And then, my old college coffee maker finally broke down. So the morning after Halloween, I went to the corporate coffee shop down the street where, apparently, it was already Christmas.
Holiday mugs. Hot chocolate sets. Snowflake-shaped after-coffee mints. Their suggested stocking stuffers of “homemade” gingerbread cookies and holiday-packaged bags containing their annual signature Christmas Blend. Everything in green and red and silver and gold. There was even a huge-ass tree strung with coffee beans and ornaments shaped like coffee cups. And the worst part of all---Christmas music.
I just wanted a cup of coffee. Not a sleigh ride.
“Good morning! Would you like to try our signature Christmas Blend?”
“It’s too early,” I mumbled.
“Well…I guess nine o’clock is early for some people…”
“No,” I said, barely able to speak. “Christmas. It’s too early.”
“It’s the day after Halloween. That’s when the Christmas magic begins!”
“But yesterday the special was Pumpkin Spice and today it’s…” I looked around at the posters. “Peppermint swirl?”
“Well, it’s only six weeks till Christmas,” Little Miss Morning Sunshine dared to explain. “And we’ve got all this stuff to…”
“Seven.”
“What?”
“It’s seven weeks. I know. It’s seven weeks.”
“Um…” she seemed confused. “Did you WANT the Pumpkin Spice? Because I might have some syrup….”
“No. Just coffee.”
“The Christmas Blend?”
“No Christmas. Just coffee.”
“Okay,” she smiled and turned around to pour my coffee, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was about to be tortured for the next seven weeks by cheery Christmas tunes.
“Do you like this? This music?” I asked as she handed me the paper cup.
Without batting an eye, she suddenly chirped up even more than I thought possible. “It just puts me in the mood! Merry Christmas!”
“Yesterday you wished me Happy Halloween.”
“Okay,” she seemed confused. “Well…have a great day!”
Sometimes, I think things would have been different if I’d gotten that horse.
2
When I tell people I work at a modeling agency, they look at me kinda funny. And I’m starting to resent that. Because you don’t need to look like Heidi Klum to answer the phone.
My gay friends had a field day when I got the job. No item of my clothing went without comment.
“You’re wearing rain boots to work? And that dress? Oh my god. You look like the Morton Salt Girl.”
But it was raining. And goulashes are appropriate rain gear.
Furthermore----this is not The Movies. Like those films set in the modeling world where a staff member opens a closet and racks of designer clothes that magically fit the heroine instantly appear….
At our low-budget “agency”, there was nothing but an unlit coat closet with the faint smell of pee. Inside you will find a cigarette-stained red sateen jacket and a moldy pair of old sneakers---all of unknown origin.
A few weeks ago, there was also a smelly towel. No one admitted to any knowledge of the smelly towel. But the closet was right next to my reception desk. So I took care of it myself. If anyone comes in looking for their smelly towel---you just send them to me. I have a few questions.
In short, I wouldn’t even hang my coat in there.
I’m a clean person. I bathe daily. Sure there’s some cat hair now and then. But I wear discreet make-up and do my best with my hair. Though on a humid day, I’ve been known to resort to a scrunchie.
But I’m a temp. I think that relaxes the dress code just a bit.
I’m also a diligent, conscientious worker. I don’t think I need to look like a supermodel to do the filing----or simply to exist, for that matter.
Nor would I want to. I think I have character. I think I look okay. And if I’ve only had two semi-relationships in the past four years…
Well, that just shows that I have standards.
I’m not a saint. I’m not perfect. I admit I once made-out with a rock star. Okay, he was just in a Beatles cover band. But at least he was “John”. And I hadn’t had dinner so gave me some of his pizza. I thought that showed sincerity. Okay---yes, I’d had a few beers. But we also had a long discussion about the works of Charles Bukowski. And yes, I know I should have walked away when we were discussing Bukowski’s novels and he didn’t know what the word “misogynist” meant.
But had a fake-British accent and a mop-top. And we only made out. That’s all.
Because I have standards.
Okay, I had too much beer and realized I’d better go home before I threw-up. But it was college. I think that relaxes the moral code just a bit.
I’m aware this doesn’t paint me in the brightest light.
But I’m a nice person. I know that. It’s what separates me from…
Well, from most of New York City.
Maybe it’s because I’m from the Midwest. I don’t know. But people are mean here. It’s cut throat.
They don’t care about you. They’re just trying to make a buck. And they lie. They lie! I can’t believe how much they lie.
There’s a homeless guy I see on the train. An old man with no shoes. He walks up and down the aisles in his bare feet begging for change. You see this, and your heart breaks for this old man with no shoes.
A few months ago, I started thinking about this man. This poor old man with no shoes. It’s hard not to think about him because I see him quite a bit. And he never has any shoes.
Then I started noticing all
