“If you’re not a teacher, you should be.”

Per usual, the line at the movie theater was outrageously long. I suppose that’s what I get for going to see a movie on a Sunday afternoon, but standing around with forty other people waiting for one of three registers to open so I can order an overpriced Coke is never going to be a pleasant experience, especially when I’m surrounded by families. Worse still, I’m surrounded by children.

My arms are folded and defensive, I may or may not be flexing so the girl in the Paramore shirt can see the muscles I don’t have. Her hair is blue and black, and it looks like she’s there with her boyfriend. “Doesn’t matter,” I think to myself, “I’m miles better looking than that guy.” His hair is dry and curly, a frizzy mop given the humid weather outside. He’s wearing a brown shirt that’s two sizes too big. “At least my clothes fit,” I say to myself, even though it probably looks like I got my shirt from the children’s section of H&M. Whatever.

In the few minutes that I’ve been standing here quietly judging the guy in front of me, the line has moved maybe a few inches. The family in front of us is taking forever to order, and apparently they’re going to order one of everything on the menu. Their final tally comes up to roughly sixty bucks. Sixty fucking dollars for food at a movie theater…Jesus Christ, what kind of society do we live in where that’s even remotely okay?

The future seems dark and relatively hopeless. The line isn’t moving and I’m the only pretty person here. Ugh, woe is me. The family in front of us finally walks away with their literal bags of food, and thankfully Paramore-girl and mop-head are only buying a bottle of water. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I’m on my way to reaching the paradise of the theater seats. So it seemed, anyway, until one of the children to my right decides to start kicking and screaming for no reason.

This child is screaming its goddamn head off, and per my grumpy being I hang my head in annoyance. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter, “Would you mind shutting that kid up?”

Everyone’s staring, needless to say. The child’s mother is mortified and failing miserably at trying to quiet her daughter. No one wants to help, and the only thing the woman behind me can say is “Aww, poor kid.” Poor kid? Poor kid? You’re joking, right? I’m the one that has to suffer through this screaming. Poor me.

And then it happens. Christ himself descends from the sky and kneels down in front of the child, palms resting gently on her shoulders. He looks deeply into her eyes and says, “Be still, my child. All is right.” Jesus then reaches into his robes and pulls out a box of Buncha Crunch, offering the candy up to the child as a peace offering. The child, in awe of what just happened, takes the candy in utter glee and wraps her arms around her savior. “Thank you, Jesus! I love you!”

The son of God then spreads his arms, hands open and palms up, looks to the sky, and departs for Heaven. A warm glow surrounds the theater, and everyone begins to applaud. “Christ is risen!” shouts one woman, followed by another man shouting “Praise be to Him!”

…

Okay, so maybe Jesus didn’t actually descend from Heaven to hush the crying child, but a man did kneel down to her to make an attempt at quieting her.

The man, dressed in a blue t-shirt emblazoned with the image of Pac-Man, steps toward the child and rests his palms on her shoulders. The little girl is mortified. Her crying has ceased and now, I’m sure, she just wants to know why the fuck this weird old man is touching her. He leans in close and says, “You think you have it bad now?”

“You’ve got it easy kid. Save those tears for later. You haven’t had your heart broken yet, you don’t have student loans to take out, you aren’t dying, and you’re about to see a movie. Things could be worse.”

The girl, still staring at the man blankly, asks “How?”

So the guy sits down and crosses his legs and tells the girl flat out, “We all die someday. I’m going to die, you’re going to die…why cry over candy? Why waste the tears? Save them for what really matters. Save those tears for when you’re drowning in debt and you don’t know how you’re going to make rent.”

By now the girl is totally silent, and has her arm wrapped around her mother’s leg. The man stands up, and people actually start clapping. The woman behind me says to him, “If you’re not a teacher, you should be.” He nods, chuckles, and says thank you. He’s proud of himself, and apparently proud of his grim little diatribe.

I’m fucking mortified though. His discussion of reality now has me thinking about my eventual death and the fact that I, too, have student loans to pay back.

Another woman, who didn’t hear the man’s speech, asks “What did you tell her?”

He smiles, leans in — this dude has a hard-on for leaning, I swear it — and says, “I just told her about how awful life can be. She doesn’t understand concepts like death and debt right now, but one day she will and she’ll realize that crying over candy is so totally inane.” There’s intelligence in his reasoning, and I see his point. I still wonder why the hell he would say that to a child instead of something lighter. Maybe this guy had issues of his own, right?

This man is the hero today, and I feel like the villain. He helped and I just quietly complained. He was relatively selfless in his attempts to quell the little girl’s cries, and I just wanted to tell the girl to shut up. Good and evil, I think, light and dark. He may not be Jesus, and he may not even be a teacher…but maybe he should be.

Attraction

His back straightens when he sees her.

I’m sitting quietly at my table, enjoying what remains of my crassly expensive hot chocolate, when I hear the door open from behind me. As most might, I looked to see who might be walking in. It’s something most people in the store did, actually, so I can only imagine how she might have felt to walk into a store and suddenly be seen by at least twelve different souls.

She’s blonde, her hair falls down in waves just above her waist — a waist that is hugged by a black skirt, which itself falls over black tights. Black leather boots climb her calves, stopping just short of her knees. Her peacoat appears to be violet, but in this lighting — and in my illness — it could very well be a vibrant shade of blue. A bronze pin pierces her lapel; a sunflower, stem and all. Her skin is pale, though her makeup…well, her face is three shades darker than her hands. Her grey scarf just barely hides the point where the paint ends and flesh begins, though who am I to judge? I can barely tell mascara from, Christ, whatever else it is women use to cover blemishes.

She’s attractive nonetheless, and I’m not the only person to notice.

The man in front of her sees it too, and I wonder if his noticing her is more blatant than mine. A writer can take quick mental notes — images burn themselves into the mind, perfected quotes to remember for later description and possible exaggeration. My notes were taken in what seemed like an instant, his were…well, his were lasting. Perhaps he wanted to make sure she saw him. Perhaps he wanted to leave an impression.

His sweater, an eggshell cable-knit with overdone holiday patterns, would most definitely make sure of that.

It was a size too small, something I guessed from his incessant need to reach up and pull the collar away from his neck. The poor man must have been uncomfortable. Underneath his sweater he wore a gingham button-up, with the sleeves pulled back and up his forearms. Pressed khakis lined his legs, and brown suede wingtips encased his feet.

He noticed her. She walked in, bringing in a gust of cold air with her, and we all noticed her. Beforehand the place was silent as the grave, the only sounds being churned out by ghosts of steam from espresso and milk. Her entrance was a disruption to our warmth — our peace. But as the door closed, most patrons returned to their drinks.

The man was next in line, but his gaze lingered on her for more than a handful of seconds. His hands, per usual, reached up to tug the collar away from his neck, and he straightened his back. His chest went from recessed to barreled, and in an instant he went from everyday orderer of coffee to, well, a more muscular everyday orderer of coffee. When he was called up to place an order, he coughed into his hand to deepen his voice. Black coffee, venti, room.

While he waited, he stole quick, silent looks at the blonde in the little black dress. How could he not? She was, after all, attractive. I kept waiting to see if this would turn into one of those moments from a romantic comedy movie — would he ask her out? Would he make an awkward pass? Would he spill his coffee on her “accidentally”? Moreover, I wondered, did she even notice him?

Her time in line was spent staring at the menu. She made no glances at any of the other patrons, and the only time her eyes shifted from the menu was to pull up the digital card on her phone. Caramel macchiato.

The man received his coffee, sipped it, and added his fixings. Was he taking time so he could spend more time seeing her? Was he purposely dragging out his order for this one woman who, arguably, was one of a hundred? Virginia is ripe with beach blondes, surely he could find another with ease. What made this one special?

Thus is the mind of the writer, perhaps. Perhaps these details were created fictitiously. Maybe I saw things that simply weren’t there; exaggerations, perhaps, to construct a readable experience.

As her order came up, he made his way back to her. Apparently while fixing his coffee, he had prepared a note on a piece of paper. This note was then casually slipped next to her drink as she went to pick it up, and as he passed the woman, he gave off a sly, satisfied smirk. To him, it was success. He left the building a new man.

She, however, crumpled the slip into a ball and tossed it in the trash can. Where he had seen victory, she had seen laziness. Cowardice, perhaps, could he not simply speak to her? Was he so disillusioned with his own pride that he thought hooking this woman would be so easy as slipping her a note?

Impossible.

We All Need Jesus

Names have been changed to protect the identities of described persons.

“Excuse me, ladies,” he started, his hands shaking, “I was wondering if I could bother you for a minute.”

The women, sipping coffee from ceramic mugs, looked up at the man speaking to them, confused. He continued, “My name is Thomas, I was wondering if I could ask you for some change.”

I wasn’t listening to the women sitting across from me before this, but I had heard them discussing Africa and Christianity before Thomas approached them. One woman reached into her purse, searching for money to give the man. The other kindly told him, “I’m sorry, I don’t have any cash on me.”

“I just got out of jail.” he told them, and immediately the woman looking for cash to give them man froze. “Where are you from?” she asked.

“Louisville, ma’am.”
“Oh that’s nice, my husband is from there.”
“That’s very nice, ma’am, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Where are you staying?”
“Nowhere right now, miss, I really am sorry to bother you.”

Thomas was an older man, probably my height, with salt colored hair. His eyes were tired, and he looked physically worn…just like a lot of homeless men in this area, of which there were plenty.

“What’s your name?” the woman asked.
“Thomas, ma’am, my name’s Thomas.”
“I’m Christina, Thomas, it’s nice to meet you.”

By this point, she had pulled at least ten dollars in ones out of her purse, and was now looking for something else.

“My husband,” she started, “is the pastor of a church around here.”
“That’s great, ma’am, where at?”
“Just down the street!” she exclaimed, finally pulling out what she was looking for.

Christina handed Thomas cash and a business card.

“If you go to that address, my husband can help you with food and maybe a place to stay for a little while.”
“What about a job, ma’am, can he help with that?”
“I’m sure he could — he knows a lot of people around here.”
“Bless you, miss, thank you so much.”
“We all need Jesus, right Thomas?”
“Yes ma’am, I’m sorry, thank you.”

With that, Thomas was on his way. Christina and her friend, Sarah, watched him walk away. I was preparing myself for Thomas to come to me next, but instead he walked away. “Do you really think he’s homeless?” asked Sarah. The two of them were on opposite sides of the spectrum, something I discovered after Thomas had left. Sarah was a cynic, someone who believed the problems of the homeless were both their own fault and their own responsibility — the fortunate should not have to aide them. Christina, though wary, believed helping others was her mission in life — something she discovered on her previous trip to Africa.

“I don’t know, but Ben’s trying to help people around here. That’s why we made those cards.”
“He smelled funky.”
“He did smell a little weird, so I don’t know if what he said was true.”
“So why did you give him money?”

Christina shrugged, “Just doing good, I guess.”

I Lived In Green Bay

“Do you like Clay Matthews?”

Thus was a phrase spoken by one man to another man’s young daughter. When she stopped to turn around, he asked again, “Do you like Clay Matthews? You’re wearing his shirt.” Clay Matthews is a linebacker for the Packers, and his name is plastered on the back of this girl’s jersey. Somehow the jersey doesn’t consume her entirely, and is only slightly larger than it should be — but she pairs it with pink jeans and white light-up tennis shoes. She’s maybe five years old, if that, and dirty blonde locks fall down to her shoulders.

The little girl nodded, but did not speak. She did not know this man — he was a stranger. A nice stranger, surely, but a stranger nonetheless. The man went on, “I lived in Green Bay! I love the Packers!”

The girl’s father, a tall guy with a buzzcut came up along with her grandmother, who was on the heavier side of the scale but appeared happier than anyone else in their family.

“Where did you live?” asks the grandma.
“I went to Rasmussen!”
“Oh that’s great! My brother went there!”

They discuss Green Bay weather for a minute, among other things, before the man turns back to the little girl and says, “Well I like your shirt…and your shoes are awesome!” Awesome. He says it so enthusiastically — with such gusto — like he’s really trying to make the girl talk or smile or something. Awesome. Your shoes are awesome, he says, and I’m sitting here wondering why I don’t have a pair of light up shoes.

Now the girl speaks. “Thank you!” she squeaks, before turning around and running into her father’s car. The man looks to the father now, “Hey, I know you, right? You’re Air Force?”

“Contractor, actually, but yeah pretty much.”
“We’ve met before!”
“Yeah I thought that was you! Good to see you again, man.”
“Yeah, yeah, same! I’ll see you around!”

With that, the Green Bay family departs almost as quickly as they arrived. In and out of the store in under five minutes — I’m almost certain that their exchange with the Green Bay stranger lasted longer than their time in the actual coffee shop.

Ruining The Game

“How many of you watch football?”

My Public Speaking professor starts class off with that question. How many of you watch football? She’s an older woman, short and kind of stout — not dissimilar from a teapot — with greying hair and a slight lisp. She’s nervous, something she openly admits to being, something I think is odd for a professor that’s been teaching for almost 45 years.

“How many of you watch football?” she asks again.

The whole class, all 26 of us, look around at one another. None of us want to say anything on the first day — come on, lady, this is the first day of classes…time to look over the syllabus and get dismissed early, not actually discuss things. We don’t know each other like that.

“Okay, who here likes the Redskins?”

Something in the class snaps — this question triggers a response for some reason, and the audience begins either cheering or groaning. Hands raise immediately, as if to say “I fucking LOVE the Redskins!” and are followed almost as quickly by a booing crowd and statements like “Dallas all day!”

They’re all wrong, though, clearly the only actually good team is New England. I know that, why don’t they?

The class erupts into laughter over the now heated debate over who’s better, Redskins or Cowboys, and why. One man shouts “They’re America’s team!” while another shouts something about Romo being gay, as if such a thing mattered. Under my breath I say that clearly — clearly — the Patriots are better than either team combined. The girl behind me gives off a loud “Mmmhm, damn right” and I go in for the fist bump. She reciprocates.

“And what do you all think of the new safety regulations in the NFL?” prods the professor.

Now we’re all silent. You could drop a pin and you’d probably be able to hear it. Everyone looks around again, unsure of what to say. From the left corner I hear an utterly ridiculous statement, “It’s stupid, man, it’s ruining the game!”

The comment causes everyone to look at him. He continues, “They’ve been playing rough for their whole lives and now they’re telling ’em to stop and it ain’t right.”

The speaker is a vastly overweight white male with a shaved head and ears pierced by faux-diamond studs. An illegible tattoo crawls up his neck. He’s wearing a white t-shirt that, even for someone his size, is far too large and has clearly not been washed in a long, long time, and cargo shorts that are met almost immediately by white tube socks. His forehead is perspiring.

“So you don’t like it?” the professor asks.
“Nah, I hate it.”
“What about little league? The little kids?”
“What about ’em?”
“Should they be protected?”
“Of course.”
“Then why shouldn’t pros be protected?”
“I said it — they been playin’ rough they whole lives, and now they want to change it? It’s ruining the game.”
“How so?” someone else asks.

The man can’t answer. He just shakes his head and gives off a dismissive “Y’all are just gangin’ up on me ’cause I spoke my mind.”

The professor laughs, “No, no, not at all. We’re just talking — we’re speaking about an important issue — that’s what this class is about; being open and being able to speak publicly in a level-headed manner.”

He hangs his head and begins doodling in his notebook, seemingly defeated. The subject shifts to the professor and how she’s owned an RV for some odd nine years and has only accrued about 1,100 miles on it. Minutes later, the man raises his hand.

“Yes?”
“Redskins still suck.”

The Neighbors

I live with a crazy woman. She’s been analyzed and declared sane and competent, but she is without doubt batshit crazy. She firmly believes that her cat is the embodiment of the son she never had, she’s missing anywhere between a quarter and a third of her brain, and she recently signed three different contracts with three different companies to install brand new windows in the entire house and — as a result — has since lost almost $8,000 and is aiming to lose much, much more. Legally sane, yes, but ridiculously crazy.

My neighbors seem to blow her crazy out of the water. Three or four people, from what I gather — a mother, a son my age, a younger son, and a daughter that I’ve only recently seen — live in the older quasi-Victorian style white house.

The mother, forty-something, is tall, tan, and blonde. I don’t see her much unless she’s sitting in her van smoking or outside arguing with her eldest son. Her ex-husband lives a street over, and frequently drives by in his flashy BMW coupe to show off how great his life is now that he doesn’t have to worry about her or the kids. From the information I’ve gathered, she gets doped up on anti-depressants and pain meds constantly.

The son, the one my age, looks like he walked out of an Urban Outfitters catalog. I see him walking around the neighborhood in pastel chinos with a cigarette hanging from his mouth every now and then. Like his mother, he too takes medication, but he takes lithium for what I assume to be bipolar disorder. He doesn’t appear to interact with anyone except his mother, but even then they communicate through loudness. On occasion I see him sitting on his back patio smoking and staring out into the yard.

The youngest son is a nuisance, frequently leaving behind his skateboards and bicycles and toys strewn about both their yard and mine. He stares through their front door at anyone who passes by, and I firmly believe his only vocal setting is “loud”. Sometimes I see him beg his older brother to play with him — to go riding with him or kick the ball around, to do anything — but the older brother simply pushes him away and walks on by himself.

The daughter, who I have only recently started to see, is perhaps the only normal one in the house. She plays with her younger brother, takes him to his friend’s house, and walks their dog. She’s tall with a full head of sand colored curly hair. I think she recently graduated high school due to the fact that her mother’s van recently had “Congrats Grad!” written on the back of it, but I’m not totally certain. Honestly, the daughter is the only person in the family I’ve ever seen smile. She’s the only one that talks instead of shouts.

The crack in the otherwise perfect face of suburbia starts with this family. Perfect house, perfect lawn, and an outwardly picturesque family to anyone that might drive by on any given day. Like any family, however, they are far from perfect. Love affairs, mental instability, and foundation shaking arguments that dot the week shed light on their otherwise quiet and somewhat eerie existence.

Court Over Coffee

Names have been changed to protect the identities of described persons.

“I’m surprised you picked this joint over somewhere else.” John starts off. John’s forty-something, half bald, and wearing a New England Patriots t-shirt. He’s got a chin and a half and he’s wearing sandals with khaki shorts that are far, far too short for his being. I’m divided as to whether or not I like him. I do, on one hand, because of the Patriots shirt — the man may as well be family since he’s wearing that. But I dislike him because he’s trashing my coffee joint.

“I paid three dollars more for this than I would have at 7-Eleven, and it tastes twice as bad.” says Mark, who’s wearing a wrinkled, peach colored polo with jeans that are twice as big as they need to be. He’s also wearing black and white Asic shoes. His sideburns extend into his neck and he wears glasses that make his eyes look ridiculously tiny.

John is Mark’s lawyer. Why they’re here, at Starbucks of all places, discussing Mark’s upcoming legal battle over his alcoholism, is beyond me. Here I am, and there they are literally light years away in some other planetary system. The patio of a Starbucks is no place to openly discuss legal troubles, let alone one’s history with alcohol.

“I want to keep it as plain and simple as possible. Lisa and Marsha are going to say you did it on purpose and they’re going to bring up your previous AA meetings.” says John. “But we’re going to play humility. We’re not going to bring up your history and we’re going to play things out, you know? Here, look at this, just follow this plan and we’ll be fine.”

“Isn’t that — you know, them using other stuff — illegal?”
“No, Mark, pay attention. We’ve gotta be flexible and you can’t grind your teeth here.”

Mark is confused as all hell. He chuckles awkwardly over his apparently disgusting and far overpriced iced coffee, but he continues listening to his lawyer.

“This’ll be good for you. It won’t be easy, but we can compromise. I know you’re gonna laugh.” argues John.
“You didn’t even tell me about that. If you had told me that I’d have told you to fuck off, I could’ve seen that on my own.”
“Well I didn’t realize how many were in there!”
“It’s okay — you’re okay. Where’s David at? We haven’t gotten to talk to him…is he going to be there?”
“I-…,” John stumbles, taking a sip of his water, “I don’t know.”

From what I understand, Mark threw a fit at one of his recent AA meetings that he was ordered to attend after being arrested for driving while very, very heavily intoxicated.

“The cop asked me if he knew I almost killed a guy!” laughs Mark.
“Well you did, but we’re accepting that and, you know, you’ve got your chips.”

Lisa — another attendee of an AA meeting — was the victim of Mark’s outrage. She’s going after him for “assault or psychological stress or some shit like that”, says John. “Worst case scenario, you get put up for a few days and they move you to rehab. Fuckin’ paradise, man, you get massages and treated like a prince.”

Mark doesn’t seem to believe him. He becomes quiet and leans into John, waving his arms around and whispering loudly enough for those around him to realize he’s trying to keep something a secret but not loudly enough to know what it is he’s saying.

“You can drink more, just don’t drive when you do it! A fifth a day!” jests John.
“I’ve been clean for months, John! I haven’t had anything!”
“You know that and I know that but I’m just saying, you’re gonna be okay.”

His court date is coming up soon, apparently, within the next month. Mark takes out a cigarette and lights it up before asking where the ashtrays are — apparently he’s ignorant of the fact that Starbucks recently banned smoking within 25 feet of their stores, a rule that I’ve seen countless people break. He drops his ashes onto the concrete beneath him.

“What we could do is bring in other group members, I don’t know, ones that weren’t there that day.”
“Why?”
“They can attest to your previous behavior. Make you seem innocent.”

Seem innocent. I need to mull that over. I don’t know why people choose Starbucks for these kinds of conversations — cheating, divorce, alcoholism, shady legal advice — but I’m glad they do, otherwise what would I blog about?

The Little Sh*t

He’s here more often than I am, and the people here like him less than the freebie skater boy. Sure he’s only a kid, but there’s something about him that just doesn’t sit right with the people around him.

His height is basically non-existent. He is, at best, four-foot-something. Shaved head, big teeth, and he’s always “dancing”. I’m sure to him it looks like he’s the next Justin Timberlake or Michael Jackson or some other smooth pop-star, but in his outward appearance he looks awkward and corny. Of course there’s nothing wrong with awkward and corny — I myself was an utterly terrible mixture of those two when I was his age. The difference, however, is that I wasn’t so outwardly and inexplicably rude to the people around me.

He comes in every night with a man that appears to be his grandfather — though it could be his dad, I won’t pretend to know. They don’t really talk to one another even when they leave the store and sit for a couple of hours at a table outside. The man he comes in with orders a tall coffee, as plain and bold and black as tar. He used to order the kid a cup of water but has since stopped that because they started charging for it. While the older man waits for his drink, the kid runs or walks or dances around the store as if it were his home. He bumps into people and doesn’t say “excuse me” or apologize, he’ll — no, look, one time he came up to me and stared at my laptop screen for a solid minute before looking at me and saying “‘Sup?”

‘Sup? ‘Sup? Who the hell does this shortstack think he is?

Like the freebie boy, this one has a reputation as well. Where the other kid asks for free stuff, this one is known for his rudeness and inability to stop doing things when people ask him to stop. He’s known for his sense of entitlement.

“Is he in school?” asks one of the baristas.
“No, I don’t think so,” starts another, “I asked him if he was and he told me he wasn’t allowed to go to school.”

They laugh in disbelief. Not allowed to go to school? That’s crazy talk.

“One time I caught him with his hand in the tip jar!” says an employee.
“Oh my god! What did you do?”
“I yelled at him! I told him to get his hand out of it and told him to leave before I called the cops!”
“That’s crazy. He’s so rude!”

They laugh again, this time in agreement. They discuss a time when he purposely knocked over a container of half & half and ran out before they could get to him. Why they even let him back inside is beyond me, why they haven’t talked to the man that brings the boy in is even further beyond me.

Behind me sits another man on a MacBook, and through the sounds of spitting espresso machines and laughing baristas I hear four simple words roll off his tongue…

What a little shit.

‘Round They Go

A mother and a father begin their day by jogging around the neighborhood with a stroller that contains their infant. It’s early in the morning and already the swampy heat is drowning out any possibility of a cool breeze.

The two of them are probably in their early forties, late thirties perhaps.

He’s tall, 6′-even at least, with a head full of grey that seems to be fighting a losing battle against its own hairline. He wears black frame glasses — not thick ones though, they’re sleek and stylish. His feet run their pace in white and blue running shoes and low cut white socks. Tan legs that mismatch his paper white arms are themselves covered in navy blue basketball shorts.

She’s shorter than him by a longshot, she jogs along pushing the stroller in front of her. Her hair, long and dark, is held up in a ponytail and capped off by a purple visor. She is neither morbidly pale nor overly tan, rather a fair medium on the spectrum. She’s wearing a grey sleeveless shirt, black leggings, and hot pink Nike running shoes. She wears an armband containing her iPhone, which has sprouted two long white wires that lead up to her ears.

He runs ahead of her with a short stride, his hands curl into fists and his arms bounce up and down as he goes. He struggles to maintain a steady pace while his partner flows. She’s fluid in her stride; arms extended in front of her, pushing the stroller along, her ponytail bobbing up and down, left to right. I think they’re running to get back into shape — moreover, I think she’s running to get back into shape and he’s running with her. He’s supportive, though if anyone in this relationship needs exercise it’s him.

But if we’re talking about all parties involved, perhaps it is myself that needs the exercise…I could definitely use some as well.

The run laps around the block. Two times, three times, four — I think I end up counting at least six before they disappear. On their final lap he seems to struggle even more. His right hand clutches the left side of his abdomen, so I assume he’s cramping up. Even from my location, I can see beads of sweat drip from his forehead. He breaks, taking a moment to gather his breath and clear off his lenses with his t-shirt. His pale face turned red from utter exhaustion.

His wife jogs by, bending down by the stroller to point and wave at her husband. She continues on while he gets relief, but she turns her head back to say something and I see him laugh. In my head I play off a quip she makes about her giving birth and still being able to outrun him.

He regains his balance, standing back up and starting a slow, sloppy jog. That’s the last I see of the pair.

The Regulars

“No foam havin’ people.” says the blonde barista. The two people in line — married, she’s white with pink hair and he’s black with a pointed beard — have just returned from Chesapeake, getting to the store thirty minutes before it closes. Like myself, they’re regulars here…but more regular than myself I presume, especially with the way they carry on conversation with the two people working tonight.

They’re both loaded with tattoos up and down their arms. Two particular ones stand out most on him; a hand of cards with unreadable cursive text overhead, and a flaming skull that appears to be staring right at me. On her left calf there appears to be a woman in a cape holding a gun, above which its a woman in daisy dukes and cowboy boots.

The two of them know the employees well, going back and forth with stories of their children and significant others and friends — someone named Katy (Katey? Katie?) is going to Africa sometime soon for a study abroad program. Laughter, and lots of it, erupt from both sides of the counter. Among the topics discussed are people being shot at, a guy masturbating outside of the store, and what kinds of coffee the man likes.

Oh yeah, that’s happened more than once. A homeless guy also peed on one of their windows in broad daylight.

In his hand is a large iced white mocha, something he’s never had before. He’s taken aback by the drink, unsure of whether or not he likes it. Between now and the time I leave, he’s taken maybe a few sips of the drink so I guess he doesn’t like it. His loss, I love white mocha.

Now they’re back to discussing foam in coffee. Apparently the woman was recently at a Barnes & Noble “Starbucks” (they don’t take gift cards, so they aren’t a real Starbucks) and asked for her drink with no foam, only to be served a drink with extra foam. “That barista was kind of a bitch,” she starts, “which is why I should have just come here!”

Oh, man, now they’re talking about a restaurant I used to work at. Apparently one of the employees was there last Sunday twerking, though she vehemently denies doing such a thing. “I had a few drinks!” she says, which meets laughter from all parties. They discuss making plans to go out as a group, bouncing different locations back and forth. “This place has a great Southwest burger!” clashes against “The appetizers here are perfect!”, but they all agree that they should get together.

But it’s five minutes from closing time, and I have to start making my way west for the night.