The other side of the counter

I'm wearing dirty, holey jeans, work boots, and a worn out thermal shirt. It's raining to beat the band. I drive up 9th street and out of habit unhesitatingly go straight at the light, toward the back parking lot of the place-formerly-known-as-Bully Blends. I chuckle, a little sadly, and whip a u-ey and park in front of the shop.

Inside, the new owner greets me and introduces me to the baristas, saying "She worked here for eight years!" as though it's something. It was nice of her to do that.

Pete waves from the kitchen, grinning, happy to see me as though it's been a year instead of a day.

I place my order, and take a loyalty card.

There are a few long standing Bully Blends customers there, and I go to say hi. They are adjusting to the changes, too, and it's surprisingly hard for some. Some people have hung out at the Blends every day for years. They ask me about things, and I smile brightly and talk positively about the new changes and new adventures. They look at me with wide eyed compassion, seeing beyond the smile the raw side of goodbye. I smile bigger and look away, their understanding making it harder. I loved mornings when I would walk into the shop and know by name every single customer there. Most of the time I knew their stories. Sometimes I had their numbers in my phone.

Pete follows me out, and we chat a little out under the awning as the steady rain listens in. "Don't be a stranger!" he calls after me as I go, "Come by the house!"

When I left the shop the day before, the last time as an employee, it felt as you'd imagine and I was lost and sad. On my phone I had a text from a friend asking if I wanted to ride. So we did, and as usual riding saved the day and I was OK.

But that was Thursday, and on a rainy Friday I started a new job, a new chapter.

Things feel strange, unreal, unfamiliar.
I'm a little adrift, like I'm doing things but not for any particular reason.
Not unhappy. Transient.

I joined Tim - new boss, old friend - for lunch at the place formerly known as Bully Blends. He sat in his usual spot at the bar, where he has sat every day for years. Usually I stand on the other side of the bar chatting. Some days all the stools would be full of guys I knew from riding. Some of the employees called it "Jaralei's fan club". Now I sit next to Tim, having soup and coffee, same as he, part of the bar lunch group. I'm part of my own fan club.

What will I do?
I don't know.
I don't know what I'll be doing in June.
Or in the fall.
Or next year.

But - that's OK. It's OK. I'll figure it out.
And I'm always up for an adventure.

This ephemeral life

(Conversations at work, March 2011
Me: Look, Pete, I tidied the baking area.
Pete: Looks great! Now it'll be hard for anyone to find something to bitch about, though. I think I'll just urinate on the floor. Someone will say "It looks like someone pissed on the floor in here!" And I'll say "Don't be ridiculous.")

Goodbye, Bully Blends

I'm sitting in a dark and empty Bully Blends, long after closing time, as I have countless times throughout the years. I've always liked being here - and in our old building - alone after hours. Something about the quiet that contrasts, yet echoes, with the bustling camaraderie of the day that I always found appealing. 

It's the last time. 

Mostly I don't want to write anything at all. What to say about eight years? There's nothing that can commemorate. I remember that cold November night I walked into Bully's with my application in hand. I remember what I was wearing, and that Pete and Aida and I talked in the tea room, and they hired me on the spot.

"You know," Pete said last week to me, "other than Aida, I've spent more time with you these past eight years than anyone."

Yes. I know. Me too.

They were never just employers.

On the last day, we all laughed, and if it was a little louder than usual, no one seemed to notice.

I walked slowly beside the shelves of teas, trying to decide which of my favorites I'd like to take. I know them all by heart, like old friends. Funny to feel the need to say goodbye to jars of tea.

I've met some of my dearest friends because of working at Bully Blends, which has lead to some of my most amazing experiences. Customers, coworkers. Friends I'll have for life. Our Bully Blends motto is "Meet your friends at Bully Blends!", and it's been that for me - a place to meet new friends.

It was never just a job.

Bully's has been such a haven for me - friendship, color, laughter, family, coffee, belonging. It's hard to say goodbye. It's time, it's not that it's wrong or bad in any way. But it's hard. There will always be a little Bully Blends spot in my heart.

I wish I knew how to write to capture all the memories, all the faces through the years. The shared pots of teas, the inside jokes, the quiet mornings chatting over cups of coffee. We always had things to talk about every morning, even though - how much could possibly have happened since yesterday? But there's too much. And I'll just have to be content to know it happened, and to savor the memories.

Memories, now. Remember that one time I worked at a coffee and tea shop? Remember how we laughed? How we knew all the customers by name, knew their stories?

The end of an era. This bright little world becomes another chapter ended.

(As Pete leaves at the end of the day he often calls out Let's do this again real soon!
Tomorrow? I respond. Same time, same place?)

Goodbye, Bully Blends.
Thanks for everything.

Andrew was here

I just got back from attending a Viewing with Pete, a Viewing of a nineteen-year-old boy we knew. The body in the camo casket didn't look like the boy we knew, because that boy had blown his face off with a shot gun Friday night. They'd put the face back together again as best they could, but Andrew was gone.

I texted Ryan saying "Andrew's Viewing is from 5-7."
I hated that. "Andrew's Viewing."
As though it were Andrew's jacket, Andrew's new truck, Andrew's little sister.

He worked with us at Bully's until about a week ago. He was a good boy, a good worker. I remember when he first started, several months back, as dish washer. Every time I would tell him how to do something, he'd apologize with serious big blue eyes, as though he were afraid he was in trouble. Before too long he warmed up, and his impish, impetuous, hot-headed self came out. Hot headed and tough, all boy, who yet loved country music and claimed his little sister as his best friend. I could never be angry at him, with that impish face. When I would bring him dishes at the last minute when he'd thought he was about done he'd suddenly exclaim Dammit, Jaralei! Half exasperated, but half being funny because he knew it always made me laugh, every single time.

Andrew. The boy who would always drink a big glass of chocolate milk every morning upon arriving at work, and a cookies and cream Big Train in the afternoon, and he wanted me to make it 'runny'. Why did he like it runny? Who likes it that way?? I don't know. But Andrew did.

He'd come back while I was baking or roasting and sit on the burlap coffee sacks, and we'd talk about his weekend camping or fishing trips, or country music, about which we almost always agreed. Or he'd wander back and ask What are you baking for me today? Tonight, at the viewing, they played the song Dirt Road Anthem by Jason Aldean. "I can't believe they're playing this," I whispered to Pete. "Andrew hated this song. Does no one know he hated this song??"

One day we were chatting through the window to the kitchen, kitchen staff and front house staff, and Aida said "Shut the front door!" and I'll always remember Andrew's face, the taken aback expression and the way he burst into laughter, exclaiming I thought she was really going to say it!!

His Dad was at the Viewing, of course, crying, accepting hugs. I wanted to grab him and shove his face into the mess that was Andrew all over his garage floor, like a bad dog who's pissed on the floor. Look at this! I want to say. Look at what you've done! Look at this mess! Look at your boy! YOU did this! When Andrew was eleven his parent's split. His Mom was a meth addict, and his Dad was an abusive drunk. The sister and brother chose to go with their Mom, who was trying to clean up, while Andrew - the oldest - chose to stay with his Dad, his logic being that his Mom would never really disown him. So in choosing to stay with Dad he was somehow able to keep them both.

The family came into Bully's the other day to use the back tea room. Lots of family from out of town for the funeral, all, ironically with Bible names: Leah, Naomi, Elizabeth, Abel. What are you doing here?  I wanted to scream at them. Where were you when Andrew was being beaten by his inebriated Dad? Where were you when his Mom was strung out on meth? Where were you last week when his Dad kicked him out then called the cops when he tried to get his stuff from his room and had him arrested for breaking and entering? NOW you show up?

The obituary sweetly named Andrew's father as his best friend.

"Bullshit!" I exclaimed.
Pete more diplomatically called it Family Mythology.

It's not one of those senseless, faultless situations. Yes, a decision was made. But it's not one of those situations where you can look the parents in the eye and say "There was nothing more you could've done. At the end of the day you did your best and he had to make a decision." It's their fault. They did this. They made this life, this boy, then they ruined it, then they took it away. Live with that. But they won't. They won't see their part in it. 

His fifteen year old meth addict brother was taken from treatment for the event of his big brother's funeral. I remember when Amos came into Bully's one day, reappearing after having disappeared for three days and going back to his meth friends. Andrew stormed out front upon hearing his brother was there, "Come!" he exclaimed in quiet fierceness, leading Amos to the back parking lot where he told him what's what. The father figure big brother. One look at that little boy's shattered, tortured eyes now and I can't help but wonder what will become of him. If Andrew, the strong one, couldn't make it...

Hopeless.

It just makes me so angry. And sad. It's pathetic. No one saw it coming. Andrew was always pleasant at work. He might share his troubles, but he was able to be oK, positive and interactive. It made you think he could cope, that he was strong enough to make it through, make it out.

The boy wasn't perfect, heavens no the boy had his issues. But he was perfectly Andrew. He wasn't even working for us anymore, he quit a week ago, unexpectedly. So, essentially, he was already out of my life. But it still hits me hard, I still find myself crying at random times. I can't get him off my mind. Maybe he was out of my life, but that doesn't mean I wanted him to be out of life. I wanted to at least know Andrew was carrying on, being Andrew. With his impish grin and hot headedness, his love of country music and his hick love for that truck of his. He was getting out, you know. He was heading off in a couple of weeks to travel the country working on oil rigs. He was so excited about that. About getting away.

Dammit, Andrew! Why couldn't you just hold out another week or two?? You almost made it, kid!

He was only 19. Putting that shot gun to his chin was the last decision he ever made, and it was a bad one. You're supposed to be able to look back at the bad decisions of your youth and say Yeah, that was stupid. Don't follow in my footsteps, what an idiot I was back then. Boy did I get lucky! But he didn't. Andrew didn't get lucky. He doesn't get to look back at his poor decisions and pass on the wisdom he learned through it all. It's all over. That was his last impetuous decision he got to make. It cost everything. Took everything. WHY, Andrew?? You had so much that could have been. You had so much left. He wasn't one of those hopeless cases, you know? He had heart, and soul. He was going to make it, despite it all. He was going to be alright. He'd come out on top.

Except he didn't.
He could have. Despite it all.
But not now.

He was there, laughing in the kitchen. Hanging out on the burlap sacks. Having wet towel fights. Chopping peppers. He was there - living, being. And now he's not. And it's not OK.

Days of our lives

Oh my it felt like winter this morning.
Sometimes I pause and take it all in - the near barren trees, the scent of winter on the wind, the cold sky, dim look and feel of the town - and think I can't believe we're back here again! The seasons pass so quickly. Well, summer and fall do, anyway.

But then late afternoon arrives and ... it's still autumn.

After the recent drastic changes, we've fallen into a comfortable rhythm at Bully's. With our shortened hours (we now close at 3PM every day) the same people work all day which eliminates the confusion of switching from the day shift to the night shift staff.

I arrive at 8:30AM and Pete is the first to greet me with a hearty good morning! when I pass through the kitchen on my way downstairs to clock in. Usually by the time I'm back upstairs Josh arrives and I open the door for him while I grab my mug from the baking/roasting area and head up front, where Aida and Ryan man the counter. Aida always smiles and gives a Well hello there as though it's a pleasant surprise to see me rather than a daily occurrence. It's not usually busy just then, so I fill my mug with freshly brewed, steamy black coffee and cradle it in my hands, warming them, while we chat. How's your morning, so far? Ryan will ask, and we might swap tales of our morning workouts or changes in the weather or clips on the internet we watched or read that the other suggested the day before.

Then I take stock of coffee and baked goods, make myself a list and head back to my little room to start the day's work.

These days, the back room is cold and stays cold - and will stay cold for the next 9 months - unless I've got both the oven and the roaster going at the same time, so I try to organize things in such a way that I do a little of both each day. It's hard to wear a sweater under an apron and be able to freely move to bake. Better for the room to warm up.

At 9AM the "kids" arrive - Andrew kitchen boy, and Holly the dish washer. The dish washer is just around the corner from the baking room so Holly and I usually have ample time to chat while we work. She turns on the radio when she comes in, music that mostly only she likes but no one ever changes it because it's an unspoken rule that dish washer gets dibs on music selection.

I've loved baking autumn-themed baked goods: pumpkin gingerbread muffins with cream cheese frosting, pumpkin chocolate chip muffins, pecan pie muffins, apple cinnamon chip muffins, pumpkin cookies, oatmeal raisin cookies, pecan maple quick bread. BUT I'm about over it, ready for no more pumpkin. Christmas goodies are more diverse: as long as its decadent, it can be considered Christmas! I already know how I'm going to decorate the sugar cookies for Christmas, and can't wait!

Around 10AM Ryan will pop his head into the baking area and ask Early or late? and we agree who will take break before lunch rush that day and who takes it after. We both usually prefer after, so we take turns as much as we can, depending on what I've got going on in the back that day.

Lunch rush - all hands on deck, and on a good day we're all hopping to keep things moving along, and usually it does like a well oiled machine. Except when it doesn't, but we're always able to laugh about it shortly thereafter, whatever "it" happens to be that day. Everyone knows what to do, how and when, for the most part, and we're able to be speedy and efficient while keeping it fun. Laughter is always peppered in, for extra flavor, to the lunch rush. I think this is natural but also deliberate.

There might be a lull after the rush, and some days - like today - the afternoon sun streams warm in the windows, and we might make a french press of coffee while Pete leaves to run errands and Aida sits to do bookwork. Maybe a pot of tea, or share one of Pete's candied apples and have some conversation; me, Ryan, whoever's still in the kitchen (Josh or Andrew), Holly. Somehow, despite the daily sameness, there's never a shortage of conversations to be had. Customers we know come in, and some we don't, and often are simply included in the current conversation, or maybe they begin or prompt a new one.

Then it's time to start cleaning up and closing down.
Another day at the coffee shop.
There are worse existences.

As Pete leaves at the end of the day he often calls out Let's do this again real soon!
Tomorrow? I respond. Same time, same place?

And we do.