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.
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