20 posts tagged “starbucks”

"Been thinking about getting a real job."

I've talked about this before, but with "Snapshots At St. Arbuck's: hijacked by hope in a neighborhood coffee bar" going to press in just a few short weeks, I wanted to log a few thoughts on the "genesis" of the concept.

It all started quite by chance on one balmy San Diego afternoon several years ago when I found myself ensconced in the corner of a beachside St. Arbuck's slaving unproductively over a chapter in my first novel.

A novel that has since been consigned to the boneyard, if anyone is interested...vile beast that it was.

A young couple sat down at the table next to me and began to talk about plans for their upcoming wedding.

And I sort of listened in.

It wasn't eavesdropping in the classic sense for such was the proximity I couldn't have ignored their conversation if I had wanted to.

The more I listened the more engrossed I became.

Her parents hated the groom and vowed not only to withhold financial support but to boycott the wedding as well.

His parents were quite impoverished and couldn't help, but loved them both fiercely.

They tossed around several options for dealing with the problem and finally settled on getting married on Mission Beach and having the reception at McDonald's with a dance to follow in the park vis-a-vis a boombox.

It seemed that the groom's brother was a minister so even that expense was covered.

Their positive optomism was absolutely compelling.

There were no long faces or carping about what should've or could've been.

They just grabbed the problem and pummeled it into submission.

So impressive was this display that after they left I opened a new Word Document and jotted down a few impressions and saved it in a file I labeled "Story Ideas."

And there it sat in a form of literary solitary confinement until one day I opened it up and got the idea for Snapshots at St. Arbuck's.

So what's the point?

Just this...

Wherever you are, you have a window on the world.

In your car; at the office; in school; at the mall; uh, coffee shops; even at home with your kids.

There are stories all around you in a never-ending human drama.

All kinds of stories, IF you'll just open your eyes and think like a writer.

In fact, think about this...

Take your laptop to a public place and linger until you spot a compelling individual (or group, couple, whatever).

Then begin to describe what you see in your best writer's voice.

Think creatively and dramatically.

Yes, I said "dramatically."

I mean are we writers or not???

My bet is that you will be amazed at what you can produce.

It's no big secret, folks.

My St. Arbuck's is no more interesting than yours.

The secret is that YOU have to be interested in the people.

But I'll warn you...once you start, there's no turning back.

You'll be hooked.

"Snapshots" never would've happened had I not made the choice that day to start writing down what I observe.

Now? I'm 125 pages into "Snapshots" part 2.  

RG...out!

"You think you'll ever grow your hair out again?"

We were sitting on the patio of St. Arbuck's--that would be my beloved and me--enjoying a morning that, thus far, had been about as easy as convincing someone to accept a free trip to Hawaii.

So I was in San Diego over the weekend, as has been my custom for the past fourteen months.

It’s windy outside today.

It’s windy EVERY day in Las Vegas of late.

As a result, St. Arbuck’s is full of people who would normally be sitting outside on the patio enjoying our brief stretch of “good” weather before the heat returns in May.

I found a seat, but just barely.

After getting settled in my mind started wandering down a familiar trail, one that I’ve been spending a lot of time exploring over the past week or so.

The late Harry Chapin spun a classic tale in his song, “Mr. Tanner.”

It was the story of a laundryman from Dayton, Ohio who was known for singing as he went about his daily task. Over a period of time friends, neighbors and customers began to suggest that he should consider leaving the cleaning business and use his gift instead.

But of Mr. Tanner’s response Chapin wrote:

“But music was his life, it was not his livelihood; And it made him feel so happy and it made him feel so good; And he sang from his heart and he sang from his soul; He did not know how well he sang; It just made him whole.”

The story goes on to recount how following incessant pressure from his friends, Mr. Tanner took a trip to New York where a concert agent had agreed to have him sing, a trip that took most of his savings.

Even though the attendance was poor, the music critics were in attendance and following his performance their commentary was less than kind: “Mr. Martin Tanner, Baritone, of Dayton, Ohio made his Town Hall debut last night. He came well prepared, but unfortunately his presentation was not up to contemporary professional standards. His voice lacks the range of tonal color necessary to make it consistently interesting. Full time consideration of another endeavor might be in order.”

The song concludes with his return to Dayton where in response to many questions by his friends he said nothing but returned to his work...and never sang again.

“Excepting very late at night when the shop was dark and closed. He sang softly to himself as he sorted through the clothes. Music was his life, it was not his livelihood, and it made him feel so happy and it made him feel so good. And he sang from his heart and he sang from his soul. He did not know how well he sang; It just made him whole.”

I believe it was Wm. Shakespeare who said, “This above all else, to thine own self be true.” And while it may seem “good” to pursue a career to which one may seem obligated because of a natural gifting; toward which one is pushed by friends and family, it is not necessarily the “best.”

There are times when being “true” to oneself requires the setting aside of gifting in favor of what the heart compels. Like Mr. Tanner, I have known many individuals who, in response to constant prodding by friends and family, have pursued a gift-based career only to wind up miserable and unfulfilled because it was not their dream.

What happens when someone else is given the power to define you? You will be formed into whatever they need you to be instead of being allowed to grow into your destiny.

Elaine knows a lot about this topic.

“I’ll never forget the day my mother—that would be my mother the Doctor—sat me down and had her ‘career’ talk with me. She said that the world had changed and women didn’t have to be satisfied with staying home and changing dirty diapers, cooking, cleaning, and basically being a slave to their husbands. She said that I could do anything I wanted to do. And I’m sure she thought she meant it. But in her world doing anything I wanted to do really meant doing what she wanted me to do. And she made no attempt to hide the fact that she wanted me to be a doctor, just like her. It was her big dream for my life.

“The only problem was that I had a dream of my own. I dreamed of being a stay-at-home mom whose only responsibility was to nurture and care for her children. Over time that dream got buried under layers and layers of my mother’s expectations and I had no idea how to even begin the process of uncovering and reclaiming. But like any treasure, this was worth seeking and, like any treasure, whether you find it or not depends on your willingness to take that first step.

“I’m in my last year of residency at a large, metropolitan hospital. You see, my mother’s will is quite strong. Did I mention that I’m about one month away from delivering my first baby? When I told her that I was dropping out of the program she said, ‘But think of all the lives who will suffer without your care.’ I told her that only one life was my responsibility and that I plan to give him the best I have to give, because that’s my dream. In time she’ll understand.”

What’s the point?

Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.

I have seen countless lives ruined by people allowing themselves to be defined by someone else’s need, someone else’s purpose!

You are meant to follow your destiny and not be led, shoved or otherwise intimidated into anything else.

And even though it may seem good at the time, hold out for the best.

RG...out!

It was mid-afternoon at St. Arbuck’s and I was at my usual corner table frantically chasing down a creative thought that had flitted through my brain only briefly before departing for regions unknown.

Since it was the only one I’d had for days on end, it simply had to be seized.

She came into the store quietly, almost shyly, stepping just inside the doorway and looking around as if searching for someone—a rather plain looking brown-haired woman of uncertain age, although if I had to guess I would say late thirties.

The door closing against her backside seemed to startle her and she stepped forward and then turned toward the condiment table which was also the direction of my table.

Her brown eyes fell on mine and held for just a second before turning away, but in that momentary contact I saw swimming in their depths a deep, deep exhaustion intermingled with profound sadness.

Since there were no other tables available, she sat at the one next to mine.

She wore jeans, a plain, white, long-sleeved blouse, which was untucked, and no jewelry that I could see.

A plastic grocery bag was looped over her wrist and she placed it softly, almost reverentially on the table top in front of her.

She leaned back in the chair, stared at the ceiling for a few seconds and then blew out a world-weary sigh.

With a quick shake of the head she began to remove the contents of the bag which seemed to contain only a battered, paperbacked Bible, a spiral notepad and a disposable pen.

Since I had completely lost track of my illusive thought I decided to just let it go.

Before opening the Bible she looked around the store once again, only this time she almost seemed to be making sure no one was watching.

When her eyes finally made their way to me, she stared at me for the longest time as if trying to decide whether I posed a threat.

Finally she said in heavily accented English, “Sorry, but I am still scared to read openly.”

I smiled and said, “I’m not sure I understand.”

Nodding quickly she smiled, tapped her chest and said, “Eight years ago I come from Romania.” Pausing briefly she continued, “Eight years, but still scared.”

Not really knowing how to respond, I simply nodded and smiled my most winning smile, which has been known in the past to alternately put people at ease and send young children running for their parents.

I said, “I’m RG.”

She silently mouthed the letters and said with a puzzled frown, “This is a name?”

Laughing I said, “Well, sort of.”

She didn’t press it further and said, “I am Nadia.”

“Nice to meet you, Nadia.”

“And you as well...Aregee.”

I laughed at her attempted pronunciation and said, “Are you here with your family?”

Another sigh and then, “My daughter, yes. Husband, no.” Digging quickly into the bag she pulled out a picture and handed it to me. “Monica.”

The picture was of a tall, slender girl—with perfect teeth which were displayed liberally in a brilliant smile—holding a violin and posing proudly beside a trophy.

“How old is she?”

“Twelve.”

“She’s beautiful,” I said handing the picture back to her. “She has your eyes.”

“Everyone says,” she said as she took the picture and laid it carefully on the table, touching it tenderly. “She is at lesson and I wait here for her. She is very, eh, gifted. Her teacher says she could be professional...like her poppa.”

I said, “He plays professionally in Romania?”

She blinked her eyes rapidly, as if attempting to hold back tears, and said, “Yes. Very good violinist. He was not allowed to leave when we came here—things were different then. And now, immigration to America is very hard. I don’t know when he will come.” A quick breath and then, “So I serve drinks in the casino, and walk...always walking, walking, for hours and hours. My feet hurt, my back. Men say things to me...shameful things. But this I do for Monica...for my baby girl.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It must be very hard.”

Resting her hand absently on the Bible she looked at me and said, “Very hard...yes. But for Monica, I do anything.”

Just then, her eyes shown with a light previously missing, her lips stretched into a lovely smile and she waved toward the entrance where a young lady, obviously Monica, was just entering.

Nadia stood, enfolded her girl in a hug and said, “Oh, my sweet, baby girl. I love you. I missed you so much today.”

“I missed you too, momma,” said Monica, her head against her mother’s shoulder, eyes closed just drinking in the love.

After a few moments she turned Monica toward me and said, “Aregee, this is my baby girl...my treasure. Monica, this is Aregee.”

Monica smiled, wrinkled up her nose and said, “Aregee? This is a name?

Making a mental note to work on a way to explain my name to those of foreign birth, I said, “It’s a long story. Nice to meet you, Monica. I hear you are a very good violinist.”

She said very soberly, “I have to be if I’m to make enough money to bring my poppa to America.”

We engaged in small talk for a few more minutes and then with an invitation to come and visit their church sometime, Nadia and Monica left, walking arm-in-arm across the patio toward the parking lot.

I watched them go and felt a lump forming in my throat as I thought of the sacrifice Nadia made each and every day for her baby girl; of the sacrifice Monica makes for her father.

It made me think of a sentence contained within the pages of that tattered book in Nadia’s bag: There is no greater love than this, than if a man lays down his life for a friend.

And in light of what I had just seen, I suddenly felt as if I had too much of everything.

Aregee...out!

The passage of years in a person's life affords the individual a unique opportunity to indulge in that quite often frustrating enterprise known as hindsight...something which has been occupying my thoughts on this rainy Friday morning.

Safe from the rain inside a bustling St. Arbuck's, it occurs to me that everyone experiences defining moments in their lives where time seems to be forever encapsulated within a snapshot of memory. And from that point you can trace dramatic changes that come about as a result.

I have been reviewing just such a snapshot while slowly sipping my Grande coffee, with room for cream.

My mind takes me back to times when, as a child, I would kneel for hours on end on the overstuffed cushions of our comfortable old sofa and gaze through the rain spattered window as our otherwise dull neighborhood was transformed into a fantasy world rich with possibilities for adventure.

At some point my curiosity would get the best of me and, donning rubber boots and rain slicker, I would set out to explore the marvels of this world.

I recall being particularly fascinated by the stream of water flowing down the gutters and rushing relentlessly toward the gaping maw of the storm drain. I would often try to block the flow of water with my hand only to have the stream flow over and around it. One time, in a particularly ambitious frame of mind, I collected several pieces of wood, along with a concrete block, in a futile attempt to construct a barricade which the water could not surmount.

My failure to do so had been one of those defining moments, for that simple exercise taught me that regardless of one's best efforts, the flow of water cannot be halted. Oh, sure, you may be able to send it off in a different direction for a time...but the stream keeps going.

Experience has taught me that it is the same in life. In spite of the circumstances one faces--the trials blown in by various seasons, or even the times when personal failure seems destined to halt the flow--the "stream" keeps going.

The larger lesson is that the wise person lets it.

Long ago I made a conscious choice that I will not be manipulated by memories nor be haunted by my history...and I most definitely have a history. Now that I think about it, I have yet to meet the person who, by taking thought, can change a single thing about their past. But, man, do we ever try!

I have heard it said that one of the greatest tragedies in life is when we allow the past to bleed into our present and poison our future.

Two young mothers dash into the store shaking the rain from their hair and laughing at their bedraggled appearance after having expended so much effort at home getting ready.

The three businessmen at a corner table stand and shake hands, obviously excited over having sealed another big deal.

A shaken teenaged boy talks on a cell phone while staring through the windows at the crumpled fender on his car and assuring his mom that he is all right but that the car is going to "need a little work."

Can I tell you something? We all need a little work.

"How's that mocha?"

My beloved and I sat contentedly on the patio of St. Arbuck's enjoying what would turn out to be the last nice morning of the year.

She swallowed slowly, savoring the taste and said with a smile, "I think I'm beginning to develop a taste for it."

For those of you not in the know, after a lifetime of resistance, futile though it was, she has recently became as one with caffeine.

And the heavens rejoiced.

And the crowd went wild.

"Yay."

Leaning forward she peered at me in that manner known to married men far and wide.

No...it wasn't "the look," but rather its second cousin, "the exploratory gaze."

This typically occurs when the woman in question has spotted something on the person of the man in question that, in her opinion, does not belong.

"What?" I said whilst feeling the cold tendrils of fear winding their way around my spine.

Smiling sweetly she said, "Oh, nothing. I was just wondering whether you wanted me to braid that ear hair for you."

Almost of its own accord, my hand flew upward in a hasty attempt the cover the offending ear.

"Hair?" I wailed. "I have hair in my ear?"

"Ears, dear. Make that 'ears'...plural."

I sat there feeling around in my auditory canals with both hands like some guy adjusting his hearing aids.

Okay...that was weak, but just go with it.

"Hair in my ears!" I said disgustedly. "I can't believe it."

She waved to a cute little girl proudly drinking hot chocolate with her father and said, "Oh, I don't know why not. I mean it's not like that's the only place."

Dear lord!

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She raised one eyebrow, wiggled her nose and turned her attention back to the Sudoku puzzle.

"My nose?" I cried. "There's hair in my nose?"

"Thanks for the info, buddy," said friendly, eavesdropping guy at the next table.

I dispatched him with a withering stare.

"But why there? Why not on my head? I mean who needs hair in their flippin' ears anyway?"

A hoary-headed elder stepped slowly past our table, a veritable forest protruding from ears, nose, eyebrows...

Without looking up she said, "That's you in thirty years."

"Excuse me," I said rising quickly and making my way to the restroom where, after the door was securely locked behind me, I dashed to the mirror and gazed intently at my much-maligned image.

To my horror, it was all true.

Every bit of it...and more!

Turning toward the door I composed my face into a reasonable facsimile of a pleasant expression and exited, making my way quickly back to the table hoping against hope that I wouldn't see anyone I knew.

The coast, as they say, whoever "they" are, was clear.

"So," I said casually, "you going to help me with this?"

Looking up from the puzzle my wife said as if in amazement, "Are you asking for my help? Because if you are I need to call the kids, my sisters, friends, heck, alert the media..."

"Okay, okay," I said. "Point made, point taken." After a brief pause I continued, "I repeat...are you going to help me with this?"

"Oh, sure," she said casually with a wave of her hand and then went back to the puzzle.

From across the patio came a cheerful, lilting, "Hey guys."

It was one of my wife's friends who, by the way, was making her way energetically and cheerfully toward where we sat.

"Great!" said I. "This is just great. What am I supposed to do now?" 

Beloved smiled and said, "Just tell her hair happens. She's married...she'll understand."

In the immortal words of Danny DeVito, "I'll tell you one thing,  it's a cruel, cruel world."

Ain't it just.

RG...out!

He walked through the doorway of St. Arbuck's.