FireVaney

I’m only on the schedule for Monday. Fine by me. I lead a hermit’s life. Frugality is my superpower. But then Huggs calls at six o’clock this morning. Can I come in? Donny’s in the hospital. On the way to work, he crashed his bike into an open car door. Huggs needs a “superglue.” She knows it’s my favorite “role.” (You’re not stuck in the same spot doing the same thing for four or six or eight hours, and you can avoid dealing directly with the customers.) More importantly, Huggs knows that I live half a block away from the coffee shop. She calls two more times after that. Sure, I could pick up the phone, sure I could come in and work a few hours—but I gotta WRITE. Yes, I feel guilt, but FUCK, DAMN, I GOTTA WRITE IF I’M GONNA GET OUTTA THIS CRAP WAY OF LIVING. That was eloquent. I’m listening to Miles Davis’s Milestones . The world would be a better place if most of it appreciated jazz.  11 April 2001

Started pulling shots before the sun rose, quit pulling shots after the sun set. The line of folks jonesing for a hit of caffeine never shortened. At one point, when Huggs and I were the only ones on duty, she stopped taking orders to help me fill all the ones flashing on my screen. I made a general announcement about the other Coffee Cadre Café a mere three blocks away. “IT’S TWICE THE SIZE OF THIS ONE!” I told them. Nobody left. Or if a few did leave, still more arrived. Late in the day, the espresso machine made an explosive internal hissing sound like none I’d ever heard before. I nearly thanked it aloud. Minutes later, all on its own, it was up and running again.  8 April 2001

Some of you wait at the designated pickup counter for your drinks. Many of you don’t. Never mind the sign above the counter. (It’s the rustic slab of faux-wood that hangs from two chains and spells out the word, “PICKUP.”) But, I dunno, maybe you’re not one to look up at anything… other than a posted menu. Or maybe you suffer from chronic neck pain. But then also never mind the cashier who directs you to said pickup counter. A number of you will, instead, grab a table (granted, they are scarce, given how busy we are) and wait there until I shout out your drink(s). This is fine. Those of you who note that the pickup counter is in close proximity to the restrooms may promptly choose to relieve yourselves. (It’s almost as if, whenever a toilet presents itself, some of you will automatically think that the time is right to drain your bladder and/or empty your bowels.) A few of you, immediately upon paying, will bolt straight for the pickup counter and stare at me with such extreme inten...

Manager Mick says you give the “guest” what they order, and charge them for what they order, and never try to correct them if they order in error. For instance, if the “guest” orders a latte with extra froth, do not explain that they are really ordering a cappuccino. If the “guest” orders a latte with a shot of chocolate syrup, do not explain that they are really ordering a mocha. Ok, but this is akin to hammering in screws, ordering a McDonald’s cheeseburger with everything that comes on a Big Mac, or concluding that a chocolate milkshake without ice cream is still a milkshake and not simply chocolate milk.  22 February 2001

OXYGEN BARS?!? Yes, according to once source, they started in Los Angeles (naturally), spread to New Mexico, and have recently been spotted in Cincinnati. That’s right, you pay money to inhale a few minutes’ worth of scented air from a tank. The “bartenders” will happily list many of the innumerable (bullshit) health benefits of breathing tanked air. Granted, breathing tanked air might be healthier than breathing LA smog. But how would you know that your tank of choice wasn’t filled with air from the breathing bar’s parking lot?  In other news, Donny and I got into it yesterday. Not about oxygen bars (although I’m sure he’d be happy to plop down twenty bucks to suck it up), but about lattes and mochas. A customer ordered a latte with a shot of cocoa—which, by definition, is a mocha. Donny disagreed. But what, then, in this day and age, does one call the combination of espresso, steamed milk, and chocolate syrup? While, yes, whipped cream is often a standard feature of the American...

And Manager Mick asked,  “Wanna see pictures of my cat?”  And somebody said, “Sure.” *   I was at the other end of the room,  too busy to look up from counting  down my drawer,  which was short  —because it’s always short.  And Mick said,  “This is the pose I want her to be in  when she’s taxidermied.” [Sic.]  And whoever he told this to said,  “But you cat’s not dead yet.”  “No,” replied Mick,  “but she will be soon.  And you need to have pictures  or what you get back  looks nothing  like your cat.”  “Uh-huh.”  And Mick continued,  “I’m going to have her body  hollowed out  and her neck  hinged  so I can lift her head  and put stuff in.  No one would think  of looking  for anything  in a stuffed cat.”  12 February 2001  * [Strange how I cannot now declare with absolute certainty who this somebody was. That back room / stockroom...

I have not watched an episode of The Brady Bunch in well over a decade, but, very early this morning, I woke with its goddamned theme song leisurely jogging laps round my brain. If that’s not a bona fide indication of insanity, then I couldn’t tell you what is. I can tell you this much with near absolute certainty: It is currently four thirty-five ante meridiem. If you must know, I am conscious this too goddamned early to open the goddamned coffee shop. I don’t have a key to the place, and the jolly man on TV says that “with the windchill, it’s eighteen degrees below zero right now.” Rubbing his own shoulders, he adds, “ Brrr. ” But since he’s paid to be jolly, he says it jollily. I do not have a key to the coffee shop, so Manager Mick better be there before I get there. I truly wish that I could, with ease, rise and shine this goddamn early every goddamn day.  12 December 2000

So this fellow barista of mine, let’s call him Rich, he comes off as a real clean-cut type, a real stand-out citizen. Rich could’ve been the dude who gave Little Goody Two-Shoes her first pair of pumps. He’s a part-timer at the coffee shop. This baffles * me given that he’s also a full-time chemist/biologist at Redacted Labs, teaches kids how to play chess on Sundays, serves as a “big brother” to at-risk youth, volunteers to feed the homeless, patronizes the opera, easily qualifies as one who is “well-read,” and continues to take physics college courses “ just for fun. ” I learned earlier this evening that Rich has a dark side, too. When he’s not brewing coffee or being an altruist or an overachiever, he’s going to raves, he’s getting smashed, he’s experimenting with very dangerous illicit drugs. He goes through men and women like Denis Leary goes through packs of cigarettes. But to look at him, you would never know it. This Rich guy, he’s the poster boy for the young affluent yuppie...

Nearly everywhere coffee is served in this country you’ll find what we, at Chicago Coffee Cadre #7, call a “mixing station.” I.e., a stand where a patron finds plasticware, wooden stirring rods, a variety of sweetener packets, and creamer carafes. Additionally, our mixing stations (we have two) each feature a hole, six inches in diameter. Said hole exists as the opening above a hidden receptacle. Said receptacle awaits the rubbish that results from the addition of whatever you put into your coffee.  [If this is, indeed, you, have you ever considered just how many white / brown / pink / green / yellow / powder blue paper packets of sweetener you’ve ripped open and discarded in your lifetime? What if you had to keep all of those packets with you for the rest of your days? How on Earth would you ever get by if all idiotic “single-use” things—like sweetener packets and mixing rods—were outlawed?]  Most patrons of CCC #7 understand and appreciate the function of the hole in our re...

In addition to Richard Lindberg’s Return Again To The Scene Of The Crime: A Guide To Even More Infamous Places In Chicago , and the September 1961 and October 1964 issues of “ Modern Man: The Adult Picture Magazine,” and the October 1956 issue of “ Cabaret : The Adult Entertainment Magazine,” and the April 1962 issue of “ Ace : The Magazine For Men Of Distinction,” and also the June 1959 issue of “ 21 ,” I picked up a copy of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Duino Elegies. If you’d been there, you’d have found all this, and more, at Manager Mick’s annual yard sale in Wicker Park.  Long before Mick managed a coffee shop, he made anatomically correct Ken dolls. He also did things to Barbie dolls Mattel probably wouldn’t approve of. To his credit, his collection was featured on an episode of “ Wild Chicago.”  Mick used to pay the bills by performing as a stripper. He sold drugs, too. But he also found work as an interior designer. Like so many real-world things and folks, TV seems to g...

SOURCE MEDIA   SONY “CLEAR VOICE PLUS”  MICROCASSETTE-CORDER M-450 /  TDK MC60 MICROCASSETTE /  TWO “UNKNOWN” PATRONS  (IDENTIFIED  AS “A” AND “B”)  OF CHICAGO COFFEE CADRE  (STORE #7)  BEGIN PLAYBACK  PATRON A   So many times…  So many times…  So many  mother effin’ times…  the “For Rent” sign?  Yeah.  Or the ad?  It’ll tell ya: call .  Call …  for the rental rate.  Call?  PATRON B   Mm-hm.  PATRON A   Why?  Why waste your time?  Why waste my time?  Why?  PATRON B   Hm.  PATRON A Is it ever really negotiable? If you wanna rent the place, you’ve gotta pay what the slumlord wants you to pay. Right? Anyways, it’s usually the goddamn janitor who shows you the dump; and it’s not like this dope has the power to negotiate anything. And here’s a guy, the goddamn janitor guy, who, nowadays, he’s always got a title more, more, what? Polit...

RESUME PLAYBACK  PATRON B   They probably just want —  PATRON A   I’ll tell you want they want. They want to “show off” the place — all the “amenities.”  PATRON B   Yeah, well —  PATRON A They throw up a ceiling fan; call it, “Completely Rehabbed.”   PATRON B  I’d like a ceiling f —  PATRON A   Buddy, buddy, buddy: We’re talkin’ a moldy, paper-thin walled, “studio” apartment, barely big enough to pull a futon half way out. My ass it’s “completely rehabbed.”  PATRON B   Yeah, I dunno. Completely? I wouldn’t —  PATRON A   And on the rare occasion it’s a “rental agent” who’s there to greet you, it’s always somebody who failed, or could only fail, at selling used cars. [ Alters voice: ] “Oooh, yes, note the Casablanca ‘Stealth’ High Performance ceiling fan. That there’s brushed nickel. With platinum blades. And a hundred-watt Halogen bulb.  Just... look at it…  whirl …  with such…  youthful…...

RESUME PLAYBACK  PATRON A   And they always want you to say “Yes” before they give you the price. Why? Well, it's key. PATRON B The — ? PATRON A That's right. It's the key. The key to selling anything. Don’t ever let the mark ever say, “No.”  PATRON B Mm.  PATRON A   Like at the gym. They always want you to sign up for a personal trainer. Or when the phone company badgers you into buying the latest in voicemail technology. And don’t even talk to me about car dealerships.  PATRON B Yeah. Dealerships.  PATRON A   So many people want to sell you this great thing, this great service. Never mind what you can afford.  PATRON B Uh-huh.  PATRON A Or… maybe… Maybe I’m a space alien. Because, me? If it costs too much? I’m not buying it. End of story. End of conversation. You go stick your installment plan up your rump. Right up in it. Jam it up in there. Your five, ten, thirty thousand “easy” payments of nineteen ninety-five. Screw your “First Mon...

RESUME PLAYBACK  PATRON A Lookit.  Me?  My point of view?  We don’t need more... consumerism.  We don’t need more... communism. All we need...  is…  common... sense.  We’re this Always In Debt Society.  Why?  PATRON B   Wh…?  I…  PATRON A Because we so easily bore.  We’re bored, our kids are bored.  And, unlike the dog, we’re not content to fetch a tossed stick every thirty seconds.  PATRON B   No.  PATRON A   Then again, maybe if our spines allowed us, whenever the urge struck, to blow ourselves? Maybe it’d be a different world.  PATRON B   Um.  PATRON A Imagine a world in which sucking yourself off was as commonplace as sneezing. We all gotta service the urge. Yeah? Bad things happen when you don’t. But say you couldn’t sneeze in public. Say it was somehow illegal. But say you could — just for shits and giggles — say you could blow yourself in public. Without shame. Like...

RESUME PLAYBACK PATRON A   Not all of us, but a lot of us, or enough of us to make a difference, we don’t know what to do with our free time. Heh. “Free.” When time’s not “free,” what is it? What’re we doin’? What’re you doin? PATRON B Me?  PATRON A  You.  Everybody.  Everybody who’s not a shut-in.  Everybody who’s not a vegetable.  PATRON B I, uh —  PATRON A   You’re prostituting yourself. Yeah? Yeah. Or tryin’ to. Makin’ all the moolah you can. But when finally you’re forced to call it quits for the day, what’s to do then?  PATRON B   Well. I —  PATRON A   We’ve —  some of us —  we’ve made all this money. Or just enough. Now what?  PATRON B   I like —  PATRON A Some folks? What they’ll do is they’ll sit around and they’ll marvel at it. Or… so to speak. They’ll spend hours reviewing and tinkering with their, what, their “portfolios.” Ooooh. “Portfolios.”  Some’ll even brag. You know. whoever ...

FireVaney busses and wipes down the tables. Here’s what he overhears…  “Something’s the matter with my armpits. Not sure what. More hair, more skin. Maybe both. Just thought you should know.”  “So Ry’s, what, twenty-one? You know this seventeen year old he’s seeing? Yeah, he says she’s seventeen. Mm-hm. So few days ago they’re at his place. She puts a blindfold on him. Leads him out the building, down the street. All the way to the Red Line. The Belmont stop. They ride the L to Howard. She leads him, blindfolded, across the platform to the Purple Line. They take it all the way to Wilmette. That’s where the tracks end. She guides him out the station, then down the street. I dunno which street. No idea how far. They end up in a field. I dunno what kind of field. I didn’t ask. I didn’t think to ask. But they’re in the middle of this field. She whispers in his ear, ‘I want to make love to you.’ If they went ahead and did it, I don’t know if that’s where they did it. But why el...

The “backroom” of the Chicago Coffee Cadre (store #7). FireVaney washes dishes. Clayton enters and hangs up his jacket.  FireVaney   You two have a good time?  Clayton   We get along great.  FireVaney   I mean,  [ slowly ]  did you two have a good time?  [ Brief pause. ]  Clayton   Is that any of your business?  FireVaney   ‘Course not.  [ Brief pause .]  She a screamer?  Clayton   What?   FireVaney  Does she scream?  Clayton   No.  She’s quiet.  FireVaney   Maybe you don’t satisfy her.  Clayton   No. She once said she can see colors.  FireVaney   She color blind?   Clayton   No.  FireVaney   What colors?  Clayton   She didn’t say.  FireVaney   She didn’t say?  You didn’t ask?  Clayton  She said she saw colors.  So I said I saw spots.  FireVaney Cute. Next time ask what colors.  I...

SEPTEMBER 28, 2001 : Yesterday made the list of my top five worst days at work. I’ll tell the whole story tomorrow. I’m too tired right now. I’m going on something less than three hours of sleep. * Donny, the guy I worked with yesterday afternoon, is a stubborn son of a bitch. He also lacks common sense—which is common of stubborn sons of bitches. I got pushed to the edge yesterday—it wasn’t entirely his fault—but he did send me over. I worked a double and then some, without a break, during which two lunatics really got under my skin. One was a “guest” and the other was a drunk Donny should’ve left alone. I’ll explain tomorrow. SEPTEMBER 29, 2001 : Here’s the story—it’s a pathetic story, but it happened; and I suppose it sums up why I avoid coffee shops…  So I’m scheduled to work a double, starting at six in the morning. It’s a typical AM shift at the Chicago Coffee Cadre (store #7) on the corner of Broadway and Aldine. Donny clocks in at noon and takes over the espresso bar. Two...