I wish I could tell you all the crazy schemes we're concocting at CCR headquarters. You will know soon enough, my precious. It will all become clear. The light at the end of the tunnel, the unveiling of really cool stuff, is what keeps me calm in light of frustrating emails, defective goods, miles of red tape and East Coasters who think Montanans are snaggle toothed, slack jawed idiots. Maybe someday I'll take you guys to the edge of the precipice so you can check out what we're diving into. It's worth Dominic in New Jersey thinking it takes all 14 of my brain cells to operate a cell phone, I just have to keep calm and carry on. Could be worse, I could be from New Jersey.
I thought I would take a break from Excel spreadsheets and shipping terms to tell you all a story! I've put a similar disclaimer on a previous story but for any newbies I want to repeat and expand a little on something. I love my job. I love people. I've tried to office job it 9-5 M-F and I mostly wanted to punch myself in the face. I can't not be around people. It's just that... some people... well, some people make for good stories. How about that? When I share something on the blog the characters are amalgamations (how's that for slack jawed, Dominic?!) of a few different interactions, or a few characteristics pulled from several customers. These touches make for a much better story and also protects the innocent (albeit bizarre) people I am writing about. Technically, by mixing a little of George with a little of Ron and a pinch of Nancy I am making an entirely new character and no one can be offended, right? That's what helps me sleep at night, anyway. Basically I want to say, please don't get your panties in a bunch and worry that I'm talking about you or something you did. I'm not. Probably.
Anyway. We have this real pain in the ass come in every once in awhile and nothing is ever quite good enough. Occasionally pleasant, always mumbling, inevitably frustrating and obviously single for a reason besides the male pattern baldness; Harry likes things just so. He has a habit of starting to say something and shaking his head while turning his body as he completes the sentence. As I mentioned above homeboy is a chronic mumbler so combine that with the shake and turn and communication points are entirely moot. He, of course, wants a response though and will go as far as to do the eyebrow raise/open hand gesture/"hmmmm?" thing to get you to say something back. Sometimes I tell him I completely agree, sometimes I say I dunno, sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I look at him as though he has just said something so profound and interesting that I might go back to grad school and write my thesis on it. I once had to break up a fight between Harry who is a flaming democrat and another older gentlemen who is staunchly republican. I finally said enough when from one end of the store Harry yelled, "If you believe that load of shit you're probably going to tell me next that you rode a unicorn here with pinwheels for eyes." Ohhhhkay, Harry. It's time for a timeout. We're all friends here, all the man said was that he found Reagan to be a charismatic leader.
And that's Harry. Don't get me wrong, I like him well enough. He's just a bit of a pain in the ass. Aren't we all?
Harry comes to get himself a big americano and work on his computer for awhile one day recently. He happened to come in right at the after school rush so the upstairs was packed with chai chillers and strawberry smoothies. After collecting his americano he shuffled downstairs to work in peace. Or so he thought.
Our downstairs closes at 6pm, if you weren't aware of that. Whenever the second person is getting off shift they close it up down there so that the store closer doesn't have to maintain two levels of service. We're good but we still don't wanna. At about 5:55 I head down to start closing down on this particular evening. I first approach two men in the corner by the door and tell them it's time to start heading upstairs. They collect their stuff and mosey so I head toward Harry, who happens to be the only other person in the basement.
"Hey, Harry --" I start, he has headphones in. At this point he cuts me off by waving my words away with one hand and pulling his earphones out with the other.
"Yeah, yeah. I already heard you." He grunted at me. Well, fine then. Excuse me for being courteous and not just hollering a 2 minute warning down the stairwell before locking any poor bastards who didn't hear me in the dark scary basement.
Maintaining my cheerful demeanor I tell him I'll see him upstairs as soon as he gets his stuff packed up and continue on my way up. Before I can escape his drivel I hear from behind me, "What, by the way, is that awful smell?"
First of all, as we have already discussed, I am riding sidecar. As a pregnant woman my sense of smell is incredible. I am a grizzly sow to his mere human capacity olfactory. The basement smells like a basement. Cold, a little damp, not a lot of air circulation. I suppose we could install a fan. I wouldn't say it's offensive, I would say it smells like a basement. And I would know.
"Smell, Harry?" I ask, heading back toward his vicinity.
"Yes. It's horrific. It makes me feel as though I am going to be ill. I thought I could take it but the longer I sat down here the worse it got. It's positively disgusting."
"Oh, wow. I'm really sorry to hear that. I'm not sure I smell what you smell, and I don't know what could have caused that. I sure hope there isn't something moldy or--"
He cuts me off again to say, "No. It smells like someone used the bathroom down here. Right here!" And he points to the ground near his feet.
Seriously? Did you really just tell me that you think someone shit in the basement? Areyoufuckingkiddingme? Get out. Just leave.
Rather than spouting what came to my mind I found my inner diplomat and said, "Well, Harry, there is always the back room in the upstairs. I know it was full up there but the back room usually has--," this is cutoff number 3 now.
"I don't want to sit in the backroom because if I put my laptop on the table I have to lean too far to reach it and if I put it on my lap the screen slants and I can't see comfortably." He explains this to me in a similar tone to the tone Dominic in New Jersey uses to ask me how my snaggle teeth are feeling.
Well shit, Harry. Your life is just too damn hard. I bet heading over to Darfur would be like vacation compared to what you go through here in the Colter Coffee Undergrounds.
I finally tell him I have to head back upstairs and leave without consoling him further for our terrible smelling, unsuitable seating place of business.
Also, everybody who reads, come in this weekend for the art sale we're having in the rank smelling basement! A few local potters and a jewelry designer will set up shop downstairs and have a bunch of beautiful wares for you to decorate yourselves with! Beginning Friday afternoon and going through Sunday. Be extra sure to come in during the Art Walk on Friday evening. Shop local!
Until next time.
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