Keep austin weird, p.21
Keep Austin Weird, page 21
Of course, this search proves nothing. She’s here, alive and actively seeing people’s Best Selves, and she isn’t advertising about it on the web; why would anyone else do so? She can just see the website now: a big, flashing headline saying, “I wanna hold your hand – and tell you what to do with the rest of your freakin’ life!” Yeah, that would be dandy. She continues to try different keyword searches for another ten minutes, but her heart isn’t really in it. It just keeps her hands busy as her mind works on where to go from here; it’s like low-energy pacing. If she believes what she now sees, she has wronged Kim in the most fundamental way: she’s steered her away from her Best Self, not towards it. But, why should she believe what she sees now more than what she’s seen for 12 years?
Or, more fundamentally, why should she believe anything she’s ever seen about anyone? If her visions can change, what good are they, anyhow?
Eleanor is feeling awful. It’s like a mid-life crisis that ramped up from nothing to crisis instantaneously Saturday afternoon. She’s avoided touching Kim since then, because she just couldn’t stand the idea of seeing her as a teacher again. But … what if it was a fluke? What if it was just that once, maybe because she was watching graduation and all, and if she were to touch Kim now it would be all timpani and concert halls? Then, it’s not a crisis. It’s just an interesting observation about what can happen in especially stressful situations.
The possibility of such a happy ending fills Eleanor with hope. She rushes to the door without even turning off the computer, something her inner-environmentalist will chide her for later. Only when she reaches the door does she realize she’s still in a dressing gown and fuzzy Bevo slippers. She retreats to the bedroom to change into casual clothes before dashing to her car and heading to Congress Street and Austin Powers’ House Coffee Shoppé.
Chapter 35
- 8 June 2013 9:45 A.M.
* Austin Powers’ House Coffee Shoppé, Austin, TX
Kim is bored. She’s cleaned everything that can be cleaned and she’s prepped everything that can be prepped. She’s about ready to make herself a sign board and go out on the street and attempt to route people into the coffee shoppé; she’s even willing to offer a no-bitch guarantee if that’s what it takes to have someone to interact with for a few minutes and thereby get this slow, slow day moving again. Or, she’ll happily offer an all-bitch guarantee, whatever the person wants or desires. After all, the customer is always right – except when they’re not.
When Kim is bored, her mind tends to go looking for entertainment wherever it can be found. That explains why, years ago, she watched all of Eraserhead one very rainy Sunday afternoon. Today, though, with a dearth of video entertainment on anything bigger than a smartphone, her mind dives into its own archives in search of a good time. She briefly contemplates the smell of a coffee shoppé, how her clothes smell like brewing beans when she gets home. Other workers have similar odor issues (grease smell for McDonald’s cooks, smoke stench for anyone who works in a bar), but the topic can’t hold her attention for long.
From some rather dusty corner of her mind she remembers something she read about years ago, when she was in high school: the Blue Feather Phenomenon. It’s from Richard Bach’s book Illusions, and the story went something like this: the narrator, Richard (not being too subtle there, are we, Mr. Bach?) is taught by the reluctant messiah Donald Shimoda how to attract into your life anything you want simply by imagining it clearly in your mind. Richard tries this by imaging a blue feather; he sees the feather later in the day on a milk carton. That sounds exactly like Kim’s situation: she wants someone to interact with, so all she has to do is imagine them.
Excellent!
The problem is, she doesn’t have a clear picture in her mind who she is looking for, so imagining that desirement with the clarity required to physically draw it to her may be problematic. To focus her spiritual energy she recalls excellent conversations she has had in the past and her mind immediately thinks of Bambi. However, Kim quickly decides that it is unlikely Bambi will be able to sprout feet and walk herself to the coffee shoppé, so Kim moves on. Next, she imagines Eleanor. Ah, Eleanor, how nice it would be to talk to you in your non-depressed, non-stressed persona for a few minutes! But, Eleanor is at work and very likely remains depressed and stressed, so all in all it doesn’t seem as if imagining Eleanor, no matter in how much detail, is going to have a positive effect.
Kim realizes she may be aiming a bit low here, or perhaps more accurately a bit too familiar. If she’s going to put the powers of the universe into play, she may as well think big! If she wants someone to talk to, why not think of someone who is such a natural conversationalist that they host a show dedicated to talk, i.e., a talk-show host extraordinaire? So she thinks about Ellen. She imagines Ellen, circa 1997, coming out to Oprah and Melissa Etheridge. She sees Ellen’s beautiful face framed by the sassy hairdo and supporting her sparkling eyes. She hears her precise use of understatement. Yup, she has a pretty distinct picture of Ellen in her mind.
Kim opens one eye to see if it’s working. Nope, no Ellen. Yet.
But, Kim being Kim, it’s hard to keep her imagination from wandering on to new, interesting topics after a while. Thinking about Oprah appearing on Ellen’s sitcom leads her to thinking about Chicago, then the Chicago hot dog (who would ever decide that celery salt is a good idea?) and Chicago-style pizza (deep dish – now that’s an idea Kim can totally get behind). This leads her to Notre Dame (in Indiana) to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (in Ohio) which takes her straight into Amish Country in Pennsylvania where she stops for a rather longer set of considerations: How can the color black be appropriate for people who don’t want to stand out (the Amish) and those who do (Goth teenagers, long-legged women in little black dresses)? Does the fact that sun averse people like Eleanor are taking to wearing wide-brimmed hats when outdoors mean that people are becoming more Amish-esque? And, how do the leaders of the Amish church decide which technologies are OK to use and which are not? The lever and the pulley were high tech once – OK, it was some time ago, but still – and the wheel is still pretty newfangled from a geological view of time, why are those man-made wonders Godly and not the smartphone or Roomba vacuum robot? If the church formed today instead of in the 17th Century, would Amish people be allowed to drive cars and use computers until the devil developed flying cars and quantum computers?
Given that there is a lot to ponder there, Kim nearly misses the bell indicating the door is opened. But, “almost” is the key word: Kim is a professional. She could hear that little bell from a ranch and a half away from the shoppé, and we’re talking Texas-sized ranches at that. She looks up, expecting Ellen, but instead sees someone else she recognizes: Calvin, her drumming buddy. “Cal! I was expecting Ellen, man, but all in all I think I’m happy it’s just good old you.”
“Sure, who’d want to hang out with the glitterati when you could serve an iced mochaccino to a member of your drum circle?”
“Exactly!”
Kim smiles at Calvin, waiting for him to continue the conversation; Calvin, though, is surprised to see Kim not engaged in the task of making an iced mochaccino and stares at her expectantly. “No, really, that’s my order.”
“Oh, yeah, got it. What size?”
“A gran …”
“Ah ah ah!”
“… medium, please.”
“That’s more like it. Don’t think our friendship would save you from the wrath of the Bitchy Barista.”
“Nope, I’d never imagine such a thing.” Now that Kim is barista-ing, Calvin feels comfortable enough to continue. “I have arrived this morning with some exciting news.”
“Does it involve Ellen?”
“No.”
“Dang, no Ellen. Anyhow, hit me with your best thoughts, mate.”
“I’m going on a cruise!”
“Dude! That’s really cool; sailing out of Galveston with the big-eared rodent?”
“No, I …”
“Or maybe on one of those ships that are too freakin’ big to go through the Panama Canal, those boats where you and 5,000 of your closest friends sail the high seas together?”
“No, but …”
“Or …”
“OK, that does it: you do not get to hang out with Adrienne even one more minute, I can’t stand knowing another habitual talker.”
“If only; I’ve been talking since I started talking. Ask my mom if you don’t believe me.”
“I am, in fact, not just going on a cruise. I’m going to be drumming on a cruise!”
Kim places the iced mochaccino on the counter before she either drops it or throws it in Calvin’s face. “Oh, buddy, say it isn’t so.”
“Now don’t try to tell me you’re some sort of aristocratic musician now. You’ve played for community theater and weddings – and your years of punk mariachi.”
“Yeah, fine, but they are all here. I can still play in the symphony; don’t you have to do like a six-month contract on a cruise ship or something?”
“Not always … but in this case, yeah. I’ll be gone for six months.” Calvin looks at Kim without his usual spirit and verve. Kim has never seen Calvin like this. His optimism is rare in that it occasionally rivals her own, but today this conversation is making him look defeated – defeated and really, really old. His shoulders slump to where his elbows should be.
“Are you sure this is a good move for you?” Kim asks quietly.
Calvin shakes his head, but says, “Look, I need to do something that guarantees me an income for a reasonable period of time! If I have to leap once more trusting a net will appear, my mind is going to crack.”
Kim desperately wants to say, “But cruise ship music? There’s got to be something else,” but she knows she just can’t. She and Calvin had joked about this many times in the past, how playing on a cruise ship was just a small step above busking – and how both are activities for a much, much younger musician than Calvin, or even Kim for that matter. She looks slightly above and to the left of Calvin and curtly says, “Yeah, I can see that. That’s … where does the ship go?”
“Well, it’s working the Mediterranean right now so I embark in Venice; in October, it sails back to do a winter season in the Caribbean. So, I’ll get to see two of the seven seas and the Atlantic to boot.”
“That’s cool,” Kim replies, sneaking a glance at Calvin. He’s starting to expand his spine again and is approaching his full height. “And, the music – I get to play a lot of different music! I’ll play Latin percussion for the big production numbers with the singers and dancers, and drum set for live-band karaoke and in a Dixieland quartet for their Bourbon Street Afternoon Tea. I’ll be jammin’ and rockin’ for eight hours a day sometimes!” Now there’s Calvin’s natural optimism, finding a platinum lining in being overworked and exploited. Kim has to look up and away again. “And I’ll have no expenses! Room, board, fetching young Eastern European women looking for fatherly advice, all included, free of charge! And don’t worry about the symphony, they are letting me take a leave of absence so I can jump right back onto the stage when I get back. So, don’t let Ulrich forget about me, OK?”
“No, no way.”
After a brief moment of pin-dropping silence, Calvin quickly moves the focus of the conversation. “So, how are you doin’? Any new gigs, or leads, or …”
They chat for ten more minutes, trying to pretend that nothing unusual has been discussed here today. They have been partners in poverty and musicianship for years and can easily pass the time talking about music and their attempts to make money performing it. But when the few leads either of them has heard of have been thoroughly explored and the pieces they will perform next with the symphony have been minutely examined (from a percussionist point of view, of course), Kim comes around the counter to hug Calvin. Kim’s embrace lasts far too long, given she’s trying to pretend Calvin didn’t drop such awful news on her. Kim even kisses Calvin on the center of his bald head. “I’ll miss you, little drummer boy.”
“Naw, I’ll be back too soon.” Calvin forces a smile before he and his iced mochaccino head out the door.
The door is still open from Calvin’s departure when Kim’s next customer arrives, a pale twenty-something boy with a few straggly hairs standing in for a goatee. As he walks up to the counter, Kim circles around it to appropriately define the barista-customer relationship.
The young bloke has a difficult time deciding what to drink. He stares at the order board for several minutes, his sad facial hair pointed right at Kim in a very distracting way. With her bitchiness getting ready to reassert itself (Kim is getting ready to ask if he’s found a mind to make up), Kim hears the little bell again and sees Eleanor dart into the shoppé and immediately duck into a seat at the table nearest the front door.
Chapter 36
- 10 June 2013 10:37 A.M.
* Austin Powers’ House Coffee Shoppé, Austin, TX
Eleanor is a nervous wreck. It took more than an hour to get here because she kept changing her mind and turning around and then she got lost. In Austin, a town she knows better than the back of her hand (who stares at the back of their hand anyhow?). She slides into the first table inside the door and sits quickly, trying to relax.
This visit isn’t unprecedented, Eleanor reminds herself. She often stops by to say hello and grab a cuppa, so there’s no reason to think Kim will be on alert. But, Eleanor realizes, today she’s not in her work clothes and she doesn’t look like herself in other ways, too. Her hair is disheveled and her non-black eye is bloodshot and puffy. No, it is likely Kim will immediately realize this is not a stop-in-to-say-hello visit; this is something much more serious and threatening. Her fears are confirmed when Kim waves nervously from her barista station, each finger individually articulated for a moment, before returning her attention to the young man standing at the counter and (as of yet) not ordering anything. Eleanor sits and waits as patiently as she can; she respects Kim and Kim’s work and doesn’t want to interrupt her to explain how she may be responsible for ruining Kim’s life.
No, that sort of news can definitely wait for a break in the action.
The skinny boy finally decides on something and Kim baristas with gusto. Eleanor likes watching Kim work. She is very efficient, making no unnecessary movements with her feet or hands as she crafts beverages like a pro. Eleanor thinks Kim would be good at anything she tries. She is a good artist, though few people bought her regional horoscopes. She is a fabulous percussionist for orchestra and punk mariachi bands. She was a very good teacher, too, before Eleanor butted in. And, in Eleanor’s opinion, Kim is the best partner she could ever find.
That’s when the panic sets in again. “If I touch Kim and don’t see any timpani, how can I tell her about what I’ve done?” her thoughts cry, filling her head. “She’ll throw me out! Or, well, move out, or go sleep on the couch, or something. And what can I say? ‘Sorry about ruining your life; what do you want for dinner?’ No, that just won’t do. I can’t double-check Kim’s Best Self unless I’m ready to deal with the consequences of being wrong for 12 years. If there’s no timpani, then I confess my sins and I need to be ready to provide the appropriate penance right then and there. I need to be ready to change, I need to show Kim I understand the gravity of what I’ve done.”
This all sounds good to Eleanor. It’s like the pieces of a mental puzzle all falling into place for her, taking the disorder and confusion of the weekend and this morning and turning it into a life-changing catalyst. She is close to finishing this puzzle, but the last couple pieces seem to be missing. What can she do? What must she do to show Kim this sort of cataclysm won’t happen again? She looks at Kim, who is rapidly making a coffee-based drink with occasional glances over towards Eleanor, and feels a passion for her that she hasn’t felt recently, going all the way back to the overwhelming addiction she felt for Kim starting at the City Market in Luling when Kim replied, “You tell me,” to her query if this is a date or a date date. “You tell me,” she said. God, that is certainly the sort of thing to be addicted to.
Eleanor hears proverbial alarm bells going off: the one thing she’s more addicted to than Kim is her meddlesome raison d’être, this base need to try to steer people to do what she thinks they should be doing. So, there it is, then, that’s her penance: stop. Stop trying to guide the lost, stop trying to fix the broken, stop trying to find new occupations for the garbagemen of the world. Just stop, let people be people and have them make life and career decisions without her. With the clarity of relieved guilt, Eleanor realizes that’s the needed Big Gesture, the symbolic sacrifice she can make so Kim really feels her remorse. She’ll just stop.
So, she just has to stop doing this one thing – something she’s been doing nonstop and with zealous commitment for the last twenty years. How the hell can she just stop? That’s simple, of course: just don’t do it anymore. Shake hands with someone, realize their Best Self is writing organic soup cookbooks and just don’t tell them about it. Let them continue to be a stockbroker, or a civil servant or, yes, even let them continue to be a garbageman.
But what about the kids? What harm can it do to introduce kindergarteners to activities they can be especially good at? It seems safe to keep guiding the kids. But, in the back of her mind, Eleanor knows that’s a cheat that just won’t wash. It smacks of an alcoholic saying they’ll only drink on days with a “y” in them. Either you’re in or you’re out, recovering or addicted, and Eleanor desperately wants to recover.
So, Eleanor knows what she’s done, she knows what she wants to do, now she just has to go out and do it. Or, rather, stop doing it. The guy with what Eleanor can now see is a ridiculous goatee is paying for his finished drink, so barring a new influx of customers Kim will be free soon. Eleanor stares at Kim, wanting to hold her and ask forgiveness in the worst way, but just telling her she’s going cold turkey somehow doesn’t feel right. She’s not ready – she realizes that now, and, despite the likelihood of freaking Kim out more, she absolutely thinks she needs to get out of here.
