gratitude project: the girl behind the counter
A couple years ago, the Peruvian place in our neighborhood closed permanently and reopened as a bakery-cafe. It's a bright looking place with wood decor and free wifi, so au naturellement, we were obligated to walk-in.
I still remember the first time I met the girl behind the counter. The place had a lingering smell of the paint and the oils from all the reconstruction they'd done. Even the chalk on the blackboard that hung on the wall above the glass food counters were hardly smudged. The place was new and so was the girl at running it. I recall when we gave her our order, she was shaky -- reaching for the menu to double-check the prices and then biting her lip as she punched the numbers into the cash register. She had a look in her eye -- the kind you see most people wearing when they're feeling a bit insecure in their environment, the kind that reads, "Am I doing okay? Please don't tell me that I'm fucking up."
I suppose I was feeling a bit patient that day, and because we already have our own slew of places that we like to frequent when we can, it wasn't as though we were hurting for a new one. Our food came out slightly soggy and oily, and the coffee wasn't anything better than I'd gotten anywhere else, but I figured the place was new, and so they couldn't be at fault. Besides, there was something calming about being in the space that used to be decorated with loud colorful paintings of toucans and parrots. I guess I preferred it over the latter, so I was willing to give it a chance.
In the recent times we've gone back to this bakery-cafe, I've seen the girl behind the counter grow from greeting customers with a deer-in-the-headlights look to one that is more experienced and knowledgeable and less afraid. The food is a bit better and the coffee a bit more aromatic, although sometimes they forget to replenish the stirrers. There are also newer baristos that run the cash register, and the girl now manages more affairs in the back with the kitchen, then upfront with the customers. Every so often, though, she'll poke her head out and give the baristo some advice on how to run things around the place. And now, she smiles when she sees me, the kind that reads, "How are you? I've seen you in here before. Welcome back."
...
It's always in that initial moment of doing something that fucking up seems inevitable. I hit a moment so low last night that it felt like a dark depression I couldn't rid myself of. I felt like a character in P.T. Anderson's Magnolia, and I fucking hated that film. Perhaps because that sense of despair is something I'm all-too-familiar with, and not something I enjoy experiencing when it does unfortunately appear.
I bring this up because seeing the girl at the cafe today made me think about perseverance, and how if you can just get past that initial feeling of "oh no", it won't be so bad in the end. It's easy to think that in this moment, this existence, this whatever (however you want to define it, really) is all there is, and will be. But, if you're lucky enough, you find a reason to keep going forward -- be it work, or a loved one, or anything to break out of the idea of stagnancy, and in time, that feeling of incompetence will pass.
Thank you, bakery girl. I'm making a notes for the screenplay. : )
I still remember the first time I met the girl behind the counter. The place had a lingering smell of the paint and the oils from all the reconstruction they'd done. Even the chalk on the blackboard that hung on the wall above the glass food counters were hardly smudged. The place was new and so was the girl at running it. I recall when we gave her our order, she was shaky -- reaching for the menu to double-check the prices and then biting her lip as she punched the numbers into the cash register. She had a look in her eye -- the kind you see most people wearing when they're feeling a bit insecure in their environment, the kind that reads, "Am I doing okay? Please don't tell me that I'm fucking up."
I suppose I was feeling a bit patient that day, and because we already have our own slew of places that we like to frequent when we can, it wasn't as though we were hurting for a new one. Our food came out slightly soggy and oily, and the coffee wasn't anything better than I'd gotten anywhere else, but I figured the place was new, and so they couldn't be at fault. Besides, there was something calming about being in the space that used to be decorated with loud colorful paintings of toucans and parrots. I guess I preferred it over the latter, so I was willing to give it a chance.
In the recent times we've gone back to this bakery-cafe, I've seen the girl behind the counter grow from greeting customers with a deer-in-the-headlights look to one that is more experienced and knowledgeable and less afraid. The food is a bit better and the coffee a bit more aromatic, although sometimes they forget to replenish the stirrers. There are also newer baristos that run the cash register, and the girl now manages more affairs in the back with the kitchen, then upfront with the customers. Every so often, though, she'll poke her head out and give the baristo some advice on how to run things around the place. And now, she smiles when she sees me, the kind that reads, "How are you? I've seen you in here before. Welcome back."
...
It's always in that initial moment of doing something that fucking up seems inevitable. I hit a moment so low last night that it felt like a dark depression I couldn't rid myself of. I felt like a character in P.T. Anderson's Magnolia, and I fucking hated that film. Perhaps because that sense of despair is something I'm all-too-familiar with, and not something I enjoy experiencing when it does unfortunately appear.
I bring this up because seeing the girl at the cafe today made me think about perseverance, and how if you can just get past that initial feeling of "oh no", it won't be so bad in the end. It's easy to think that in this moment, this existence, this whatever (however you want to define it, really) is all there is, and will be. But, if you're lucky enough, you find a reason to keep going forward -- be it work, or a loved one, or anything to break out of the idea of stagnancy, and in time, that feeling of incompetence will pass.
Thank you, bakery girl. I'm making a notes for the screenplay. : )