Zoka
I just got back from Zoka, a hip/trendy, coffee house by my home. The buildings sits on a corner lot with two large doors where the sidewalk meets as its entrance. Large windows line the walls facing the street allowing the outside world to come in view.
I sat at long both with many small tables across from each table was a chair. Beside me, sandwiching me in, where two young men both with their laptops out typing away. The laptops were both expensive small machines perfect for on the go. They made my computer, that I left home, that was only a year old, seem bulky and prehistoric. To contrast the guy on the left was wearing the latest street fashion with i pod earphones hanging down, his hair coming out of a fashion magazine and on the right a business man, the suit made of fine cloth, pressed perfectly. Me, I was wearing a long sleeved baseball shirt blue jeans and my new sketchers that don’t squeak like the old ones.
Behind the counter were a group of young woman, all with cheerful morning smiles. The smiles weren’t fake, like so many service industry gins, but they were deliberate at times in hope that a dollar or two would fall into the mammoth clear gas tip jar. I watched one of the girls flirt randomly with the male costumers. She had done the same with me. She was a flirter by heart. I watched, not everybody was given the same affection. I was one of many, but not one of all.
A prissy woman frowned as she passed my table. She was my type of pretty, short dark hair, light skinned, blue eyes, with liberain glasses. But she was a bitch. There was no need talking with her to figure that out. I examined her actions at the table she choose. I felt bad for any man who fell for that woman. She was a tarantula of a woman.
A extremely tall lanky teenage girl, almost directly in front of me, lounged chomping on a bagel, moving her head to her i-pod. Maybe I need an I-pod I thought for a second. Everyone else has one. Then I got real again. I have no use for an i-pod; I don’t stick things in my ears. I grew up in New Orleans, there one wants to hear the sounds around them, your property and person depends on the senses.
The place got busier as the time passed. The counter turned into a line, mostly men in casual work clothes trying to get their morning fix before catching the 16 bus to downtown. From behind I could see the impatient of some, the shifting tapping legs resembling a march, the folded arms, the frown with eyes straightforward. It takes time to make a super coffee beverage. If they all just ordered an old cup of Joe everybody would be out the door, marching, folded arms, eyes piercing down the street, at the bus stop.
In front of me, I had a dark roast cup of coffee black and an apple turner over. Both were freshly made that morning. The turnover was light, flaky, the apples sweet slightly tart, with the occasional burst of cinnamon. A few years ago, I would have ordered the cherry turnover, but apples have grown on me. The palate has changed. My mind drifted off to fruit: bananas were still good, but not in food only plain, and when the craving for potassium hit. Oranges have gone up in status; they taste like the sun. But tangerines have gone down. Peaches have never been the best raw, but nectarines haven’t changed. They still are yum. Melons have also slid away from the plate. Cantaloupes used to be the best, Mush melon perfect when ripe, but watermelon I never liked, except for seed spitting, which has nothing to do with taste.
I looked at the newly seated crowd Khaki pants everywhere. I hate khaki pants and I don’t know why? I thought about Sigmund Fraud. What would he say about my passion against the trousers? Then it came to me, maybe, it was my father. He never wore kakis and still doesn’t till this day. I had to cancel that thought. Blue jeans only made a rare appearance like on fishing trips, yard work and the likes, but I love blue jeans.
My time filled, my eyes though with the people around me, my mind drifting to strange thoughts I got up, walked past all of the people and out the double doors onto the street. The world had suddenly lost its surrealism. Reality had returned. It was Wednesday, October 27th 8:45am.
I sat at long both with many small tables across from each table was a chair. Beside me, sandwiching me in, where two young men both with their laptops out typing away. The laptops were both expensive small machines perfect for on the go. They made my computer, that I left home, that was only a year old, seem bulky and prehistoric. To contrast the guy on the left was wearing the latest street fashion with i pod earphones hanging down, his hair coming out of a fashion magazine and on the right a business man, the suit made of fine cloth, pressed perfectly. Me, I was wearing a long sleeved baseball shirt blue jeans and my new sketchers that don’t squeak like the old ones.
Behind the counter were a group of young woman, all with cheerful morning smiles. The smiles weren’t fake, like so many service industry gins, but they were deliberate at times in hope that a dollar or two would fall into the mammoth clear gas tip jar. I watched one of the girls flirt randomly with the male costumers. She had done the same with me. She was a flirter by heart. I watched, not everybody was given the same affection. I was one of many, but not one of all.
A prissy woman frowned as she passed my table. She was my type of pretty, short dark hair, light skinned, blue eyes, with liberain glasses. But she was a bitch. There was no need talking with her to figure that out. I examined her actions at the table she choose. I felt bad for any man who fell for that woman. She was a tarantula of a woman.
A extremely tall lanky teenage girl, almost directly in front of me, lounged chomping on a bagel, moving her head to her i-pod. Maybe I need an I-pod I thought for a second. Everyone else has one. Then I got real again. I have no use for an i-pod; I don’t stick things in my ears. I grew up in New Orleans, there one wants to hear the sounds around them, your property and person depends on the senses.
The place got busier as the time passed. The counter turned into a line, mostly men in casual work clothes trying to get their morning fix before catching the 16 bus to downtown. From behind I could see the impatient of some, the shifting tapping legs resembling a march, the folded arms, the frown with eyes straightforward. It takes time to make a super coffee beverage. If they all just ordered an old cup of Joe everybody would be out the door, marching, folded arms, eyes piercing down the street, at the bus stop.
In front of me, I had a dark roast cup of coffee black and an apple turner over. Both were freshly made that morning. The turnover was light, flaky, the apples sweet slightly tart, with the occasional burst of cinnamon. A few years ago, I would have ordered the cherry turnover, but apples have grown on me. The palate has changed. My mind drifted off to fruit: bananas were still good, but not in food only plain, and when the craving for potassium hit. Oranges have gone up in status; they taste like the sun. But tangerines have gone down. Peaches have never been the best raw, but nectarines haven’t changed. They still are yum. Melons have also slid away from the plate. Cantaloupes used to be the best, Mush melon perfect when ripe, but watermelon I never liked, except for seed spitting, which has nothing to do with taste.
I looked at the newly seated crowd Khaki pants everywhere. I hate khaki pants and I don’t know why? I thought about Sigmund Fraud. What would he say about my passion against the trousers? Then it came to me, maybe, it was my father. He never wore kakis and still doesn’t till this day. I had to cancel that thought. Blue jeans only made a rare appearance like on fishing trips, yard work and the likes, but I love blue jeans.
My time filled, my eyes though with the people around me, my mind drifting to strange thoughts I got up, walked past all of the people and out the double doors onto the street. The world had suddenly lost its surrealism. Reality had returned. It was Wednesday, October 27th 8:45am.