed and probably important. She’s speaking like she’s afraid all of us are watching her. Probably because we are.
The next guy is more understandable but draws far less attention. Maybe because he doesn’t pretend to hide anything from us. He says: “Are you kidding me? I’ll be there in like five minutes. I’ll give you 10-15 minutes. Half hour? We’re on Pearl. We can be there in 10-15 minutes.” Click.
He makes another call: “Yo! What up? Chop Chop! You just drove by us. Alright.” Click. He and his friend walk out.
There have been a lot of people in wheelchairs. One man in a wheelchair with about a week of stubble and long gray hair seemed to have a really hard time climbing up the small slope toward Rite Aid and I wish I could disobey the rules of the sit-down and help him. As if someone could hear my thoughts, a man holds the door open for him and then pushes him into the store. There are still nice people left in the world.
This blind man walking down the street is impressive. He is wearing a suit and tie, and walks with his cane almost as fast as I do with my eyes open. It makes me wonder: does he have great senses that allow him to quickly navigate this busy street, or has he just done it so many times before that he’s memorized the whole route? I suppose I’ll never really know.
Another guy came in as the bus stop filled up in anticipation of the Number Six and started offering small manila bags to people for $5, asking if they needed “any”. There were at least two buyers but I have no idea what he’s selling. I’m guessing drugs, but maybe he’s a traveling—small paper bag salesman.
The Sights and Sounds of Rush Hour (minus Jackie Chan)
It’s busy right now. Cars, buses, and taxis whiz by; carrying people home from work as rush hour begins. My ears are filled with the sounds of traffic and people walking. Casual businessmen’s conversations, powerful bus-driven vibrations, and the small talk of the people surrounding me in the bus stop. I can see many different colors from where I sit. The stoic brick of the office complex across from me, the white sides of buses, the red, white, and blue of the Rite Aid logo, and the omnipresent black of the down jackets around me. It’s much darker and colder now that the sun has gone down. When I first sat down, I was still in the shadow of downtown buildings, but at least there was a beautiful blue sky above me. Now I’m freezing and it’s getting tough to continue using my hand to write this. Looking around for something to keep my fingers busy, I pick up a discarded Dunkin’ Donuts cup. Too bad it’s cold. And empty, not that I’d drink anything I found on an Albany street. It’d just be nice to have a tangible trace of someone else’s experience between my frozen fingers. It makes me really want some coffee right now. I wonder if I’m breaking the rules if I do it just to warm my hands up.
A businessman walks by looking angry. Walking fast like he wants to avoid this stop and all of its occupants. It makes me feel kind of bad for sitting here. Maybe I’m bad for thinking that he sees us as lower individuals than him. Then again, it’s kind of cool I’m included in a group that he has an opinion about and I haven’t even had to say a word. Sometimes placement makes all the difference in the world.
Arbor Hill bus shows up. I’m all alone now.
WHY do I have the song from Reading Rainbow stuck in my head!? Levar! How could you do this to me?
23 minutes to go and I can’t feel my toes.
The sun is leaving me and the streetlights are all on. I feel like I’m in the beginning of an Arthur Miller play as 5 o’clock rolls around and businesspeople leave their imposing towers behind them.
For people all up and down the East Coast, it’s now the weekend!
Can’t feel my left big toe. That’s probably a bad sign. That’s the price you pay for doing things the creative non-fiction way.
This is a completely different road once the sun goes down. I love the neons, the reds and blues. Pizza joints, bagel shops and bars; this is where Albany comes alive. The smell of cigarettes, spit, garbage and exhaust with a slight hint of Mr. Boston vodka fill the air around me. This is what it feels like to be alive in the heart of banAlbany.
Somebody’s laughing but it sounds like tears to me.
Learning A New Language: Star-"Bucks"
Title: Learning a new language: Star- “Bucks”
Name of Place Visited: Starbucks
Street Address: 10 North Pearl Street
Date: 28 January 2008 at 2PM
I am in Starbucks in downtown Albany. I nick name this place “Bucks”; they make so much money here. Nothing is next door but a big glass window, but there is an ATM; how convenient. Across the street are a few banks and many busy business people. The neighborhood seems nice. It’s the prime part of Albany, the place to be. However, I feel uncomfortable and as this hour goes on I am not any more comfortable. It’s not the location of “Bucks” that makes me feel uncomfortable, but more the idea. There are so many faces coming and going; the energy I get from these customers seems uneasy. It seems like there having bad days; maybe they have a severe case of the Mondays. Hey, what better way to fix that than with a coffee? There lives are so hectic, why not just sit down and really enjoy that coffee?
These surroundings remind me of my old apartment. I used to live about two (maybe three) blocks up from this coffee store, and my fiancé and I would walk down here and get coffee a lot. The neither area nor “Bucks” has changed that much; but that still does not help with my comfort level.
I am alone and no one is really near me. There are not too many places to sit down in here; most of the people are just standing in line. Most of these people are customers if not workers. I can see pedestrians walking the streets; maybe going to there job or running from it. No one has talked to me, but than again, no one really talks to anyone. A few people have looked at me, maybe wondering what I am doing sitting here by myself on a Monday afternoon looking around at everyone. One male customer is tall, maybe mid-fiftes, brown coat, balding, glasses. There are two workers, both women. One is a little on the chunky side, black tee-shirt, black hair, nice complexion; personally I think there uniforms are not that bad, they look kind of comfy. The other is a skinny girl, brown hair, tall, black tee-shirt. None of these people remind me of myself. They are too busy and I would never work at a Starbucks. How do these employees remember all of this? It sounds like another language. “Can I have a non-fat grande mocha macchiato skip the wip extra splenda…oh no wait, make it caramel.” It sound say on all applications for this job: “Are you prepared to learn another language?”
I see a lot of dark colors, brown, and black mainly; earth tone. Besides these colors, all I see are starbucks coffee cups. Some big, some small, some see through, some white, some red. Some have green straws, some have white. There is a piece of a wrapper on the ground; it’s from a straw and it’s white.
I’m sitting by a window, that makes it bright, but the lightens is a little dim. I’m fairly warm. All I smell is coffee; however I do see some food. Mmmm, that makes me hungry. There potions for there desserts are really big. Why would you get a tall coffee with a extra giant sized brownie? I hope you plain to attend the gym later. All I hear is music, relaxing music at the moment; but nothing I’ve ever heard. This reminds me of the Starbucks at The College of St. Rose; but then again I guess most “Bucks” look the same. They speak another language at St. Rose’s Starbucks too.
Name of Place Visited: Starbucks
Street Address: 10 North Pearl Street
Date: 28 January 2008 at 2PM
I am in Starbucks in downtown Albany. I nick name this place “Bucks”; they make so much money here. Nothing is next door but a big glass window, but there is an ATM; how convenient. Across the street are a few banks and many busy business people. The neighborhood seems nice. It’s the prime part of Albany, the place to be. However, I feel uncomfortable and as this hour goes on I am not any more comfortable. It’s not the location of “Bucks” that makes me feel uncomfortable, but more the idea. There are so many faces coming and going; the energy I get from these customers seems uneasy. It seems like there having bad days; maybe they have a severe case of the Mondays. Hey, what better way to fix that than with a coffee? There lives are so hectic, why not just sit down and really enjoy that coffee?
These surroundings remind me of my old apartment. I used to live about two (maybe three) blocks up from this coffee store, and my fiancé and I would walk down here and get coffee a lot. The neither area nor “Bucks” has changed that much; but that still does not help with my comfort level.
I am alone and no one is really near me. There are not too many places to sit down in here; most of the people are just standing in line. Most of these people are customers if not workers. I can see pedestrians walking the streets; maybe going to there job or running from it. No one has talked to me, but than again, no one really talks to anyone. A few people have looked at me, maybe wondering what I am doing sitting here by myself on a Monday afternoon looking around at everyone. One male customer is tall, maybe mid-fiftes, brown coat, balding, glasses. There are two workers, both women. One is a little on the chunky side, black tee-shirt, black hair, nice complexion; personally I think there uniforms are not that bad, they look kind of comfy. The other is a skinny girl, brown hair, tall, black tee-shirt. None of these people remind me of myself. They are too busy and I would never work at a Starbucks. How do these employees remember all of this? It sounds like another language. “Can I have a non-fat grande mocha macchiato skip the wip extra splenda…oh no wait, make it caramel.” It sound say on all applications for this job: “Are you prepared to learn another language?”
I see a lot of dark colors, brown, and black mainly; earth tone. Besides these colors, all I see are starbucks coffee cups. Some big, some small, some see through, some white, some red. Some have green straws, some have white. There is a piece of a wrapper on the ground; it’s from a straw and it’s white.
I’m sitting by a window, that makes it bright, but the lightens is a little dim. I’m fairly warm. All I smell is coffee; however I do see some food. Mmmm, that makes me hungry. There potions for there desserts are really big. Why would you get a tall coffee with a extra giant sized brownie? I hope you plain to attend the gym later. All I hear is music, relaxing music at the moment; but nothing I’ve ever heard. This reminds me of the Starbucks at The College of St. Rose; but then again I guess most “Bucks” look the same. They speak another language at St. Rose’s Starbucks too.
At Least I’m Not Freezing at Pee Wee Hockey
Name of Place Visited: Dunkin’ Donuts
Street Address: New Scotland Ave.
Date, Time of Day: Monday, 1/28 Noon-1:00
Inspired by the great commercial where people sing about “freezing at pee wee hockey” until a guy arrives with hot chocolate, I arrive at the Dunkin’ Donuts located across the street from St. Peter’s Hospital on New Scotland Ave. I park my car in the small parking lot located in the front of the store and head inside. From the table I’m sitting at I can see the parking lot. Rather than walls there are large glass windows that let you see everything outside. Behind me and to my right is Andy’s Place, a bar and restaurant. To the left of the Dunkin’ Donuts (if you’re walking out of the building) is a Mr. Subb. It’s in a very busy neighborhood due to the hospital across the street that also has multiple construction projects going on. I’m very comfortable here, I come here occasionally to get lunch or breakfast so it’s not foreign to me at all. I had a bacon egg and cheese on a plain toasted bagel, a boston cream donut and a hot chocolate as I took my notes.
There is a middle aged man working on laptop with his briefcase and jacket on the chair to his right. He is busily typing away on something as he sits under an advertisement for “new oven toasted hash browns.”
An older couple sits at the table to my right. They have a box of munchkins, coffee, and are splitting a sandwich on a croissant. The old man is cutting the sandwich in half. Both are wearing sunglasses.
Two men walk in wearing Yankees hats. One is tall wearing a dark yellow hoodie and Yankee cap backwards. The other is shorter with a blue t-shirt with gray long sleeve shirt underneath, Yankee cap forward. Young female employee shamelessly flirts with them. They sit down directly in front of me. One in blue t-shirt has back to me. Shirt says “Perfection Roofing.” Talk about high standards.
Older couple finishes sandwich and open box of munchkins. Still haven’t removed sunglasses.
The two men in Yankee caps are trying those advertised hash browns. I'm sticking with my boston cream.
I accidentally make eye contact with the old man, at least I think. You never know with those sunglasses. I play it off as looking out the window.
Young female employee continues to flirt with men in Yankee caps who seem very amused and answer with a lot of “yeps” and chuckles. I discover the man in the dark yellow hoodie is named Tom, but she insists on calling him Tommy. He doesn’t seem to notice.
Laptop guy is still working hard on an e-mail. Adjusts glasses for a moment then goes back to typing. I wonder if this is what he really wants to be doing right now. I know I’d rather be watching a baseball game or in a pool in the summer time.
Old man goes to the bathroom, old lady now has munchkins to herself. Will she take advantage?
I have to give it to this female employee, she’s resilient. She asks the men if they have My Space. The taller man mumbles and the employee calls him a “dumbass.” Shorter man says he has a My Space as she plays with her blonde pony tail and turns her attention to him. I wonder if these guys come in here often. Chances are a job they’re doing would take more then one day. Maybe this isn’t shameless flirting, but a budding friendship. God, I’m getting sappy.
I debate whether “MySpace” is spelled as one word or two separate words. I feel like a 40-year-old man who has fallen out of touch with pop culture. I wonder if the old couple even know what MySpace is. I bet laptop guy has one.
Old man returns, the old lady never took advantage of the defenseless box of munchkins. Old man comments a half of sandwich was all he wanted and old lady agrees. I hope I never get to the point where half of a sandwich is all I need.
Another female employee, this one a little older then the first with brown hair, joins the other employee in flirting. She decides flirting in Spanish would be effective. I wonder why I’m not getting any attention. Maybe I should wear a more revealing shirt next time, or not shave so I have the rugged look going on.
Young man with bear and long brown hair sits at table under “Triple Chocolate Muffin” ad with Green Tea and coffee. Has a tattoo on forearm just above his wrist, try to see what it is when he gets his sandwich, but I can’t tell.
Two men in Yankee caps leave without saying good-bye to female employee. Possibly trying to sneak out? That’d be kind of sad actually. Amusing, but sad.
So that young man with long brown hair had a beard, not a bear. That’s be freaking crazy though if he had a bear. Talk about spicin’ up your Monday. “Hi, could I get a hot chocolate and HOLY SHIT A BEAR!” I don’t get why these things run through my head either.
Older couple gets up to leave. Old man grabs box of munchkins, his coffee and the garbage. He throws out the garbage when they walk by the garbage can. I wonder if they’ll take off their sunglasses when they get home.
It’s probably better that guy didn’t have a bear with him. If the old couple could barely handle a half of sandwich, imagine what would happen if they saw a bear walking into Dunkin’ Donuts. Of course I would panic too and at least they would have sunglasses on so they could look somewhat cool.
Laptop guy gets up to throw out coffee cup, his chair makes an screech worse then nails on a chalkboard when he gets up. I make eye contact after my reaction to the screech and he gives me an I Don’t Give a Shit look. After brushing off his shirt and butt, he throws out his cup, comes back to gather up his laptop into his briefcase and goes to the bathroom. His planner is left open with his cell phone sitting on it in the middle of the table. I bet laptop guy wouldn’t have even flinched at the bear. He would probably just screech his chair, give the bear a look until it cowered, then typed an e-mail to his boss telling him how he scared a bear and deserves a raise. I could use a raise too come to think about it.
Laptop guy returns, I notice an ink stain on the sleeve of his white dress shirt. I wonder if he’s noticed yet. If he hasn’t he looks like the type that would be somewhat annoyed by that. He brushes the crumbs off his navy blue dress jacket and puts it on. Puts briefcase around his chest. He drops his cell phone when he picks up the planner. He remains calm by drawing it out from under the table with his foot, picks it up, dusts it off and blows crumbs off it and walks out of the D&D’s in the direction of St. Peter’s Hospital. The bear wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Female employee who was flirting stands in corner behind me and to my left covering her face and leaning on the window. Mondays do that to me too.
Employee removes hand from face and stares into space, there are no customers in line for the first time since I’ve arrived. I wonder if she’s thinking about those roofing guys in the Yankee caps. I bet she would have used the bear to her advantage so the men could protect her. Smart girl.
Another employee comes over and they have a short conversation about Rhianna. Only male employee sits behind cash register looking out front window. He must not be a Rhianna fan. His facial expression looks like he could be standing in the rain under his umbrella (ella, ella). Okay, I admit it that was a stretch.
As much as I didn’t think I had anything in common with the people I saw today, we might all be more linked then I thought. Most people have flirted shamelessly only to be shot down before. We’ve all had days where we spend far to much time on a laptop for work and end up being in an annoyed mood, especially if we get an ink stain on us in the process. And if the worst thing that happens to me when I get old is only having the ability to eat half a sandwich while wearing sunglasses in doors, well it could be worse. It was pretty sunny out anyways.
Maybe we’ll meet again at a Pee Wee Hockey game. Laptop guy will be there, without his laptop because he’s watching his boy play goalie for the Bears. The old couple will watch their grandson play center for the Bears while they split a muffin and wear sunglasses because the light is shining to brightly off the ice. The female employee will be there with her boyfriend, the other male employee who she chose after realizing the Perfect Roofing guys cared more about roofing then being in a relationship. Plus the male employee had a sweet MySpace. They’ll be listenting to Rhianna on their iPod after the female employee convinces the male employee that Rhianna does have at least one good song. And then there will be me, sitting there with my hot chocolate taking notes on what everyone is doing at a Pee Wee Hockey because that’s what English majors due. I’ll be wearing a more revealing outfit this time in case one of the employees at the hockey rink felt compelled to shamelessly flirt. In the end, we’ll all be freezing at Pee Wee Hockey.
God, that was a sappy ending.
Street Address: New Scotland Ave.
Date, Time of Day: Monday, 1/28 Noon-1:00
Inspired by the great commercial where people sing about “freezing at pee wee hockey” until a guy arrives with hot chocolate, I arrive at the Dunkin’ Donuts located across the street from St. Peter’s Hospital on New Scotland Ave. I park my car in the small parking lot located in the front of the store and head inside. From the table I’m sitting at I can see the parking lot. Rather than walls there are large glass windows that let you see everything outside. Behind me and to my right is Andy’s Place, a bar and restaurant. To the left of the Dunkin’ Donuts (if you’re walking out of the building) is a Mr. Subb. It’s in a very busy neighborhood due to the hospital across the street that also has multiple construction projects going on. I’m very comfortable here, I come here occasionally to get lunch or breakfast so it’s not foreign to me at all. I had a bacon egg and cheese on a plain toasted bagel, a boston cream donut and a hot chocolate as I took my notes.
There is a middle aged man working on laptop with his briefcase and jacket on the chair to his right. He is busily typing away on something as he sits under an advertisement for “new oven toasted hash browns.”
An older couple sits at the table to my right. They have a box of munchkins, coffee, and are splitting a sandwich on a croissant. The old man is cutting the sandwich in half. Both are wearing sunglasses.
Two men walk in wearing Yankees hats. One is tall wearing a dark yellow hoodie and Yankee cap backwards. The other is shorter with a blue t-shirt with gray long sleeve shirt underneath, Yankee cap forward. Young female employee shamelessly flirts with them. They sit down directly in front of me. One in blue t-shirt has back to me. Shirt says “Perfection Roofing.” Talk about high standards.
Older couple finishes sandwich and open box of munchkins. Still haven’t removed sunglasses.
The two men in Yankee caps are trying those advertised hash browns. I'm sticking with my boston cream.
I accidentally make eye contact with the old man, at least I think. You never know with those sunglasses. I play it off as looking out the window.
Young female employee continues to flirt with men in Yankee caps who seem very amused and answer with a lot of “yeps” and chuckles. I discover the man in the dark yellow hoodie is named Tom, but she insists on calling him Tommy. He doesn’t seem to notice.
Laptop guy is still working hard on an e-mail. Adjusts glasses for a moment then goes back to typing. I wonder if this is what he really wants to be doing right now. I know I’d rather be watching a baseball game or in a pool in the summer time.
Old man goes to the bathroom, old lady now has munchkins to herself. Will she take advantage?
I have to give it to this female employee, she’s resilient. She asks the men if they have My Space. The taller man mumbles and the employee calls him a “dumbass.” Shorter man says he has a My Space as she plays with her blonde pony tail and turns her attention to him. I wonder if these guys come in here often. Chances are a job they’re doing would take more then one day. Maybe this isn’t shameless flirting, but a budding friendship. God, I’m getting sappy.
I debate whether “MySpace” is spelled as one word or two separate words. I feel like a 40-year-old man who has fallen out of touch with pop culture. I wonder if the old couple even know what MySpace is. I bet laptop guy has one.
Old man returns, the old lady never took advantage of the defenseless box of munchkins. Old man comments a half of sandwich was all he wanted and old lady agrees. I hope I never get to the point where half of a sandwich is all I need.
Another female employee, this one a little older then the first with brown hair, joins the other employee in flirting. She decides flirting in Spanish would be effective. I wonder why I’m not getting any attention. Maybe I should wear a more revealing shirt next time, or not shave so I have the rugged look going on.
Young man with bear and long brown hair sits at table under “Triple Chocolate Muffin” ad with Green Tea and coffee. Has a tattoo on forearm just above his wrist, try to see what it is when he gets his sandwich, but I can’t tell.
Two men in Yankee caps leave without saying good-bye to female employee. Possibly trying to sneak out? That’d be kind of sad actually. Amusing, but sad.
So that young man with long brown hair had a beard, not a bear. That’s be freaking crazy though if he had a bear. Talk about spicin’ up your Monday. “Hi, could I get a hot chocolate and HOLY SHIT A BEAR!” I don’t get why these things run through my head either.
Older couple gets up to leave. Old man grabs box of munchkins, his coffee and the garbage. He throws out the garbage when they walk by the garbage can. I wonder if they’ll take off their sunglasses when they get home.
It’s probably better that guy didn’t have a bear with him. If the old couple could barely handle a half of sandwich, imagine what would happen if they saw a bear walking into Dunkin’ Donuts. Of course I would panic too and at least they would have sunglasses on so they could look somewhat cool.
Laptop guy gets up to throw out coffee cup, his chair makes an screech worse then nails on a chalkboard when he gets up. I make eye contact after my reaction to the screech and he gives me an I Don’t Give a Shit look. After brushing off his shirt and butt, he throws out his cup, comes back to gather up his laptop into his briefcase and goes to the bathroom. His planner is left open with his cell phone sitting on it in the middle of the table. I bet laptop guy wouldn’t have even flinched at the bear. He would probably just screech his chair, give the bear a look until it cowered, then typed an e-mail to his boss telling him how he scared a bear and deserves a raise. I could use a raise too come to think about it.
Laptop guy returns, I notice an ink stain on the sleeve of his white dress shirt. I wonder if he’s noticed yet. If he hasn’t he looks like the type that would be somewhat annoyed by that. He brushes the crumbs off his navy blue dress jacket and puts it on. Puts briefcase around his chest. He drops his cell phone when he picks up the planner. He remains calm by drawing it out from under the table with his foot, picks it up, dusts it off and blows crumbs off it and walks out of the D&D’s in the direction of St. Peter’s Hospital. The bear wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Female employee who was flirting stands in corner behind me and to my left covering her face and leaning on the window. Mondays do that to me too.
Employee removes hand from face and stares into space, there are no customers in line for the first time since I’ve arrived. I wonder if she’s thinking about those roofing guys in the Yankee caps. I bet she would have used the bear to her advantage so the men could protect her. Smart girl.
Another employee comes over and they have a short conversation about Rhianna. Only male employee sits behind cash register looking out front window. He must not be a Rhianna fan. His facial expression looks like he could be standing in the rain under his umbrella (ella, ella). Okay, I admit it that was a stretch.
As much as I didn’t think I had anything in common with the people I saw today, we might all be more linked then I thought. Most people have flirted shamelessly only to be shot down before. We’ve all had days where we spend far to much time on a laptop for work and end up being in an annoyed mood, especially if we get an ink stain on us in the process. And if the worst thing that happens to me when I get old is only having the ability to eat half a sandwich while wearing sunglasses in doors, well it could be worse. It was pretty sunny out anyways.
Maybe we’ll meet again at a Pee Wee Hockey game. Laptop guy will be there, without his laptop because he’s watching his boy play goalie for the Bears. The old couple will watch their grandson play center for the Bears while they split a muffin and wear sunglasses because the light is shining to brightly off the ice. The female employee will be there with her boyfriend, the other male employee who she chose after realizing the Perfect Roofing guys cared more about roofing then being in a relationship. Plus the male employee had a sweet MySpace. They’ll be listenting to Rhianna on their iPod after the female employee convinces the male employee that Rhianna does have at least one good song. And then there will be me, sitting there with my hot chocolate taking notes on what everyone is doing at a Pee Wee Hockey because that’s what English majors due. I’ll be wearing a more revealing outfit this time in case one of the employees at the hockey rink felt compelled to shamelessly flirt. In the end, we’ll all be freezing at Pee Wee Hockey.
God, that was a sappy ending.
'Cause You're Everywhere To Me
Feels like home.
I’m at the Muddy Cup on Madison Avenue. The furniture feels very home-y to me. Nothing looks like it’s mandated by corporate to match, but somehow it all works. The Madison Theatre is right next door, and there are renovations being done on the empty space on the other side of the Muddy Cup. CVS is also on the corner. I used to live right around the corner on South Main so to me it’s a pretty safe neighborhood, right down the street from Saint Rose. I used to come here a lot with my old housemate, Lyndsay, when I first moved to Albany in the fall of 2005. I also used to come here before I turned 21 and couldn’t get into bars. I would come with either my roommate Ashley and her boyfriend and play Taboo drunk, or drag Lyndsay with me.
It’s a comfortable place, and I became more comfortable, although I wish I didn’t sit by the door because the draft from the it opening and closing makes me cold. The couch I’m sitting on is also kind of in the middle of the room so it makes it hard to see everything that’s going on. The couches remind me of the one in my apartment, which used to belong to Ashley’s grandma. It also reminds me of Napoleon Dynamite’s couch.
Excuse me, do I know you?
Karen from class is here also doing this assignment. She is wearing black, has her hair in a ponytail and is wearing glasses. It looks like she had a bagel and a Life Water, either the red or pink kind.
It’s quiet at first, but then a few people that know The Coffee Guy come in and they start talking. They talk about jazz and movies. The Coffee Guy looks like he’s in his 20s, wears a black sweatshirt, a cap, and thick black glasses. He seems very friendly and jokes around with his friends when they come in. “Don’t make me kill you!” “Liar!” The Coffee Guy and his friend talk about a movie scene. They say, “Déjà vu. Vu jade, this has never happened before.” I experience both of these things while I sit here.
There’s a guy in the window reading what looks like a manuscript. He’s wearing a black coat, black jeans, has glasses and a beard. Watching Window Guy #1 also made me think of the time I came here with Dee last spring. She talked to me about the stupid Ash/Drew/Dee triangle drama shit. I pretended to care but already knew the true story from Ash.
There’s another guy in window #2 on a laptop wearing glasses. He goes outside for a smoke. When he comes back in the smell makes me want to sneeze.
Two more people come in, both girls, and one introduces the other to her friend Shawn/Sean. He looks like a Sean, and also looks like my friend’s friend Dave.
A guy walks in and from behind he reminds me of another guy that I’ve seen on campus recently. I don’t know Campus Guy but whenever I see him we always meet eyes. I find this strange because I usually don’t make eye contact with strangers.
A woman comes in and she’s wearing a green jacket, sneakers, jeans, glasses, and NY Giants earmuffs. She looks very familiar, maybe someone else I’ve seen on campus. She has short hair and is wearing earrings. She orders a coffee and a cookie, sits down for a minute, and then gets up to get a paper to read. A while later another woman comes in and sits with Familiar-Looking Woman. She’s wearing dress clothes, clicky heels, black patent leather. They talk about school.
Window Guy # 1 leaves and is replaced by a woman. She has red hair, wears a scarf, green vest with an orange button down, jeans which are too short, and hiking shoes. She gets a water… in a coffee shop.
The guy that was on the gold couch left his drink on the table half full, the lid is off and to the side of the cup. How strange.
Two new people come in: a couple, and sit on the gold couch across from me. She sits in the green chair at the end of the gold couch. She is the only person in this hour that looks at me, and more than once. I think I make her nervous.
What I Sense
It’s very red. The walls are red, and there are paintings on the walls that have a lot of red incorporated in them. The furniture is either gold or green, and there are other random wooden chairs and tables around. It’s fairly lit, not too dark, but not too bright considering the front is all window.
I’m kind of cold, which could be from the concrete floors, ceiling fans, or the AC. I know part of it is from the cold air from people coming through the door. The only thing I pick up is my coffee, which practically burnt the skin off my hand. I touch the couch and it doesn’t feel like I think it should. When I sat down I sunk in practically to the floor because the couch is very soft and squishy. When I touch it, the fabric feels kind of rough and scratchy.
At first I can smell the perfume Burberry. Later on I smell bagels cooking, and shampoo, possibly Herbal Essence. There are a few workers that come in who I assume to be working on the space next door. They smell like sweaty, sawdusty guy. Something else smells kind of old, maybe damp, and I think it’s the furniture because it looks old, and lots of people sit here. I’m not a germaphobe or anything, but thinking about all the people who sit here makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. I think about strange things though. Like, whenever I go to Yankee Candle and put votives up to my nose I always wonder how many noses it has already touched. Gross.
People are chatting quietly to each other. There’s also the sound of the refrigerator running, the AC buzzing, the espresso machine, and the clanking of dishes. I can hear people typing on computers and shuffling papers and adjusting in the seats. There’s music playing, sounds like Regina Spektor at first, then Ben Folds “Rocking the Suburbs,” Weezer, and Bjork. I can hear the cash register, the sound of the door opening and closing. I hear a squeak, maybe tires from a car outside. I can hear the traffic, and the sound of fire engines and a horn. The phone rings. The sound of the espresso machine, or of The Coffee Guy steaming milk reminds me of Molly from high school and the time she worked at Burdick’s Cafe. She came over to Meg’s house one time with steamed milk and honey, she said it was her own concoction. I never liked her.
I’m at the Muddy Cup on Madison Avenue. The furniture feels very home-y to me. Nothing looks like it’s mandated by corporate to match, but somehow it all works. The Madison Theatre is right next door, and there are renovations being done on the empty space on the other side of the Muddy Cup. CVS is also on the corner. I used to live right around the corner on South Main so to me it’s a pretty safe neighborhood, right down the street from Saint Rose. I used to come here a lot with my old housemate, Lyndsay, when I first moved to Albany in the fall of 2005. I also used to come here before I turned 21 and couldn’t get into bars. I would come with either my roommate Ashley and her boyfriend and play Taboo drunk, or drag Lyndsay with me.
It’s a comfortable place, and I became more comfortable, although I wish I didn’t sit by the door because the draft from the it opening and closing makes me cold. The couch I’m sitting on is also kind of in the middle of the room so it makes it hard to see everything that’s going on. The couches remind me of the one in my apartment, which used to belong to Ashley’s grandma. It also reminds me of Napoleon Dynamite’s couch.
Excuse me, do I know you?
Karen from class is here also doing this assignment. She is wearing black, has her hair in a ponytail and is wearing glasses. It looks like she had a bagel and a Life Water, either the red or pink kind.
It’s quiet at first, but then a few people that know The Coffee Guy come in and they start talking. They talk about jazz and movies. The Coffee Guy looks like he’s in his 20s, wears a black sweatshirt, a cap, and thick black glasses. He seems very friendly and jokes around with his friends when they come in. “Don’t make me kill you!” “Liar!” The Coffee Guy and his friend talk about a movie scene. They say, “Déjà vu. Vu jade, this has never happened before.” I experience both of these things while I sit here.
There’s a guy in the window reading what looks like a manuscript. He’s wearing a black coat, black jeans, has glasses and a beard. Watching Window Guy #1 also made me think of the time I came here with Dee last spring. She talked to me about the stupid Ash/Drew/Dee triangle drama shit. I pretended to care but already knew the true story from Ash.
There’s another guy in window #2 on a laptop wearing glasses. He goes outside for a smoke. When he comes back in the smell makes me want to sneeze.
Two more people come in, both girls, and one introduces the other to her friend Shawn/Sean. He looks like a Sean, and also looks like my friend’s friend Dave.
A guy walks in and from behind he reminds me of another guy that I’ve seen on campus recently. I don’t know Campus Guy but whenever I see him we always meet eyes. I find this strange because I usually don’t make eye contact with strangers.
A woman comes in and she’s wearing a green jacket, sneakers, jeans, glasses, and NY Giants earmuffs. She looks very familiar, maybe someone else I’ve seen on campus. She has short hair and is wearing earrings. She orders a coffee and a cookie, sits down for a minute, and then gets up to get a paper to read. A while later another woman comes in and sits with Familiar-Looking Woman. She’s wearing dress clothes, clicky heels, black patent leather. They talk about school.
Window Guy # 1 leaves and is replaced by a woman. She has red hair, wears a scarf, green vest with an orange button down, jeans which are too short, and hiking shoes. She gets a water… in a coffee shop.
The guy that was on the gold couch left his drink on the table half full, the lid is off and to the side of the cup. How strange.
Two new people come in: a couple, and sit on the gold couch across from me. She sits in the green chair at the end of the gold couch. She is the only person in this hour that looks at me, and more than once. I think I make her nervous.
What I Sense
It’s very red. The walls are red, and there are paintings on the walls that have a lot of red incorporated in them. The furniture is either gold or green, and there are other random wooden chairs and tables around. It’s fairly lit, not too dark, but not too bright considering the front is all window.
I’m kind of cold, which could be from the concrete floors, ceiling fans, or the AC. I know part of it is from the cold air from people coming through the door. The only thing I pick up is my coffee, which practically burnt the skin off my hand. I touch the couch and it doesn’t feel like I think it should. When I sat down I sunk in practically to the floor because the couch is very soft and squishy. When I touch it, the fabric feels kind of rough and scratchy.
At first I can smell the perfume Burberry. Later on I smell bagels cooking, and shampoo, possibly Herbal Essence. There are a few workers that come in who I assume to be working on the space next door. They smell like sweaty, sawdusty guy. Something else smells kind of old, maybe damp, and I think it’s the furniture because it looks old, and lots of people sit here. I’m not a germaphobe or anything, but thinking about all the people who sit here makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. I think about strange things though. Like, whenever I go to Yankee Candle and put votives up to my nose I always wonder how many noses it has already touched. Gross.
People are chatting quietly to each other. There’s also the sound of the refrigerator running, the AC buzzing, the espresso machine, and the clanking of dishes. I can hear people typing on computers and shuffling papers and adjusting in the seats. There’s music playing, sounds like Regina Spektor at first, then Ben Folds “Rocking the Suburbs,” Weezer, and Bjork. I can hear the cash register, the sound of the door opening and closing. I hear a squeak, maybe tires from a car outside. I can hear the traffic, and the sound of fire engines and a horn. The phone rings. The sound of the espresso machine, or of The Coffee Guy steaming milk reminds me of Molly from high school and the time she worked at Burdick’s Cafe. She came over to Meg’s house one time with steamed milk and honey, she said it was her own concoction. I never liked her.
Peking Restaurant has it all, Even a Cat
Location, Location, Location
I hate eating lunch alone because it reminds me of being in Texas, where I was born. My parents decided to live there after serving in the Army. I used to eat lunch alone at school because I was the brown girl. So I’m not a huge fan of this solitary exercise.
I’m in Peking Restaurant, which doubles as a bar called Alibi’s Martini Lounge. I believe this because as soon as I walk in the door, there’s a bar to the left of me, that’s not in service, and a bar in a room to my right. I’m seated in the restaurant area, at the end of a long wall booth; brown, black and cranberry pieces alternate, under a sky light. A round red paper lantern hangs under the skylight. The wood of the table is dark brown, a shade above mahogany. The menu is standard; it has pages covered with plastic and green binding whose corners have metal protectors. The place smells like fried Chinese food, and I couldn’t be hungrier.
I feel pretty comfortable about my surroundings, despite raising the body count to three. The place is a virtual ghost-town. Its location makes Chinese food a much better option than the Quiznos that replaced the Camelot Room at St. Rose.
I see a lot of red, but that’s the cranberry in the wall booth pattern that catches my eye. The carpet of the floor is tiger print, the same shade as the black and brown of the booth. I kind of like that the restaurant isn’t that bright. The only light coming in is the light from outside.
There are no harsh fluorescent lights. The restaurant area is kind of chilly; I should have worn a thicker sweater. The music is faint, but I can tell it’s a singer I should know, like Billie Holiday.
Body Count
I’m ushered to a seat by an elderly Asian woman. She’s got on a tan shirt with black pants. Other than that, the only other person I see is a young Asian woman in her twenties, in a maroon shirt and black slacks. Her brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail.
There’s also a cat. I’m a little confused because this beautiful white cat, with grey patches and pale green eyes, is staring at me. I feel compelled to pet it, but the cat concerns me. Now, I’m no health code expert, but I feel as though its presence in the restaurant is wrong. Making dinner at home with my dog on the couch? Not a huge deal.
Having a pet at a restaurant where strangers are being served, doesn’t seem right. The old woman is kind but assertive. “You sit here,” she says. The young woman is soft-spoken, she’s sometimes barely audible. I can hear men randomly shouting what I assume to be Chinese in the kitchen.
Get in my Belly
I order the shrimp and vegetable tempura lunchbox, ($10.99). It comes with miso soup. The bowl is olive green, with brown dots here and there. The spoon is like miniature bowl; it’s a white ladle. With every bite, I feel like I’m dumping soup down my throat. The spoon is smooth, not as light a feather but lighter than a metal spoon. Miso soup has a thin broth with scallions, seaweed, and tofu chucks at the bottom of the bowl. I hear a bang and then the men in the kitchen talk.
My tempura is brought to me, and it smells like fried heaven. Vegetables and shrimp coated fried in a light batter; I can still see the outlines of what’s been coated. It comes with this thin brown sauce. When I ask the waitress what is in the sauce, she replies, “It’s tempura sauce.”
When I got home, I googled tempura sauce and discovered the ingredients are bouillon cube, soy sauce, sugar and ginger. I dip a fried carrot in it, and it’s good, the ginger neutralizes the salt and sugar. Other than that, there’s not a lot of people noise. One guy walks in, sits down and talks to the old woman. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but he seems like a regular.
Check Please
I leave a $6.00 tip because the waitress was really nice and attentive; I’d drink my water, she would have the cup filled before I set it down.
I’m still debating the cat. I don’t know if I can reconcile this concept in my head. On the one hand, it’s not up on the table pawing my food; but then again, it could be.
I hate eating lunch alone because it reminds me of being in Texas, where I was born. My parents decided to live there after serving in the Army. I used to eat lunch alone at school because I was the brown girl. So I’m not a huge fan of this solitary exercise.
I’m in Peking Restaurant, which doubles as a bar called Alibi’s Martini Lounge. I believe this because as soon as I walk in the door, there’s a bar to the left of me, that’s not in service, and a bar in a room to my right. I’m seated in the restaurant area, at the end of a long wall booth; brown, black and cranberry pieces alternate, under a sky light. A round red paper lantern hangs under the skylight. The wood of the table is dark brown, a shade above mahogany. The menu is standard; it has pages covered with plastic and green binding whose corners have metal protectors. The place smells like fried Chinese food, and I couldn’t be hungrier.
I feel pretty comfortable about my surroundings, despite raising the body count to three. The place is a virtual ghost-town. Its location makes Chinese food a much better option than the Quiznos that replaced the Camelot Room at St. Rose.
I see a lot of red, but that’s the cranberry in the wall booth pattern that catches my eye. The carpet of the floor is tiger print, the same shade as the black and brown of the booth. I kind of like that the restaurant isn’t that bright. The only light coming in is the light from outside.
There are no harsh fluorescent lights. The restaurant area is kind of chilly; I should have worn a thicker sweater. The music is faint, but I can tell it’s a singer I should know, like Billie Holiday.
Body Count
I’m ushered to a seat by an elderly Asian woman. She’s got on a tan shirt with black pants. Other than that, the only other person I see is a young Asian woman in her twenties, in a maroon shirt and black slacks. Her brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail.
There’s also a cat. I’m a little confused because this beautiful white cat, with grey patches and pale green eyes, is staring at me. I feel compelled to pet it, but the cat concerns me. Now, I’m no health code expert, but I feel as though its presence in the restaurant is wrong. Making dinner at home with my dog on the couch? Not a huge deal.
Having a pet at a restaurant where strangers are being served, doesn’t seem right. The old woman is kind but assertive. “You sit here,” she says. The young woman is soft-spoken, she’s sometimes barely audible. I can hear men randomly shouting what I assume to be Chinese in the kitchen.
Get in my Belly
I order the shrimp and vegetable tempura lunchbox, ($10.99). It comes with miso soup. The bowl is olive green, with brown dots here and there. The spoon is like miniature bowl; it’s a white ladle. With every bite, I feel like I’m dumping soup down my throat. The spoon is smooth, not as light a feather but lighter than a metal spoon. Miso soup has a thin broth with scallions, seaweed, and tofu chucks at the bottom of the bowl. I hear a bang and then the men in the kitchen talk.
My tempura is brought to me, and it smells like fried heaven. Vegetables and shrimp coated fried in a light batter; I can still see the outlines of what’s been coated. It comes with this thin brown sauce. When I ask the waitress what is in the sauce, she replies, “It’s tempura sauce.”
When I got home, I googled tempura sauce and discovered the ingredients are bouillon cube, soy sauce, sugar and ginger. I dip a fried carrot in it, and it’s good, the ginger neutralizes the salt and sugar. Other than that, there’s not a lot of people noise. One guy walks in, sits down and talks to the old woman. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but he seems like a regular.
Check Please
I leave a $6.00 tip because the waitress was really nice and attentive; I’d drink my water, she would have the cup filled before I set it down.
I’m still debating the cat. I don’t know if I can reconcile this concept in my head. On the one hand, it’s not up on the table pawing my food; but then again, it could be.
Coffee House Clichés: Comfort in a (Muddy) Cup
Name of Place Visited: Muddy Cup Coffee House
Street Address: 1038 Madison Avenue, Albany, NY
Date and Time: Tuesday, January 29, 2008 from 5:40pm - 6:40pm
*A Coffee House of One’s Own*
I had been attending The College of Saint Rose for about a year when I asked my visiting boyfriend to come with me to a place frequently mentioned by my classmates. The Muddy Cup Coffee House was a new experience for both of us: our hometown of Fonda, New York, is lacking in the coffee shop department as well as any real sense of cultural diversity. Hell, you have to cross the river into Fultonville if you want to get McDonald’s. That’s why I was excited, and a bit anxious, about going to school in a big city (by Fonda standards) like Albany. I would be exposed to urban society and live the college experience.
Situated between the Madison Theatre and Price Chopper on Madison Avenue, the Muddy Cup is right down the street from the St. Rose campus. While the neighborhood is far from glamorous, I wouldn’t call it rough; although the area has had its share of crime and security concerns. As a young female college student who has sat through way too many personal safety lectures, I don’t go wandering about by myself really late at night. But as long as I have my wits about me and keep a firm grip on my purse, I’m fine walking the few minutes from my dorm to the coffee shop after dark.
The inside of the Muddy Cup is much more inviting. In my mind, it is the quintessential coffee house of movies and TV shows: a place designed to entice intellectuals—writers, musicians, artists, poets, wi/fi junkies, college students and professors—and provide them with an environment in which they can hang out and be artsy and cool. Having now been here on several occasions to read, do homework, or relax with friends, I always drink in the guilty pleasure of acting like a typical English major just as much as I savor the shop’s delicious beverages. I know it’s horribly cliché for an English major to patronize a coffee shop, and maybe it’s a bit pompous to consider it a “home to intellectuals.” Of course, I’m not saying only these people belong in coffee shops; and the Muddy Cup certainly welcomes everyone. It’s just comforting and uplifting to find small space in a big world that allows me to feel like a stereotypical English major within its walls. Whenever I walk into the shop, I feel like I’m stepping into an atmosphere I have always known and that has always embraced me, my passions, and tastes.
*Sentimental Sensations*
Speaking of tastes, tonight I am sipping my favorite Muddy Cup concoction: Tiramisu Hot Chocolate. I pick the cup up off of the worn, wooden coffee table in front of me. The waxy cardboard is adorned with renderings of steaming coffee cups and swirling scripts that read “latte” or “cappuccino;” and it’s deep burgundy-wine background matches the interior paint splashed on the walls of the cavernous room. I touch the plastic lid, which is as black as the ceiling, to my lips, letting the sweet, velvety, warm liquid trickle down my throat. Sinking further into my sofa, I feel the covered buttons of the upper cushions push gently into my back. The couch is a large, L-shaped sectional covered in dingy, gold crushed-velvet that I’m sure was plush at one point. Even so, the fabric seems to rub against me as much as I rub against it.
My Grandma DeCicco (my father’s mother) has a sectional at her house upholstered in a material of similar texture, but hers also contains a pull-out bed. In elementary school, this bed welcomed my younger brother and me each Friday night when we slept over at her house. Like any Italian grandmother, she always prepares scrumptious food as an expression of her love and care for us.
I wonder if she would approve of my Muddy Cup hot chocolate; it’s definitely not the strong espresso—or “Italian coffee” as she phrases it—she serves with dessert. Nevertheless, I tilt my head back to collect the lingering drops amidst a residual deposit of thick, saccharine syrup at the bottom of the cup. A flexible floor lamp, placed behind the curve of the couch and positioned above my head, casts buttery column of light down into my eyes. Most of the generally dim coffee shop is illuminated in this manner: various pockets of light exist throughout the room due to the placement of lamps around various seating arrangements. The only other light enters through the large storefront windows from the street—the blaring pink neon of the Madison Theatre Marquee, glowing streetlamps that reveal the faces of ambling pedestrians, headlights of passing cars.
This set up reminds me of my late grandfather. Papa, my mother’s father, loved to read in a special, high-backed green armchair in the living room. He would sit there in total darkness except for the shaft of light beaming down from a hanging lamp he placed directly above. I like to think I inherited my love of reading from him, if none of his other innumerable, estimable qualities. Hopefully Papa would see something of himself in me, sitting here reading or writing, proud of the bookish person who used to curl up in his lap to listen to stories. I bet he would like this place, too; at the very least he’d be able to get a cup of his beloved coffee.
Cigarette smoke wafts through the room as customers enter through the front door of the Muddy Cup, reminding me of the reason why Papa will never join me on my gold couch. Bursts of ground coffee aromas also permeate my senses. However, a fresh, clean scent hangs in the air because the humming air conditioner circulates a refreshing breeze. Across the room, a woman with short, curly brown hair and glasses reads a magazine under the glow of a table lamp. She apparently feels a draft and hugs her coat around her. I’m usually cold all the time like she is, but tonight I feel oddly comfortable with the temperature in the room.
*Charms of the Customary*
Several other Muddy Cup patrons are sprinkled among the mismatched pieces of furniture. Three men working on laptops, all in their late 20s or early 30s, sit at a large table directly across from me in front of the coffee counter. Decked in camouflage, a young male college student sits near the windows, snacking on a bag of chips as he studies the notebooks and worksheets strewn across the surface of a table. A group of girls converse indistinctly above in the loft within the coffee shop.
Underneath this loft a man in his late 40s sits at a small dining room table with a big black briefcase. He wears a dark green pullover, dark shoes, and dark slacks. On top of his head is a very elegant, light brown bomber fur hat, something James Bond would wear on a ski mission/trip a la Roger Moore in The Spy Who Loved Me. He stops working for a moment, pulls out his cell phone, and goes outside the coffee shop to talk. I notice Fur-Man walks with a slight limp as he returns inside—which in James Bond movies is a telltale sign of villainy—and gets back to work, humming along to the music (no doubt his trademark idiosyncrasy). Even enemy spies enjoy the relaxing ambiance of the Muddy Cup.
A young African-American man in his late 20s enters wearing a sharp black business suit, complete with crisp white undershirt, shiny black shoes, and a pink-and-gray striped tie. Taking his coffee from the cashier, he walks across the room to a seat in the storefront window. Suit-Man props his feet up on a coffee table and listens to his iPod through earbud headphones. Soon he answers his ringing cell phone and speaks in a confident, carrying voice, about someone he met earlier today. Apparently it is a famous person who is a “cool man, looks better in person and is taller” than Suit-Man thought. My best guess is an athlete since Suit-Man mentions Iverson, Clemens, and the steroids scandal. I don’t catch the actual name because some of his conversation is drowned out by the drumming air conditioner. He reminds me of the typical business man caricatured in movies and TV: snazzy suits trying to work their way up the chain of command regardless of the cost. Maybe he comes here to revel and participate in the axioms of his career just like I do (if you consider being a college student another type of lifestyle, even if it’s a provisional one.)
Walking back to the large table in front of the counter, Suit-Man tells the Muddy Cup cashier, “One of my interns sells sex toys,” after he finishes on the phone.
It’s hard to discern the rest of that conversation and the cashier’s reaction to it. Surprisingly, there are lots of noises in a place I construe as a spot for rumination. Coffee machines whiz, blenders churn at high frequencies, people chatter. Music plays constantly over the speakers. The woman singing now reminds me of Norah Jones, though I know it isn’t her. It does make me reminisce of an evening this past summer when my boyfriend and I came to the Muddy Cup once again. We were pleased to discover an accordion player giving a free concert, covering such songs as the James Bond Theme (a request from Fur-Man?), the Star Wars Theme, selections from Muppet Movies, and even original compositions. While Matt, a mechanical engineering major, enjoyed the performance, I sensed that his technical mind found it a bit eccentric. At one point I just turned to him and smiled, knowing that for one night he glimpsed into my little world.
Street Address: 1038 Madison Avenue, Albany, NY
Date and Time: Tuesday, January 29, 2008 from 5:40pm - 6:40pm
*A Coffee House of One’s Own*
I had been attending The College of Saint Rose for about a year when I asked my visiting boyfriend to come with me to a place frequently mentioned by my classmates. The Muddy Cup Coffee House was a new experience for both of us: our hometown of Fonda, New York, is lacking in the coffee shop department as well as any real sense of cultural diversity. Hell, you have to cross the river into Fultonville if you want to get McDonald’s. That’s why I was excited, and a bit anxious, about going to school in a big city (by Fonda standards) like Albany. I would be exposed to urban society and live the college experience.
Situated between the Madison Theatre and Price Chopper on Madison Avenue, the Muddy Cup is right down the street from the St. Rose campus. While the neighborhood is far from glamorous, I wouldn’t call it rough; although the area has had its share of crime and security concerns. As a young female college student who has sat through way too many personal safety lectures, I don’t go wandering about by myself really late at night. But as long as I have my wits about me and keep a firm grip on my purse, I’m fine walking the few minutes from my dorm to the coffee shop after dark.
The inside of the Muddy Cup is much more inviting. In my mind, it is the quintessential coffee house of movies and TV shows: a place designed to entice intellectuals—writers, musicians, artists, poets, wi/fi junkies, college students and professors—and provide them with an environment in which they can hang out and be artsy and cool. Having now been here on several occasions to read, do homework, or relax with friends, I always drink in the guilty pleasure of acting like a typical English major just as much as I savor the shop’s delicious beverages. I know it’s horribly cliché for an English major to patronize a coffee shop, and maybe it’s a bit pompous to consider it a “home to intellectuals.” Of course, I’m not saying only these people belong in coffee shops; and the Muddy Cup certainly welcomes everyone. It’s just comforting and uplifting to find small space in a big world that allows me to feel like a stereotypical English major within its walls. Whenever I walk into the shop, I feel like I’m stepping into an atmosphere I have always known and that has always embraced me, my passions, and tastes.
*Sentimental Sensations*
Speaking of tastes, tonight I am sipping my favorite Muddy Cup concoction: Tiramisu Hot Chocolate. I pick the cup up off of the worn, wooden coffee table in front of me. The waxy cardboard is adorned with renderings of steaming coffee cups and swirling scripts that read “latte” or “cappuccino;” and it’s deep burgundy-wine background matches the interior paint splashed on the walls of the cavernous room. I touch the plastic lid, which is as black as the ceiling, to my lips, letting the sweet, velvety, warm liquid trickle down my throat. Sinking further into my sofa, I feel the covered buttons of the upper cushions push gently into my back. The couch is a large, L-shaped sectional covered in dingy, gold crushed-velvet that I’m sure was plush at one point. Even so, the fabric seems to rub against me as much as I rub against it.
My Grandma DeCicco (my father’s mother) has a sectional at her house upholstered in a material of similar texture, but hers also contains a pull-out bed. In elementary school, this bed welcomed my younger brother and me each Friday night when we slept over at her house. Like any Italian grandmother, she always prepares scrumptious food as an expression of her love and care for us.
I wonder if she would approve of my Muddy Cup hot chocolate; it’s definitely not the strong espresso—or “Italian coffee” as she phrases it—she serves with dessert. Nevertheless, I tilt my head back to collect the lingering drops amidst a residual deposit of thick, saccharine syrup at the bottom of the cup. A flexible floor lamp, placed behind the curve of the couch and positioned above my head, casts buttery column of light down into my eyes. Most of the generally dim coffee shop is illuminated in this manner: various pockets of light exist throughout the room due to the placement of lamps around various seating arrangements. The only other light enters through the large storefront windows from the street—the blaring pink neon of the Madison Theatre Marquee, glowing streetlamps that reveal the faces of ambling pedestrians, headlights of passing cars.
This set up reminds me of my late grandfather. Papa, my mother’s father, loved to read in a special, high-backed green armchair in the living room. He would sit there in total darkness except for the shaft of light beaming down from a hanging lamp he placed directly above. I like to think I inherited my love of reading from him, if none of his other innumerable, estimable qualities. Hopefully Papa would see something of himself in me, sitting here reading or writing, proud of the bookish person who used to curl up in his lap to listen to stories. I bet he would like this place, too; at the very least he’d be able to get a cup of his beloved coffee.
Cigarette smoke wafts through the room as customers enter through the front door of the Muddy Cup, reminding me of the reason why Papa will never join me on my gold couch. Bursts of ground coffee aromas also permeate my senses. However, a fresh, clean scent hangs in the air because the humming air conditioner circulates a refreshing breeze. Across the room, a woman with short, curly brown hair and glasses reads a magazine under the glow of a table lamp. She apparently feels a draft and hugs her coat around her. I’m usually cold all the time like she is, but tonight I feel oddly comfortable with the temperature in the room.
*Charms of the Customary*
Several other Muddy Cup patrons are sprinkled among the mismatched pieces of furniture. Three men working on laptops, all in their late 20s or early 30s, sit at a large table directly across from me in front of the coffee counter. Decked in camouflage, a young male college student sits near the windows, snacking on a bag of chips as he studies the notebooks and worksheets strewn across the surface of a table. A group of girls converse indistinctly above in the loft within the coffee shop.
Underneath this loft a man in his late 40s sits at a small dining room table with a big black briefcase. He wears a dark green pullover, dark shoes, and dark slacks. On top of his head is a very elegant, light brown bomber fur hat, something James Bond would wear on a ski mission/trip a la Roger Moore in The Spy Who Loved Me. He stops working for a moment, pulls out his cell phone, and goes outside the coffee shop to talk. I notice Fur-Man walks with a slight limp as he returns inside—which in James Bond movies is a telltale sign of villainy—and gets back to work, humming along to the music (no doubt his trademark idiosyncrasy). Even enemy spies enjoy the relaxing ambiance of the Muddy Cup.
A young African-American man in his late 20s enters wearing a sharp black business suit, complete with crisp white undershirt, shiny black shoes, and a pink-and-gray striped tie. Taking his coffee from the cashier, he walks across the room to a seat in the storefront window. Suit-Man props his feet up on a coffee table and listens to his iPod through earbud headphones. Soon he answers his ringing cell phone and speaks in a confident, carrying voice, about someone he met earlier today. Apparently it is a famous person who is a “cool man, looks better in person and is taller” than Suit-Man thought. My best guess is an athlete since Suit-Man mentions Iverson, Clemens, and the steroids scandal. I don’t catch the actual name because some of his conversation is drowned out by the drumming air conditioner. He reminds me of the typical business man caricatured in movies and TV: snazzy suits trying to work their way up the chain of command regardless of the cost. Maybe he comes here to revel and participate in the axioms of his career just like I do (if you consider being a college student another type of lifestyle, even if it’s a provisional one.)
Walking back to the large table in front of the counter, Suit-Man tells the Muddy Cup cashier, “One of my interns sells sex toys,” after he finishes on the phone.
It’s hard to discern the rest of that conversation and the cashier’s reaction to it. Surprisingly, there are lots of noises in a place I construe as a spot for rumination. Coffee machines whiz, blenders churn at high frequencies, people chatter. Music plays constantly over the speakers. The woman singing now reminds me of Norah Jones, though I know it isn’t her. It does make me reminisce of an evening this past summer when my boyfriend and I came to the Muddy Cup once again. We were pleased to discover an accordion player giving a free concert, covering such songs as the James Bond Theme (a request from Fur-Man?), the Star Wars Theme, selections from Muppet Movies, and even original compositions. While Matt, a mechanical engineering major, enjoyed the performance, I sensed that his technical mind found it a bit eccentric. At one point I just turned to him and smiled, knowing that for one night he glimpsed into my little world.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Stakeout
There is some kid on a skateboard with a green jacket. Don’t exactly understand why people ride skateboards to go where they’re going. Unless they’re going down hill. Last year there were kids in my dorm who would use long-boards, the mutant offspring of the skateboard and the surfboard, to travel to classes. Often times they would trip on the cracks on the poorly paved sidewalks, and I always got a good kick out of that. I don’t see much of them anymore, but I know one of the kids, Kyle, still uses his long-board from time to time.
One time I tried skateboarding. One time.
The kid dregged on slowly, and I watched him leave because not too much was happening while I was taking observational notes in front of Sage College. I had come across the school while following my self-induced convention; Walk in a straight line from my house for thirty minutes. Wherever I am when thirty minutes passes, I would know because I set my alarm, I would stop and record the events occurring for an hour.
I was so excited to cross Sage on my adventure that I stopped walking and waited for the alarm to go off before recording. If I had continued, I’d have happen upon a bus stop.
I should’ve kept walking. It was cold outside, and very cloudy. I think I was the only person outside, even though my roommate, Gaby, was sitting behind the Sage College brick sign listening to video game melodies, eating chips he had picked up from the nearby Mobile. I told him he didn’t have to hide behind the sign, but before we left I told him that I wasn’t allowed to interact with anybody while observing. He took the project more seriously than I did; whenever I made a crack about how shitty it was outside today, or how stupid I look doing this assignment, he would ignore me and keep eating his buffalo chicken/ blue cheese Doritos.
After the kid on the skateboard was out of sight I occupied my time by describing the oncoming vehicles. I felt guilty when I recorded some of their license plates. I felt even worse when some of the drivers looked at me as I stood alone outside, speaking into a recorder. I wanted to explain to them that it was a project! And I’m here with a friend! He’s sitting behind the sign. No, really, come over here and see for yourself.
I’m not scary, honest.
After thinking of how best to describe the vehicles, I thought the best thing to do was to compare the cars to different objects, since I know nothing about cars, and write down the slogans of company vehicles. I’m still laughing at the Herm Ungerman electrical company van. I wonder if that is someone’s name. I want to know a Herm Ungerman.
Other people walked by. They didn’t say anything, but they did walk by. I saw someone walk by twice; she was the lady with the pink hair, wearing army boots and pants with one of the pant legs tucked into the boots. The first time she walked by she was smoking, and she walked past me and across the street towards her apartment. Later on, she walked by again but I hadn’t noticed her come out of her house before.
One time I tried skateboarding. One time.
The kid dregged on slowly, and I watched him leave because not too much was happening while I was taking observational notes in front of Sage College. I had come across the school while following my self-induced convention; Walk in a straight line from my house for thirty minutes. Wherever I am when thirty minutes passes, I would know because I set my alarm, I would stop and record the events occurring for an hour.
I was so excited to cross Sage on my adventure that I stopped walking and waited for the alarm to go off before recording. If I had continued, I’d have happen upon a bus stop.
I should’ve kept walking. It was cold outside, and very cloudy. I think I was the only person outside, even though my roommate, Gaby, was sitting behind the Sage College brick sign listening to video game melodies, eating chips he had picked up from the nearby Mobile. I told him he didn’t have to hide behind the sign, but before we left I told him that I wasn’t allowed to interact with anybody while observing. He took the project more seriously than I did; whenever I made a crack about how shitty it was outside today, or how stupid I look doing this assignment, he would ignore me and keep eating his buffalo chicken/ blue cheese Doritos.
After the kid on the skateboard was out of sight I occupied my time by describing the oncoming vehicles. I felt guilty when I recorded some of their license plates. I felt even worse when some of the drivers looked at me as I stood alone outside, speaking into a recorder. I wanted to explain to them that it was a project! And I’m here with a friend! He’s sitting behind the sign. No, really, come over here and see for yourself.
I’m not scary, honest.
After thinking of how best to describe the vehicles, I thought the best thing to do was to compare the cars to different objects, since I know nothing about cars, and write down the slogans of company vehicles. I’m still laughing at the Herm Ungerman electrical company van. I wonder if that is someone’s name. I want to know a Herm Ungerman.
Other people walked by. They didn’t say anything, but they did walk by. I saw someone walk by twice; she was the lady with the pink hair, wearing army boots and pants with one of the pant legs tucked into the boots. The first time she walked by she was smoking, and she walked past me and across the street towards her apartment. Later on, she walked by again but I hadn’t noticed her come out of her house before.
I wondered why I hadn’t seen her come out of her house before. At first I felt bad because I was supposed to be observing everything in my vicinity and I missed this crucial moment happening. Then, my mind wandered and I started to invent some sort of conspiracy as to why I hadn’t seen her leave the apartment. She was wearing the army gear… it wouldn’t be far fetched to think she was some sort of spy, using her espionage techniques to get the upper hand on me.
She wouldn’t get out of my sight this time, until she looked at me and I would avert my attention elsewhere like a good spy would. She walked to the Mobil gas station and stayed inside for the rest of the time I was in front of Sage.
She wouldn’t get out of my sight this time, until she looked at me and I would avert my attention elsewhere like a good spy would. She walked to the Mobil gas station and stayed inside for the rest of the time I was in front of Sage.
Overheard and Overseen in Albany: Tales from a Confrontational Coffee Run
Muddy Cup Coffee House
Wednesday January 30, 2008: arrived at 6:58pm, left at 8:00pm
My hot chocolate has finally cooled enough so that I can start to drink it, and boy is it good—it tastes just like a melted milk chocolate bar, with a hint of creamy whipped topping. I am reminded of a camping trip last summer with friends in
I am sitting in the front corner of the Muddy Cup Coffee House. Muddy Cup sits between two other buildings like a hole in the wall, but inside it’s a lot warmer and inviting than one might imagine from its exterior. It’s locale—the typical college setting, a few storefronts on the strip—CVS, Madison Theater, Price Chopper, Dunkin Donuts—that survive by the graces of the college students quarter rolls.
When I first arrived I had gone to the counter to order my hot chocolate and a chocolate chip muffin. As I am waiting the owner, Mike, comes in.
The employee, who is taking care of my order, a girl I have seen around the Saint Rose campus a few times, says to Mike, “Wow, I didn’t recognize you without your hat!”
I think that’s kind of funny, because I too am thinking the same thing—I don’t actually know Mike, but I have seen him a million times outside smoking with friends and somehow have just happened upon learning his name.
“My mom said that to me today too,” he says.
It is taking forever for her to make my hot chocolate, and the machine she is standing in front of is making this obnoxious hissing and spitting noise. Mike goes in to investigate the situation. He tells the girl to move aside and says to her as he attempts to remedy the situation.
“When you hear that God awful, ear-splitting noise,” he says, “it might be a hint to you…that you’re doing it wrong. Okay?”
Apparently it means that you’ve put too much milk in the machine; that’s what I am gathering from what he’s mumbling to the girl as she sprays the whipped cream on top and throws a lid on the cup. I hate to break it to Mike, but it tasted much better the “wrong” way.
Sitting here now with food and drink in hand I dig into my muffin—I’m starving. Looking around this place, there’s a lot to take in. The walls are painted bright red, but there are areas where the paint has chipped and peeled. A few large wall hangings—paintings depicting abstract shapes and lines in vivid primary colors decorate the walls. The floor is cement, though it looks as though they tried to paint over the chipped and cracked surface. Several area rugs cover large portions of the room. In every corner of the room sits pieces of mismatched hand-me-down furniture. The room is dim, only one overhead lamp is turned on, the rest of the lighting comes from small table lamps, their light being further dimmed by beige and cream lampshades.
I am alone in my corner, although I wouldn’t say that any of the other customers are very far from me, I can see them all, and they can see me, though everyone is preoccupied with their own tasks and conversations. Those who are chatting are doing so in pretty hushed voices, but a young couple, maybe in their mid-20s, The Sweater Couple—both are wearing nearly matching navy blue sweaters and khaki pants—who are sitting nearby can be overheard as they discuss air hockey.
Sweater Girl: “I haven’t played air hockey in forever. It’s kinda too competitive for me.”
Sweater Boy: “It’s not competitive at all! When have you ever played competitive air hockey?”
Sweater Girl: “It is for me. I don’t know. I just don’t have the game for that.”
Sweater Boy: “Why are you my girlfriend? You’re crazy.”
He then gets up and goes to the bathroom—when he returns he seems to have forgotten the instability of his significant other as they return to a hushed conversation as they sip from their enormous cups of coffee and lean awkwardly into each other. I think Sweater Girl took that whole accusation quiet well, she probably stirs that sort of response from others often, I mean air hockey, too competitive? Please.
When I had first gotten situated in this seat I had immediately noticed this constant stream of warm air blowing over me, but could not find the source. I just noticed the gaping hole above me in the ceiling from which the air seems to be pumping out of—the air is blowing my muffin wrapper and notebook paper around the table. This heating vent makes a loud humming white noise that drowns the conversations around me. Every few minutes the coolers near the counter will come back to life, humming loudly as it recycles the cold air into the unit, before falling back into silence. I am very warm, but when the door opens to let someone in or out a cold burst of air fills my corner, so I don’t want to take off my sweatshirt. The room smells strongly of flavored coffee beans—not being a coffee drinker myself, I tend to group the smell of coffee into one classification—I could not discern for you the differences in smell between a hazelnut mocha chi latte and a plain black cup of coffee.
Why isn’t anyone telling the gentlemen in the loft, who are speaking absurdly loud to be quiet? I remember the time some of my teammates from the swim team and I came here for the first time, we took out the game Taboo and began to play. We were having a blast and got pretty loud and maybe a little obnoxious as we were told to quiet down or leave. Every time we came back, we’d look for Taboo on the game shelf to no avail—we always tell people that they removed it because of us.
Regardless, the two men from the loft go on talking, their thunderous voices projecting
well over everyone else’s without punishment. I can’t really see them—their backs are to me—but I can make out their distinct Middle Eastern accents as they talk:
Guy 1: “Why always with the gay jokes? It offends me.”
Guy 2: “I know. I tell them because I know they offend you.”
Guy 1: “We might not be able to be friends if that’s the way it is.”
Guy 2: “Look, you tell virgin jokes, which offends me, so I say gay jokes to offend you.
Plain playing field.”
Guy 1: “Level playing field.”
Guy 2: “What?”
My sentiments exactly, Guy 2. I feel guilty of some type of voyeurism, quoting these people as though I am going to submit them to the nonexistent Overhead in
With all the war of words I’ve overheard in the short time I’ve been here, I wonder if there isn’t something fishy in the coffee? Good thing I’m not drinking.
Lunch with Albany
Name of Place Visited: Pepper Jack’s
Street Address: 217 Western Ave
Date, Time of Day: January 31, 2008, 1:10 p.m.
Leaving my comfort zone.
I look at my watch and it’s not even one o’clock yet. My next class isn’t until 4:15 because one of my teachers cancelled English class today. Instead of going to get the frozen dinner box out from underneath the cold confines of the passenger seat in my car, I walk out of Albertus Hall and pause just long enough to decide which direction to go in. I turn right down Western Avenue in search of a more enticing lunch. I commute to the College of Saint Rose from Schenectady, so I have not ventured down this end of the street past the college before, but I figure it’s about time.
I don’t feel entirely comfortable walking alone, but there are blue and white signs along the sidewalk announcing “Operation Safe Corridor” and I pass the security offices of Saint Rose, so I heave a little sigh, shift my book bag straps on my shoulders and continue on. There is a bright blue cloudless sky but the sun is deceiving. I am finding that it is actually quite cold outside, and I shove my fingers deafly into my thin black driving gloves and then deep into the pockets of my corduroy coat. Tall shadows of buildings are cast across the street and I squint against the glare of the sun to see the traffic lights when I look up to make sure it’s safe to cross.
I walk several blocks with my gaze concentrated ahead of me as I search the horizon for some signs of commercialism. It seems that I just pass bus stop after bus stop and apartment building after apartment building. I almost want to turn back and just go to Xing Long on Madison Avenue for Chinese but I force down the irrational panic welling up in my heart and I keep walking. It really isn’t too long before I find restaurants but it almost seemed like forever.
From a world of cold to a world of color.
I see a sign for Mary Jane Books and I feel an odd sense of relief. At least I recognize the name of it. The brightly colored Pepper Jack’s sign across the street from Mary Jane Books also catches my attention, as does the lettering on the glass of their door: “If you haven’t had a great sandwich in Albany, you don’t know Jack.” I figure it’s worth a shot; this may be the escape from cardboard cuisine that I am looking for.
I walk around the corner of the restaurant to the entrance, and bells tinkle softly against the door as I push it open. I am greeted with a rush of color, warmth, and the mouthwatering smell of food. I walk tentatively toward the awaiting cashier while I stare up at the expansive menu mounted high on the wall behind her. For some reason I feel rushed to just pick something, but I don’t want to eat anything that might upset my stomach. I play it safe and just order a BLT and French fries and then sit down on the cushioned barstool at the end of the counter that best overlooks the intersection. I did get fruit punch though, instead of my usual, a root beer.
I finally feel like I can relax and I start to take in all the bright colors of the restaurant. Each wall is painted teal, orange or yellow. One wall is painted yellow brick. Some of the bricks have been painted orange. There is a street sign hung above framed newspaper clippings and awards that says “Pepper Jacks Blvd.” The one wall with a neutral tone, tan, has a colorful framed print hanging over the coffee counter and is credited to Wassily Kandinsky and entitled “Squares with Concentric Rings.” Cone-shaped sconces slide down from the ceiling from narrow iron rods painted white, and the single ceiling fan has light bulbs covered with art deco looking blue glass shades.
The chili pepper character on the menu and the bright hues of the place remind me of a trip I took a few years back to Arizona to visit friends. I find myself smiling as I think of the road trip we made through the dessert to the Grand Canyon when the sky was as blue as today and the sun was as high. Bill played some silly CD of his brother’s called “Yodel the Cowboy Way.” I almost laugh out loud at the thought of being crammed in the backseat while the guys bounce up and down yodeling beside me, but I am jostled from my reverie when my food is brought out to me by the young woman that took my order at the register. She has her dark hair pulled back from her face in a messy bun, and when she turns away from me to grab a ketchup bottle I see a tiny hand print tattooed on the back of her neck, off center, and more towards the bottom right. My fries are piled on a piece of red and white checked tissue paper within a cardboard container, and my sandwich is on a colored oval plate. When I see the fries on the checked paper, it triggers a memory of the pit stop we made in Phoenix at this retro fast food joint called In’N’Out Burger. I feel the corners of my lips pull up into a smile again.
I pull excess lettuce off my BLT. Lettuce is a stupid vegetable. Isn't it like 90% water or something? I eat it slowly while nonchalantly trying to capture bits and pieces of conversations around me. I find myself more caught up in trying to decipher what songs are playing through the speaker in the far corner of the room instead. It's some oldies station playing songs from the 60s, right now it's Diana Ross singing "Baby Love." I discover that after I pulled the lettuce off my sandwich, the last three bites are really just toast. I wrinkle my nose in distaste but I eat it anyway. Actually, even just the bread by itself is surprisingly good.
Pepper Jack’s Patrons.
Dozens of people come in and out of the restaurant or walk or drive by it. At first I am sitting by a middle age couple, which I come to realize is not a couple at all. I do not know their association, but they speak over the woman’s date book and debate the appropriateness of a production for high school. She is wearing a wool maroon blazer, with straight-legged black pants and black lace up shoes. She has her face turned toward the man in muffled discussion, so all is see is her short dark auburn tresses shift a little over the collar on the back of her jacket as she talks. I can’t hear much of what they are saying, but it seems they were being outwardly polite with undertones of aggravation. Much of what he suggested to her seemed to be combated with a “We’ll see,” or an “I’ll have to check first, to make sure.”
A police car makes a quick awkward turn into a parking spot on the road across the street marked “15 Minute Parking.” The man jokes that something must be wrong, or else they must really want Pepper Jack’s. The woman mutters that if it were she that parked there, she would have been ticketed. As the man stood up and pulled his white winter hat over his head, almost knocking his round wire rimmed glasses out of place, he made eye contact with me for the first time and followed up his joke by saying, “its Albany’s place to eat.” I smile back politely, then I glace again at the writing on the door. I think he was punning on their claim, but he didn’t quite have it.
For a few minutes after they left, it seems too quiet, but then a group of city workers come in wearing overalls and neon orange hooded sweatshirts. First there are two of them, then a third, then a fourth and fifth file in through the doorway. They hover in line as an orange mass placing their orders, then they sit next to me down the long counter leaving one empty stool between us. The man closest to me is wearing orange overalls while the others wear black ones, or jeans. They seem too big for him. He looks like he is swimming in dirty orange fabric. He has kind blue eyes and a rough stubbly face. I guess he is about 33. His order is called and he clunks away in his heavy boots to retrieve it. When he sits back down he mutters to his friend that he hates vegetables. The next time I look over, the peppers and onions from his sandwich are in a greasy pile on the paper napkin by his plate.
Sipping fruit punch and drinking in sunshine.
Someone walks by the window and waves in to the workmen. I look down the counter at the line of them: five neon orange blobs in a row. They match the loud colors of the restaurant, and the loud colors match the loud noises. The phone rings at full pitch, and is answered quickly by the woman behind the register to take the order. Meanwhile, I am becoming more aware of the fact the dishwasher must be behind the wall behind me. Dishes clatter and clank while the water sprays at high pressure, no doubt against those colorful oval plastic plates. The engines of the trucks that pass through the intersection can be heard as a muffled hum through the glass. Within the walls of the restaurant, people talk and mill about in line. Nothing too clearly audible, but criss-crosses of conversation, exchanges of orders and payments, the deep quick calls of order numbers ready for pick up.
The sun shines blaringly through the corner window onto my right arm. I feel warm and drowsy sitting in this place. The brightness cast across the counter reveals the wear of the wood and the salt grains scattered on the surface. I sip the cool crisp fruit punch from the straw in my blue waxy Pepsi cup. I can smell the brine of my pickle, and cooked peppers from the man’s sandwich one stool over. My French fries have long since gotten cold; their flaky texture tastes like grease. I think to myself that they aren’t worth the calories that I tried so hard to burn this morning at the St. Rose gym on the treadmill, but then again I can also rationalize that at least I walked here.
Break time is over.
I look out the window to my right, against the glare of the sun, down Quail Street. I realize that is where the orange workers must have come from, as I see a neon clad man standing high in the bucket of a truck trying to fix a utility pole, while others look up at him from below surrounded by orange cones. I hear the girl behind the counter confirm, “No peppers, no onions.” The anti-veggie guy’s buddy heard too. He asked him why he didn’t just order it that way. With his mouth full, and with annoyance, he said, “Well, I’ll do that from now on.” The policemen just now head back to their cop car across the street in the “15 Minute Parking” spot, and I check my watch. They had to have been here at least 30 minutes. I shake my head.
The work men all get up to leave as quickly as they had came, and a new guy sits down right next to me. He is turned three quarters away from me, in a large water-proof navy jacket, but I could have sworn that he just walked past the window a few minutes ago. I never even saw him turn around and come back in. He's short, and odd. He has a shaved head, but you can see from the stubble around his ears and not on top that he is practically bald anyway. He just got dessert. He sits looking around a bit, with the plastic container of his cheesecake unopened in front of him. By his right hand on the counter is a dingy white ski mask. He reminds me of the creepy guy from Home Alone who tries to rob Kevin’s house. I can’t tell if he has a gold tooth too, though. Instead of trying to find out, I decide it is time to head back to campus.
Street Address: 217 Western Ave
Date, Time of Day: January 31, 2008, 1:10 p.m.
Leaving my comfort zone.
I look at my watch and it’s not even one o’clock yet. My next class isn’t until 4:15 because one of my teachers cancelled English class today. Instead of going to get the frozen dinner box out from underneath the cold confines of the passenger seat in my car, I walk out of Albertus Hall and pause just long enough to decide which direction to go in. I turn right down Western Avenue in search of a more enticing lunch. I commute to the College of Saint Rose from Schenectady, so I have not ventured down this end of the street past the college before, but I figure it’s about time.
I don’t feel entirely comfortable walking alone, but there are blue and white signs along the sidewalk announcing “Operation Safe Corridor” and I pass the security offices of Saint Rose, so I heave a little sigh, shift my book bag straps on my shoulders and continue on. There is a bright blue cloudless sky but the sun is deceiving. I am finding that it is actually quite cold outside, and I shove my fingers deafly into my thin black driving gloves and then deep into the pockets of my corduroy coat. Tall shadows of buildings are cast across the street and I squint against the glare of the sun to see the traffic lights when I look up to make sure it’s safe to cross.
I walk several blocks with my gaze concentrated ahead of me as I search the horizon for some signs of commercialism. It seems that I just pass bus stop after bus stop and apartment building after apartment building. I almost want to turn back and just go to Xing Long on Madison Avenue for Chinese but I force down the irrational panic welling up in my heart and I keep walking. It really isn’t too long before I find restaurants but it almost seemed like forever.
From a world of cold to a world of color.
I see a sign for Mary Jane Books and I feel an odd sense of relief. At least I recognize the name of it. The brightly colored Pepper Jack’s sign across the street from Mary Jane Books also catches my attention, as does the lettering on the glass of their door: “If you haven’t had a great sandwich in Albany, you don’t know Jack.” I figure it’s worth a shot; this may be the escape from cardboard cuisine that I am looking for.
I walk around the corner of the restaurant to the entrance, and bells tinkle softly against the door as I push it open. I am greeted with a rush of color, warmth, and the mouthwatering smell of food. I walk tentatively toward the awaiting cashier while I stare up at the expansive menu mounted high on the wall behind her. For some reason I feel rushed to just pick something, but I don’t want to eat anything that might upset my stomach. I play it safe and just order a BLT and French fries and then sit down on the cushioned barstool at the end of the counter that best overlooks the intersection. I did get fruit punch though, instead of my usual, a root beer.
I finally feel like I can relax and I start to take in all the bright colors of the restaurant. Each wall is painted teal, orange or yellow. One wall is painted yellow brick. Some of the bricks have been painted orange. There is a street sign hung above framed newspaper clippings and awards that says “Pepper Jacks Blvd.” The one wall with a neutral tone, tan, has a colorful framed print hanging over the coffee counter and is credited to Wassily Kandinsky and entitled “Squares with Concentric Rings.” Cone-shaped sconces slide down from the ceiling from narrow iron rods painted white, and the single ceiling fan has light bulbs covered with art deco looking blue glass shades.
The chili pepper character on the menu and the bright hues of the place remind me of a trip I took a few years back to Arizona to visit friends. I find myself smiling as I think of the road trip we made through the dessert to the Grand Canyon when the sky was as blue as today and the sun was as high. Bill played some silly CD of his brother’s called “Yodel the Cowboy Way.” I almost laugh out loud at the thought of being crammed in the backseat while the guys bounce up and down yodeling beside me, but I am jostled from my reverie when my food is brought out to me by the young woman that took my order at the register. She has her dark hair pulled back from her face in a messy bun, and when she turns away from me to grab a ketchup bottle I see a tiny hand print tattooed on the back of her neck, off center, and more towards the bottom right. My fries are piled on a piece of red and white checked tissue paper within a cardboard container, and my sandwich is on a colored oval plate. When I see the fries on the checked paper, it triggers a memory of the pit stop we made in Phoenix at this retro fast food joint called In’N’Out Burger. I feel the corners of my lips pull up into a smile again.
I pull excess lettuce off my BLT. Lettuce is a stupid vegetable. Isn't it like 90% water or something? I eat it slowly while nonchalantly trying to capture bits and pieces of conversations around me. I find myself more caught up in trying to decipher what songs are playing through the speaker in the far corner of the room instead. It's some oldies station playing songs from the 60s, right now it's Diana Ross singing "Baby Love." I discover that after I pulled the lettuce off my sandwich, the last three bites are really just toast. I wrinkle my nose in distaste but I eat it anyway. Actually, even just the bread by itself is surprisingly good.
Pepper Jack’s Patrons.
Dozens of people come in and out of the restaurant or walk or drive by it. At first I am sitting by a middle age couple, which I come to realize is not a couple at all. I do not know their association, but they speak over the woman’s date book and debate the appropriateness of a production for high school. She is wearing a wool maroon blazer, with straight-legged black pants and black lace up shoes. She has her face turned toward the man in muffled discussion, so all is see is her short dark auburn tresses shift a little over the collar on the back of her jacket as she talks. I can’t hear much of what they are saying, but it seems they were being outwardly polite with undertones of aggravation. Much of what he suggested to her seemed to be combated with a “We’ll see,” or an “I’ll have to check first, to make sure.”
A police car makes a quick awkward turn into a parking spot on the road across the street marked “15 Minute Parking.” The man jokes that something must be wrong, or else they must really want Pepper Jack’s. The woman mutters that if it were she that parked there, she would have been ticketed. As the man stood up and pulled his white winter hat over his head, almost knocking his round wire rimmed glasses out of place, he made eye contact with me for the first time and followed up his joke by saying, “its Albany’s place to eat.” I smile back politely, then I glace again at the writing on the door. I think he was punning on their claim, but he didn’t quite have it.
For a few minutes after they left, it seems too quiet, but then a group of city workers come in wearing overalls and neon orange hooded sweatshirts. First there are two of them, then a third, then a fourth and fifth file in through the doorway. They hover in line as an orange mass placing their orders, then they sit next to me down the long counter leaving one empty stool between us. The man closest to me is wearing orange overalls while the others wear black ones, or jeans. They seem too big for him. He looks like he is swimming in dirty orange fabric. He has kind blue eyes and a rough stubbly face. I guess he is about 33. His order is called and he clunks away in his heavy boots to retrieve it. When he sits back down he mutters to his friend that he hates vegetables. The next time I look over, the peppers and onions from his sandwich are in a greasy pile on the paper napkin by his plate.
Sipping fruit punch and drinking in sunshine.
Someone walks by the window and waves in to the workmen. I look down the counter at the line of them: five neon orange blobs in a row. They match the loud colors of the restaurant, and the loud colors match the loud noises. The phone rings at full pitch, and is answered quickly by the woman behind the register to take the order. Meanwhile, I am becoming more aware of the fact the dishwasher must be behind the wall behind me. Dishes clatter and clank while the water sprays at high pressure, no doubt against those colorful oval plastic plates. The engines of the trucks that pass through the intersection can be heard as a muffled hum through the glass. Within the walls of the restaurant, people talk and mill about in line. Nothing too clearly audible, but criss-crosses of conversation, exchanges of orders and payments, the deep quick calls of order numbers ready for pick up.
The sun shines blaringly through the corner window onto my right arm. I feel warm and drowsy sitting in this place. The brightness cast across the counter reveals the wear of the wood and the salt grains scattered on the surface. I sip the cool crisp fruit punch from the straw in my blue waxy Pepsi cup. I can smell the brine of my pickle, and cooked peppers from the man’s sandwich one stool over. My French fries have long since gotten cold; their flaky texture tastes like grease. I think to myself that they aren’t worth the calories that I tried so hard to burn this morning at the St. Rose gym on the treadmill, but then again I can also rationalize that at least I walked here.
Break time is over.
I look out the window to my right, against the glare of the sun, down Quail Street. I realize that is where the orange workers must have come from, as I see a neon clad man standing high in the bucket of a truck trying to fix a utility pole, while others look up at him from below surrounded by orange cones. I hear the girl behind the counter confirm, “No peppers, no onions.” The anti-veggie guy’s buddy heard too. He asked him why he didn’t just order it that way. With his mouth full, and with annoyance, he said, “Well, I’ll do that from now on.” The policemen just now head back to their cop car across the street in the “15 Minute Parking” spot, and I check my watch. They had to have been here at least 30 minutes. I shake my head.
The work men all get up to leave as quickly as they had came, and a new guy sits down right next to me. He is turned three quarters away from me, in a large water-proof navy jacket, but I could have sworn that he just walked past the window a few minutes ago. I never even saw him turn around and come back in. He's short, and odd. He has a shaved head, but you can see from the stubble around his ears and not on top that he is practically bald anyway. He just got dessert. He sits looking around a bit, with the plastic container of his cheesecake unopened in front of him. By his right hand on the counter is a dingy white ski mask. He reminds me of the creepy guy from Home Alone who tries to rob Kevin’s house. I can’t tell if he has a gold tooth too, though. Instead of trying to find out, I decide it is time to head back to campus.
Larking
The Lark Tavern
453 Madison Ave, Albany NY
January 29, 2008, 5:58pm
Physical surroundings:
I am at the Lark Tavern, sitting in a rather uncomfortable booth. The booths are red curved rectangles with very little cushion on their wooden surfaces. They have straight backrests that pop out a little at the neck so you kind of have to curve your body to fit into it. When my foot taps the table, it wobbles.
I wouldn’t be sitting here if I wasn’t meeting my friend Jared. He likes Lark’s booth seats. Next door to the Lark Tavern to its right is a Laundromat. On the left is a Mexican restaurant called El Loco. I wouldn’t consider The Lark to be in a rough neighborhood. It is close to Delaware which, as you go towards the Price Chopper (known as “the Ghetto Chopper”), the neighbor hood gets somewhat sketchy.
I have spent a lot of time at the Lark watching local shows, mainly for my friend Jared and bands from Rev Records like The Sense Offenders, Sergeant Dunbar and the Hobo Banned, and Laura Boggs. I participated at an open mic once here.
I am comfortable here because it is a comfortable atmosphere. The people who work here are friendly: they don’t seem to have any judgments or expectations for anyone who walks into Lark. The lighting is dim so it is kind of a darker setting and I like it. I kind of like not being seen so clearly because sometimes I feel more comfortable being faceless. As to why this may be I’m not exactly sure. In another paper I wrote about being faceless while reading at open mics and it applies to this, I like being a stranger. I like to sit and observe, and think and never say a word until I read out loud to people who don’t give a damn about what I’m reading because they don’t know me. Also, I’ve been there so many times that it is a familiar spot for me. I was comfortable the entire time I sat here.
When I started writing in public places (Red Square, the bus, outside…) it was awkward. I’m so used to it now that it is very every day for me. I probably started writing everywhere last year due to the fact that if I didn’t write to release, I would have gone crazy. Whenever I would go to my friend Jared’s shows, or to an open mic at Red Square I was 97% of the time by myself. I didn’t want to just sit there so I wrote. If you aren’t already working on something, you write what you see. This is what I did. During my second semester of junior year, I had an amazing academic schedule: Creative Writing, Modern Poetry, Reading and Writing the Autobiography, and 19th Century American Literature. I was writing so much in each of those classes and out of them that I couldn’t stop. I also needed a healthy release from everything I was feeling from last year.
It is unnecessary to go into why. I was emotionally off for over a year but writing about everything and everyone became my savior. Each of my classes taught me how to write in different styles and forms, particularly my Autobiography class which focused on writing scenes and using the senses. After that I became obsessed with writing as clearly and specifically as I could so that it would be alive. I became addicted to writing and sometimes, no matter where I was be it during class, the bathroom, walking or in the midst of a conversation I literally had to stop what I was doing to write.
Writing kept me balanced because I couldn’t. This is why I have no problem writing in public and don’t feel uneasy because I literally wrote everywhere. And now? If I don’t have some type of paper on me—a receipt, a bus schedule, a pamphlet or a notebook—I feel naked and imbalanced. I need to write.
Now, over a year later, I’m okay. I am as balanced as I could hope to be. However, I have no problem dropping whatever I’m doing to write. If I had to say I was a writer I would say that I am not. I am an apprentice writer. This term coined is from Rebecca Rule and Susan Wheeler’s book True Stories: Guides for Writing from Your Life. It means that I have nothing published and am still learning.
People watch:
For now I am alone. There aren’t that many people in this room, they are off to the side. Mostly young males speaking in low tones. This affects me in no way. I am more comfortable around males as it is. The place smells like a mixture of beer and nachos. A couple sitting in front of me is splitting an enormous plate of chips covered in cheese, I think it’s sour cream, olives, maybe jalapeno peppers? The girl keeps laughing at her boyfriend, at least I think he’s her boyfriend. Her laugh sounds like a low vibrating noise like some kind of kitchen appliance warming up and picks up in pitch with a few “huh-huh-huh’s.”
She’s bundled up in a loud, neon green puffy jacket with a gray fuzzy scarf wrapped around her neck. Her hair is cut right under her ears, a light brown? She is facing my direction and her boyfriend’s back is facing me. He is wearing a red beanie and is wearing some kind of black coat. She has a wide mouth. I know this because she won’t stop smiling at him with her tiny teeth that make her mouth look even larger. She kind of has a classic look to her, soft? That might be the word. She just looks soft. And she chews with her mouth open. Nice to witness. She keeps saying things but I honestly have no idea what she is saying because it looks like she is mouthing everything.
There has also been a waitress walking around. Interesting attire. She just came over to me. She said to me, “Hi Honey can I get you anything? Would you like a menu?” I told her no thank you and not yet (I wasn’t hungry and I knew what I was going to drink: Blue Moon). She said something like she’d be walking around if I needed anything. I think. Anyways, I don’t know how tall she is because I’m sitting down but I think she is a little shorter than me (I’m 5’7ish). Her hair is brown and somewhat wavy and hangs past her shoulders. She is wearing a black skirt that hangs half way between her knees and thighs. Her legs are thick and covered in dark stockings. She is wearing short black heels. There might be a buckle, I’m not sure (I was going to check later when she came back but I forgot to). Her voice is low, not raspy but it has some texture to it. Kind of like a purr? Not gurgling, just texture. I’m not really sure how to explain it. It’s weird but pleasant. Friendly. She did smile at me when she first walked up to me, no teeth showing.
Anyways, she is wearing a sleeve less, low neck line—pretty much cut off half way up her breasts—hot pink, dull top. She is wearing a matching hot pink bra which rises above her top. Her breasts are small, like clementines but fitted to her body. Her waist is thick and I think because her shirt is so fitted it gives her waist a curve. It emphasizes her middle which puffs out a little. She has tattoos on her left arm, maybe flowers either on her wrist or shoulder.
I’m not really sure what anyone is saying other than directly to me because the music is loud (Hendrix’s “Fire”), people are speaking softly and I’m caught up in my writing. The girl reminds me (I seriously do not know why) of Lucille O Ball because she has this classic, soft look to her and if I had to compare this girl to anyone it would be Lucille. As far as the waitress… not anyone that I can think of. She seems very everyday with her friendliness and that’s about it.
Five Senses:
The colors I see around me are mostly brown—the floor, the seats and chairs. The room is dimly lit, so definitely a darker atmosphere. I know it is night time outside (I walked here). The most color comes from the stage, which is located at the back of the room. It is low, one step off of the ground. The stage lights are on so the stage has a kind of yellow, light glow to it. Rather bright. Its wall is beautiful. I’ve spent many hours hypnotized by its shiny silver, hot pink, gold, green, blue streamers, hanging at a length from wall to ceiling. The ceiling might be higher than ten feet. I’m not sure. I’m only guessing. Light reflects off of the streamers and they move ever so slightly, little soundless ripples. Well, probably not soundless. I imagine they crinkle but I wouldn’t know because I am not near them at all.
The room is warm, pleasantly warm but my hands are cold. They are usually cold even if the room is warm. I have poor circulation. On the table is a small ice bucket, except instead of ice there is a ketchup bottle and a white salt and black pepper shaker. The bucket is cool, rounded with a thick line wrapped around it like an embedded thin choker in its thick neck. The bucket is smooth but still has a slight resistance kind of like very, very, tiny, tiny bumps on it that have been sanded down. Something like that. I’m trying to explain it but I’m not sure I’m doing it very well.
I haven’t been listening to the sounds too closely because I’ve been so into writing that I zoned out. When I was listening, I heard Hendrix’s “Fire” and then some woman singing. Actually, it kind of sounds fuzzy. Not static like, fuzzy. A low fuzz made up of everyone speaking quietly. The atmosphere still reminds me of Red Square. It makes me think of sitting at a table at Red Square watching people perform at open mic—music performers of jazz and various acoustic acts—waiting for my turn to step up to the stage and quickly present two poems, going through puberty while I speak because I get so nervous and then fleeing the stage. Usually I’d go outside and have a quick smoke (when I used to), walking in circles or kind of hopping from one foot to the next or I’d just leave.
Other notes:
This is what I wrote down: I came here early because I am meeting up with a friend for a drink. Thankfully it isn’t too crowded. Push past two doors, bar to my left, two round tall tables to my right, a jukebox right after that. The room narrows creating a separation from the bar and the sit down area.
There are two men sitting at one of the high tables, both of them tall and thin. One guy has a small sparkly earring in his left ear. He looks like he just shaved or something. Very smooth. I didn’t catch his eye color, but he has some very thick eyebrows. Very dark too, like a dark chocolate except it is hair. He has an abnormally large nose. Very large. It looks larger then it might be because he has small features: a small, thin mouth, small eyes, small ears. It’s a very large nose. He’s middle aged. Older then 35.
His friend might be a little older than me, so older than 21. I didn’t stay in the bar area to get a good look at him. I pretty much remember that he has blonde hair that sticks up in the front and a very shiny nose. The owner Tess is here. I don’t know her personally but I know her by sight. Medium height, medium build. She has brown wavy hair that goes past her shoulders with random pink and washed out red stripes. Whenever I’ve seen her she is smiling. Her clothing is dark (I only saw her once when I came in).
453 Madison Ave, Albany NY
January 29, 2008, 5:58pm
Physical surroundings:
I am at the Lark Tavern, sitting in a rather uncomfortable booth. The booths are red curved rectangles with very little cushion on their wooden surfaces. They have straight backrests that pop out a little at the neck so you kind of have to curve your body to fit into it. When my foot taps the table, it wobbles.
I wouldn’t be sitting here if I wasn’t meeting my friend Jared. He likes Lark’s booth seats. Next door to the Lark Tavern to its right is a Laundromat. On the left is a Mexican restaurant called El Loco. I wouldn’t consider The Lark to be in a rough neighborhood. It is close to Delaware which, as you go towards the Price Chopper (known as “the Ghetto Chopper”), the neighbor hood gets somewhat sketchy.
I have spent a lot of time at the Lark watching local shows, mainly for my friend Jared and bands from Rev Records like The Sense Offenders, Sergeant Dunbar and the Hobo Banned, and Laura Boggs. I participated at an open mic once here.
I am comfortable here because it is a comfortable atmosphere. The people who work here are friendly: they don’t seem to have any judgments or expectations for anyone who walks into Lark. The lighting is dim so it is kind of a darker setting and I like it. I kind of like not being seen so clearly because sometimes I feel more comfortable being faceless. As to why this may be I’m not exactly sure. In another paper I wrote about being faceless while reading at open mics and it applies to this, I like being a stranger. I like to sit and observe, and think and never say a word until I read out loud to people who don’t give a damn about what I’m reading because they don’t know me. Also, I’ve been there so many times that it is a familiar spot for me. I was comfortable the entire time I sat here.
When I started writing in public places (Red Square, the bus, outside…) it was awkward. I’m so used to it now that it is very every day for me. I probably started writing everywhere last year due to the fact that if I didn’t write to release, I would have gone crazy. Whenever I would go to my friend Jared’s shows, or to an open mic at Red Square I was 97% of the time by myself. I didn’t want to just sit there so I wrote. If you aren’t already working on something, you write what you see. This is what I did. During my second semester of junior year, I had an amazing academic schedule: Creative Writing, Modern Poetry, Reading and Writing the Autobiography, and 19th Century American Literature. I was writing so much in each of those classes and out of them that I couldn’t stop. I also needed a healthy release from everything I was feeling from last year.
It is unnecessary to go into why. I was emotionally off for over a year but writing about everything and everyone became my savior. Each of my classes taught me how to write in different styles and forms, particularly my Autobiography class which focused on writing scenes and using the senses. After that I became obsessed with writing as clearly and specifically as I could so that it would be alive. I became addicted to writing and sometimes, no matter where I was be it during class, the bathroom, walking or in the midst of a conversation I literally had to stop what I was doing to write.
Writing kept me balanced because I couldn’t. This is why I have no problem writing in public and don’t feel uneasy because I literally wrote everywhere. And now? If I don’t have some type of paper on me—a receipt, a bus schedule, a pamphlet or a notebook—I feel naked and imbalanced. I need to write.
Now, over a year later, I’m okay. I am as balanced as I could hope to be. However, I have no problem dropping whatever I’m doing to write. If I had to say I was a writer I would say that I am not. I am an apprentice writer. This term coined is from Rebecca Rule and Susan Wheeler’s book True Stories: Guides for Writing from Your Life. It means that I have nothing published and am still learning.
People watch:
For now I am alone. There aren’t that many people in this room, they are off to the side. Mostly young males speaking in low tones. This affects me in no way. I am more comfortable around males as it is. The place smells like a mixture of beer and nachos. A couple sitting in front of me is splitting an enormous plate of chips covered in cheese, I think it’s sour cream, olives, maybe jalapeno peppers? The girl keeps laughing at her boyfriend, at least I think he’s her boyfriend. Her laugh sounds like a low vibrating noise like some kind of kitchen appliance warming up and picks up in pitch with a few “huh-huh-huh’s.”
She’s bundled up in a loud, neon green puffy jacket with a gray fuzzy scarf wrapped around her neck. Her hair is cut right under her ears, a light brown? She is facing my direction and her boyfriend’s back is facing me. He is wearing a red beanie and is wearing some kind of black coat. She has a wide mouth. I know this because she won’t stop smiling at him with her tiny teeth that make her mouth look even larger. She kind of has a classic look to her, soft? That might be the word. She just looks soft. And she chews with her mouth open. Nice to witness. She keeps saying things but I honestly have no idea what she is saying because it looks like she is mouthing everything.
There has also been a waitress walking around. Interesting attire. She just came over to me. She said to me, “Hi Honey can I get you anything? Would you like a menu?” I told her no thank you and not yet (I wasn’t hungry and I knew what I was going to drink: Blue Moon). She said something like she’d be walking around if I needed anything. I think. Anyways, I don’t know how tall she is because I’m sitting down but I think she is a little shorter than me (I’m 5’7ish). Her hair is brown and somewhat wavy and hangs past her shoulders. She is wearing a black skirt that hangs half way between her knees and thighs. Her legs are thick and covered in dark stockings. She is wearing short black heels. There might be a buckle, I’m not sure (I was going to check later when she came back but I forgot to). Her voice is low, not raspy but it has some texture to it. Kind of like a purr? Not gurgling, just texture. I’m not really sure how to explain it. It’s weird but pleasant. Friendly. She did smile at me when she first walked up to me, no teeth showing.
Anyways, she is wearing a sleeve less, low neck line—pretty much cut off half way up her breasts—hot pink, dull top. She is wearing a matching hot pink bra which rises above her top. Her breasts are small, like clementines but fitted to her body. Her waist is thick and I think because her shirt is so fitted it gives her waist a curve. It emphasizes her middle which puffs out a little. She has tattoos on her left arm, maybe flowers either on her wrist or shoulder.
I’m not really sure what anyone is saying other than directly to me because the music is loud (Hendrix’s “Fire”), people are speaking softly and I’m caught up in my writing. The girl reminds me (I seriously do not know why) of Lucille O Ball because she has this classic, soft look to her and if I had to compare this girl to anyone it would be Lucille. As far as the waitress… not anyone that I can think of. She seems very everyday with her friendliness and that’s about it.
Five Senses:
The colors I see around me are mostly brown—the floor, the seats and chairs. The room is dimly lit, so definitely a darker atmosphere. I know it is night time outside (I walked here). The most color comes from the stage, which is located at the back of the room. It is low, one step off of the ground. The stage lights are on so the stage has a kind of yellow, light glow to it. Rather bright. Its wall is beautiful. I’ve spent many hours hypnotized by its shiny silver, hot pink, gold, green, blue streamers, hanging at a length from wall to ceiling. The ceiling might be higher than ten feet. I’m not sure. I’m only guessing. Light reflects off of the streamers and they move ever so slightly, little soundless ripples. Well, probably not soundless. I imagine they crinkle but I wouldn’t know because I am not near them at all.
The room is warm, pleasantly warm but my hands are cold. They are usually cold even if the room is warm. I have poor circulation. On the table is a small ice bucket, except instead of ice there is a ketchup bottle and a white salt and black pepper shaker. The bucket is cool, rounded with a thick line wrapped around it like an embedded thin choker in its thick neck. The bucket is smooth but still has a slight resistance kind of like very, very, tiny, tiny bumps on it that have been sanded down. Something like that. I’m trying to explain it but I’m not sure I’m doing it very well.
I haven’t been listening to the sounds too closely because I’ve been so into writing that I zoned out. When I was listening, I heard Hendrix’s “Fire” and then some woman singing. Actually, it kind of sounds fuzzy. Not static like, fuzzy. A low fuzz made up of everyone speaking quietly. The atmosphere still reminds me of Red Square. It makes me think of sitting at a table at Red Square watching people perform at open mic—music performers of jazz and various acoustic acts—waiting for my turn to step up to the stage and quickly present two poems, going through puberty while I speak because I get so nervous and then fleeing the stage. Usually I’d go outside and have a quick smoke (when I used to), walking in circles or kind of hopping from one foot to the next or I’d just leave.
Other notes:
This is what I wrote down: I came here early because I am meeting up with a friend for a drink. Thankfully it isn’t too crowded. Push past two doors, bar to my left, two round tall tables to my right, a jukebox right after that. The room narrows creating a separation from the bar and the sit down area.
There are two men sitting at one of the high tables, both of them tall and thin. One guy has a small sparkly earring in his left ear. He looks like he just shaved or something. Very smooth. I didn’t catch his eye color, but he has some very thick eyebrows. Very dark too, like a dark chocolate except it is hair. He has an abnormally large nose. Very large. It looks larger then it might be because he has small features: a small, thin mouth, small eyes, small ears. It’s a very large nose. He’s middle aged. Older then 35.
His friend might be a little older than me, so older than 21. I didn’t stay in the bar area to get a good look at him. I pretty much remember that he has blonde hair that sticks up in the front and a very shiny nose. The owner Tess is here. I don’t know her personally but I know her by sight. Medium height, medium build. She has brown wavy hair that goes past her shoulders with random pink and washed out red stripes. Whenever I’ve seen her she is smiling. Her clothing is dark (I only saw her once when I came in).
The Colorful Corner
Place: Corner of Western Avenue and North Main Street at a crosswalk
Time: January 31, 8:15 A.M.
Physical Surroundings: As I stand on the corner, sunny blue skies are above me and some wispy clouds hover toward the horizon. Are they cumulus?
The sun shining through the trees has to fight its way through St. Andrew’s Episcopal church. It is almost that of an angelic presence or aura. The white house on the corner on North Main Street has two garbage pails next to it beneath a window. Squirrels peek their heads out of tiny holes that they have made in the pails. They look around to see if it’s safe. Even squirrels know the area’s reputation. They run back and forth. Cars come to a stop, as the light turns red on North Main. Their brakes squeal to a halt. On Western Avenue, the light turns green and the large CDTA bus plows forward as it releases its air brakes, oblivious to everyone else. People are beeping their horns viciously as if to battle with one another. The air is crisp and cool. It feels invigorating to the senses, yet the diesel exhaust from the buses cuts the crispness and my head feels pressurized. Ahhh…the smell of a new school year; sitting in the back of the yellow school bus, getting a splitting headache. Cars sitting at the red traffic light on North Main Street are of different varieties and colors: a white Toyota Corolla, a dark green Chevy Blazer, and an eggplant Chevy Cavalier, all of which were students. Rust and heavy stereo systems are the indicator. The priorities of a college student!
People Watch: People from all walks of life pass up and down the sidewalks of North Main and Western: Preppy college students and those that just hauled themselves out of bed, elderly people going for their morning walk, and daily commuters that arrive to their destination by foot. Oddly enough, all are quiet and solemn as they trudge off to the daily grind. The preppy style females are wearing designer labels like Abercrombie & Fitch and American Eagle and Ugg Boots; a fashion must-have at the College of Saint Rose. The more average college students, wearing sweat pants, a sweatshirt, and sneakers with a coffee in their hands. Is there room for any other kind? The girls’ hair flung up in a messy bun and the males throw the hoods over their heads. They were hunched over and yawning. Although this part of Albany contains mostly college students, a few elderly people are taking their morning stroll in the brisk early morning. They are bundled up in hat and mittens that appear to be hand knit in beautiful colors like those of an intricate Norwegian sweater. Unbelievably, none of these walkers made a sound, except for the occasional cough and a cell phone sounding for an incoming text message. The college students standing very close to me as the corner also serves as an undeclared and unmarked bus stop.
Five Senses: My breath, as I stand near the crosswalk, escapes from me as I exhale, like a paranormal being fleeing from my body. The tip of my nose and my ears are cold. When I touch my hands to them, although cold, it seems refreshing and revitalizing. Some breeze sweeps through the air just enough to move those tiny hairs at the edge of your hairline. The trees lining the streets are so beautiful despite the bareness of their branches. They almost tell tales of what used to be in the city of Albany. The branches reach out into the street and across the many buildings that share the street with them.
Other Notes: Being in this part of Albany reminds me of my father’s stories of when he was a cop and detective for the Albany Police Department. Speeding cars and those that ran red lights reminded me the stories of him patrolling up and down the streets chasing criminals. I can not help but wonder about the vehicles moving in and out of the children’s center just down a ways from the crosswalk that I am at. Are these people great mentors for kids? Or do they just go about their lives and simply force their way into that driveway for a job? Road signs line North Main such as “ No parking from here to corner” and “ No parking 7A.M. to 11 A.M. Wednesdays.” Surprisingly enough, people obey these commands.
Time: January 31, 8:15 A.M.
Physical Surroundings: As I stand on the corner, sunny blue skies are above me and some wispy clouds hover toward the horizon. Are they cumulus?
The sun shining through the trees has to fight its way through St. Andrew’s Episcopal church. It is almost that of an angelic presence or aura. The white house on the corner on North Main Street has two garbage pails next to it beneath a window. Squirrels peek their heads out of tiny holes that they have made in the pails. They look around to see if it’s safe. Even squirrels know the area’s reputation. They run back and forth. Cars come to a stop, as the light turns red on North Main. Their brakes squeal to a halt. On Western Avenue, the light turns green and the large CDTA bus plows forward as it releases its air brakes, oblivious to everyone else. People are beeping their horns viciously as if to battle with one another. The air is crisp and cool. It feels invigorating to the senses, yet the diesel exhaust from the buses cuts the crispness and my head feels pressurized. Ahhh…the smell of a new school year; sitting in the back of the yellow school bus, getting a splitting headache. Cars sitting at the red traffic light on North Main Street are of different varieties and colors: a white Toyota Corolla, a dark green Chevy Blazer, and an eggplant Chevy Cavalier, all of which were students. Rust and heavy stereo systems are the indicator. The priorities of a college student!
People Watch: People from all walks of life pass up and down the sidewalks of North Main and Western: Preppy college students and those that just hauled themselves out of bed, elderly people going for their morning walk, and daily commuters that arrive to their destination by foot. Oddly enough, all are quiet and solemn as they trudge off to the daily grind. The preppy style females are wearing designer labels like Abercrombie & Fitch and American Eagle and Ugg Boots; a fashion must-have at the College of Saint Rose. The more average college students, wearing sweat pants, a sweatshirt, and sneakers with a coffee in their hands. Is there room for any other kind? The girls’ hair flung up in a messy bun and the males throw the hoods over their heads. They were hunched over and yawning. Although this part of Albany contains mostly college students, a few elderly people are taking their morning stroll in the brisk early morning. They are bundled up in hat and mittens that appear to be hand knit in beautiful colors like those of an intricate Norwegian sweater. Unbelievably, none of these walkers made a sound, except for the occasional cough and a cell phone sounding for an incoming text message. The college students standing very close to me as the corner also serves as an undeclared and unmarked bus stop.
Five Senses: My breath, as I stand near the crosswalk, escapes from me as I exhale, like a paranormal being fleeing from my body. The tip of my nose and my ears are cold. When I touch my hands to them, although cold, it seems refreshing and revitalizing. Some breeze sweeps through the air just enough to move those tiny hairs at the edge of your hairline. The trees lining the streets are so beautiful despite the bareness of their branches. They almost tell tales of what used to be in the city of Albany. The branches reach out into the street and across the many buildings that share the street with them.
Other Notes: Being in this part of Albany reminds me of my father’s stories of when he was a cop and detective for the Albany Police Department. Speeding cars and those that ran red lights reminded me the stories of him patrolling up and down the streets chasing criminals. I can not help but wonder about the vehicles moving in and out of the children’s center just down a ways from the crosswalk that I am at. Are these people great mentors for kids? Or do they just go about their lives and simply force their way into that driveway for a job? Road signs line North Main such as “ No parking from here to corner” and “ No parking 7A.M. to 11 A.M. Wednesdays.” Surprisingly enough, people obey these commands.
The "Max" of Albany
Bruegger’s Bagels
January 31, 2008
2:40pm-3:40pm
I sit in the window seat, right of the front door at Bruegger’s Bagel’s. My friends and I have a nickname for Bruegger’s we call it “Bruegs.” It is located on the corner of South Allen and Madison. This part of
I am at Bruegger's sitting alone at the corner table. I isolated myself from other pedestrians because I wanted to concentrate on all different thoughts going through my head as I watched and listened to people. I see a few people come in and out of the two doors. Most of the people are walking outside. The few people who are in Bruegger’s are speaking over the music playing. There are a couple of ladies sitting over in the opposite corner. They obviously know each other. One of the ladies is selling her daughter’s Girl Scout cookies and asks the lady if she would like to buy some. Two gentlemen walk by the window, one carrying groceries and one smoking a cigarette. A car pulls up behind mine and tries to parallel park. The back of her tan Mitsubishi Gallant is dented, which makes me nervous for my car. She pulls up a tiny bit, and then pulls back; she comes very close to hitting it. I turn my head quickly to look the other way. Two girls get out of the car and walk into Bruegger’s. One of the girls is wearing the same exact Adidas black running pants that I am. They order food quickly and then leave.
Another car tries to parallel park; this time it is a mini school bus. This driver pulls up a little and then back, pulls up again and slams on the brakes. A woman wearing all black and bright red high heel stilettos walks into Bruegger’s talking loudly on her cell phone. From where I’m sitting, I can see the
The Spilling of Starbucks Coffee
Setting, Date, Time of Day: Friday Jan. 25, 12 pm to 1 pm
I’m sitting inside Starbucks in
The carafe is surprisingly cold, considering how warm it is inside the shop and due to the fact that the carafe is just sitting on the counter; not in an ice bucket or anything. It is a black, cylindrical canister with a top that I twist to open and close. The handle is thick and easy to hold, but overall, the carafe is thin. It probably only holds half a gallon of milk at a time. There are many different add-ins at this station. There is soy milk, whole milk, 2 percent milk, all in the same style carafe. There also are a few spices to choose from, such as nutmeg, vanilla, and cinnamon. These spices are in a regular clear bottle, silver top salt and pepper shakers. All of the milks and spices are labeled with computer printed labels that have been taped on. There are three different sugars to choose from: Domino sugar packets, Splenda packets, and Equal packets. There are three large stacks of straws and coffee stirrers, all white with red stripes. There also is a smaller stack of green straws, usually used for the frozen drinks. The surrounding neighborhood is residential and it looks nice. From where I am sitting inside, TGI Friday’s is on the right, and Hippo's Home Entertainment is on the left. I am moderately comfortable. The chairs aren’t too comfortable, but it could be worse.
There are about eight tables and chairs inside the shop, identical to the one I am sitting at. The tables are brown on top with black iron legs, and the chairs have black metal backs, and green cushions. The walls are a brownish/tan color. There are hanging lights throughout the shop, but the majority of the light comes from the sun streaming through the front windows. From my chair, I can see through an open door behind the counter and to the left where there are similar chairs stacked in the back of the shop. These stacked chairs go outside on the little patio in the warmer weather. I wish it was warm outside, but it is warm inside the shop, so I can’t complain. I can also see outside the large windows and watch a decent amount of shoppers walk by. A few CDTA buses drive by, as do many cars. The buses are noisy, as is the shop with all the machines working and people talking with each other. A nickname for this Starbucks could be a-Starbucks -where-everyone-is-too-busy.
People-Watching
No one talks to me the entire hour I am here, but during the first half of the hour, I overhear a conversation between the counter girls about where they want to go out tonight. Both girls are wearing mostly black with a green apron and visor. The blonde twenty something year old suggests Skyline, the local club, but the red head (who will later clean up the mess on the floor) prefers to go to a local bar.
Red Head: “It’s too crowded downtown. Plus it’s cheaper to go to a bar. And they’re closer too.”
Blondie: “Yeah, but I like to grind and dance and meet cute guys. I’ll only see old men at the bars up here. And even if I am shit-faced, I won’t be going home with anyone older than 25!” Their tone is casual; they aren’t arguing, but debating.
Another pair, possibly a thirty something couple, is arguing because the man spilled a full coffee into one of their Talbots shopping bags. The woman is wearing black slacks and boots, with a red coat and white hat. The man is wearing dark jeans, puma sneakers, and a gray pea coat. He has no hat or scarf, but is holding a pair of gray gloves. As he quickly pulls everything out of the Talbots bag, the woman sighs heavily and he snaps,
“Well if you weren’t up my ass with all these bags, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.”
A college-aged couple, a few tables away, is smirking and stifling laughter as this whole scene is unfolding. I also cannot look up and make eye contact in fear that I will laugh out loud, so I just listen and write everything down.
She quickly snaps back, “If you weren’t a clumsy dickhead, maybe you could have held onto the cup. Did you not think it was hot?”
Then they walked out. I’d like to hear the rest of that fight. The woman reminds me of myself regarding her sarcasm. Her style of fighting is also mine.
Facing me is a young man on his Mac laptop. He seems to be writing something very important because he keeps looking through a law book as he writes and doesn’t look around at the other people. I can’t see what he is writing though. He is wearing khaki pants, brown dress shoes, and a black pea coat. I think he is wearing a brown shirt, but I can only see a tiny vee of it under his neck. A lady on a cell phone walks in and grabs my attention away from the writer.
This lady is especially obnoxious; she has a loud, ear piercing laugh, and laughs a LOT. She like, talks, like, with a like, heavy valley-girl accent. How annoying. I want her to leave ASAP. She leaves after about 25 torturous minutes. She is wearing tan Ugg boots, light jeans, and a long red coat. Her purse is a large, expensive, bright green Coach bag. How do I know this? I’m a purse-aholic and I can spot expensive bags, which I cannot afford, anywhere!
Another scene begins to unfold as an older man, maybe around 60, drops his coffee all over the floor and counter because someone bumped into him. Blondie counter girl feels bad and gives him a new one for free. Red Head counter girl gets the mop and bucket to clean the floor. It looks moldy and gross, but it gets the job done. I can hear the sloshing of the water and cleaner on the floor. A bright yellow wet floor sign is put up. The floor is shiny where the mop left behind water droplets. The old man is wearing black pants, shoes, and wool jacket, with a black news-boy cap and walks with a brown cane.
Awhile later, a lady with black stiletto heels slips on the wet floor, but regains her balance and doesn’t crash down. She has gray pants and a gray suit jacket. Her scarf is purple, as are her gloves. Her jacket is a black pea coat with large buttons. Many of the women seem to be over dressed, but maybe they are on lunch or a quick break from work.
The last 20 minutes of this hour are very quiet. There is only one other customer in here with me, the Computer Guy. Other than his keyboard clicking and the soft rock music of the shop, there is no other sound. Even the employees are not speaking to each other.
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