Spidercamp

the men of today's office

A customer in the coffeeshop knows the girl behind the counter, or at least knows her name, and is trying to impress her. She’s redheaded and lovely. He’s a ponderous tool. I know he’s not getting anywhere when I hear his first words to her: “Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.” She pretends not to hear him. He has no shame: he clears his throat and announces it again.

He has just come back from New York and wants to flourish his intimate knowledge of the city. He name-drops celebrities and restaurants. It goes like this:

He says, “And then we went to Central Park. Not many people know where the secluded spots are.”

She says, “I’ve been to New York.”

“I stopped in at the loveliest little Brazilian sushi place. Sushi Samba - do you know it? Very nice, though I found the yellowfin a bit damp.”

“I’ve been to New York.”

He leaves, still not having heard her, still smug. A coworker asks the redhead something I can’t hear. She sighs. “I know. I’m just trying to not look like such a bitch.”

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The man with the shaved head and the delicate air and the foul mouth is my new buddy. He’s working from the coffeeshop because the a.c. in his house is broken. Now neither of his cellphones can get a signal and his laptop is acting weird. He yells PIECE OF SHIT! I let him use my cell and am rapidly called sweet, young, and wonderful.

He calls his lover. He argues loudly about the a.c. for several minutes, then a long pause, then he says, in a low, sensuous voice, God, you’re amazing. He hangs up.

better than burning the cookies

It’s funny. Someone from a long time ago sends me something lovely through the mail and I try my best to reply, only I can’t. I thwart myself. I’m unable to have her email address in the same room as a computer, or I have the address and the internet is dead, or I have the very doomed feeling of having put the address in a very safe place - gone forever, I think with guilt, until I find it again the day the internet dies, again.

This goes on for a month until I run into her, far out of her neighborhood, in a place she ought not be today, but here she is, years later, friendly as ever, warm eyes. If a pretty girl wants to express delight at seeing me and say the writing is good writing, even as I’m in the coffeeshop where I’m to do my afternoon’s work, universe, I will take that as encouragement.

in the world of cellphone internets, here's what kind of city I live in

Had to go to the post office today, late, rushed, ugly traffic, got there almost five o'clock, and knew my good luck twice as soon as I was through the door: not only were they locking the doors but said I could come in anyway, but the lady behind the counter was not the horrible bitch but sweet snaggletoothed Mrs. Pitts.

I asked Mrs. Pitts how she was doing and she said, "Fine as frog hair."

I told her that someone had asked about her, and she said "Nawww." - then, "Who?"

I said that a few weeks ago I'd been doing errands up in Marietta and I stopped by that post office. I used to live there and was in that p.o. all the time, and the workers there remembered me. The guy behind the counter wanted to know where I'd moved and what p.o. branch I go to now. I told him, and he said "Oh you must know Mrs. Pitts," which I do, because she was the first one at that branch who was friendly to me, and when she found out I needed a p.o. box she told me the secret information about what day of the month gives the best chance of finding one available for rent.

Milford Bettis (a name I remembered without help from nametags, because how could I not?) said that sounded like the kind of nice thing she would do, and he asked me to say hello for him, and I did.

Mrs. Pitts said "Oh now who would that have been, Richard, LeVar..." and I said no, it was Milford Bettis, and she got all excited, said she and Milford used to work together over at Crowne Point and oh they would just cut up, they just had the best time; that one, she said, is a good man.

bialy: a love song

The first time I visited New York was in 2001, in early spring. The next time I went was right after everything happened.

It was Andy who showed me bialys. He said, Order one. I said, What are they? He said, They're good.

It was because Andy was so exquisitely, succinctly correct about the bialy that I would later ask him what books I should read. I did not ask him to describe or justify his choices. I just made a list. On the list were Raymond Chandler and Italo Calvino. I owe Andy debts.

In Brooklyn, no matter where I had crashed, in the morning we would go around the corner to the tiny mom & pop coffeeshop. The exchange is easy once you know the best way to start every single morning:

- Bialy toasted buttered, coffee please.

- You got it.

I've never had coffee like that, either. Logan's is better, but has the pedigreed excuse of being made by the individual cup, by hand, at home, with tiny equipment. New York's was brewed by the gallon and sold to the masses for pennies. It should have been industrial funk and maybe I just got lucky over and over but it was the truest coffee I've ever had. Every commercial cup of coffee I've had in Georgia is a feeble imitation. The funny incongruity is that every one nevertheless stands as a warm reminder of other, better cups of coffee. Even when it's really awful I can drink it fast, and remember.

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For a short time, until I thought it through, I wanted very much to move to New York. I will never launch into the ugly and false tirade of claiming all cities are inferior to New York in all ways. But it is very, very beautiful.

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On any chilly morning before September 11th, I could go into a coffeeshop I'd never heard of, order a bialy and coffee, and walk down a Brooklyn street with buttered fingers and a burnt tongue and look at the people and be content. In November, I could do the same thing.

You want to say, Nothing will ever be the same again. But breakfast was the same, and it was so good.

(I never lived there, I didn't watch it happen right in front of me, so it did not wound me the same way. I know. Jeff.)

In November I was in a weird relationship that wasn't good for me. It was cold out and I didn't have a proper coat. The world was so messed up and awful. But I knew what to order, and I ended up ok. This comfort never failed me at a time when I needed nothing more, and could not find it anywhere else.

Irwin, you hear this, she schlepped all the way from downtown for a bialy!

I got up at dark, my slug brain not even able to process the awful noise as an alarm. Stumbled around dumb, clothes, teeth, got in the car, drove, drove, got lost. Stopped for directions, got lost, figured it out, finally found the place. All this after dozens of google searches over the past four years, finally landing on the right combination of words to lead me to one comment in one blog that made it sound like it might be true: there might be bialys in Atlanta.

Worth it? Yes.

Not quite as large or as oniony as a New York bialy, these were fresh, fragrant, and more than enough to make me a happy girl. Eaten in a serious deli between a foot-high mountain of chicken salad and the nicest of gentlemen, this was a very good morning. Thanks, Steve.

i haven’t really got anything to say, but i’m here

This coffeeshop, you have to go to it four times before you’re welcomed as a regular. Then they won’t leave you alone. That’s not true. Headphones make everyone leave me alone. Everyone’s very polite and it’s like they’re waiting for the headphones to come off, they’re sitting there smiling into their coffees waiting for me to be free so they can tell me about the good parking, chat about the jackhammers across the street, ask if I can recommend a good dentist. Really. Some of them ask my name and most of them say I should try the apple pie. I may.