Tully’s Coffee Shop

Posted on July 22, 2002 in Cafes

I don’t think I have ever told any of them my name. I know all of their’s — they blare it on their golden plastic tags. Customers like me go nameless, even if we show up nearly every day. A girl who’s been gone for a couple of weeks runs the counter with the new assistant manager.

She suspects, I think, that I am a writer. I show at around 2 o’clock most weekdays carrying notepads, a handful of pens, and a couple of light reference books. Once she asked me about it, obliquely. She’s the only one who’s ever dared. I think I smiled. I am getting into the practice of not hiding my involvement in the amateur’s profession.

This one tip toes around me when she sees me writing. Today she walked up to the window that opens next to the rattan chairs I’ve used the last few times I came here. Then she stopped when I looked up and sputtered “How’s it going?” before she ran back behind the counter and hid on the side beside the cash register.

I don’t know why she ran. The look on my face feels plain, unopinionated. I look up when they come to the near side of the bar to pour a cup of decaf or grind some fresh beans. I don’t change the expression. The two of them glance nervously back at me.

People who have seen me while I am writing say that I look angry. When this kid is not busy or chatting with one of the studly boyfriends who come to visit with her, she dawdles behind the coffee grinder fiddling with the restroom keys or the plastic boxes filled with vacuum packed coffee Antigua Guatemala roast. If I catch her looking at me, she walks away. When she grinds coffee she looks at me. When she fills a cup for another customer, she sneaks a glance. She washes her hands and turns about to shake them dry and look at me. If she goes to the restroom, she investigates my activity for the second it takes her to drop the women’s room key back in its transparent holder.

I don’t think it’s a crush. She speaks too curtly when I order my coffee. Gives me orders to stand here or identify my preferences in dainties immediately. It’s business. Get it done and over with. And I am happy to comply because the joy I come here for is not the sight of a pretty, young, slightly acned girl but the writing. I think she’s just curious. To tell the truth, I long to read the stuff I create aloud to someone as I beget it, but not to her. This one is young and I’m middle-aged. I need good critics, not worshippers. It’s best that I keep this neutral face of mine and let the likes of her misread it as her imagination leads her. In the meantime, I will follow mine.