It’s a warm, breezy afternoon in summer and my grandpa and I are strolling along New York City’s High Line park.
We’ve walked about 15 blocks when we come across some vendors selling art and a few scattered food carts. One is Blue Bottle Coffee, a California-based organic coffee brand that also has a few shops in Manhattan and Brooklyn. You probably shouldn’t judge a coffee shop by its barista, but the guy behind the cart has that scruffy, indie look that makes me think he takes his coffee seriously.
“Let’s try it out,” Papa says. “I’ve heard it’s good.”
Of course, I’m not going to object. It smells amazing. I wonder though, realistically, how anyone has time for Blue Bottle.
There is no line when Papa and I order our Three Africans Blend drip coffees, but it takes almost five minutes to make them. Not exactly conducive to New Yorkers on the move, but I guess when you’re strolling on the High Line you’re supposed to be relaxed.
With our coffee slowly dripping through the filter, it’s awkward not to make small talk. The barista starts telling us how the Blue Bottle brand has a “cult-like” following in San Francisco, but is just beginning to catch on in New York City.
“In San Francisco,” he says, “Where people only have to be at work at ten, ten-ish, they’ll wait on line forever for a cup. It’s different here.”
Honestly, I can’t imagine people having the patience for that in New York. After all, a cup of coffee is a cup of coffee, even if it’s a really really good cup of coffee.
But we have plenty of time today, and by this point I’m pretty sold by the scent of the coffee grounds, picked up and swirled around by the High Line breeze.
We finally get our coffee and sit down at a little table in the sun near 15th street. It’s about 75 degrees — if it were any warmer drinking hot coffee might not be enjoyable, but it’s perfect in this weather.
Papa takes a sip first.
“It almost tastes like beer it’s so good,” he says says, smiling.
I start laughing. My Irish grandfather loves his beer. I actually know what he means though — the coffee is so thick and rich-tasting, it’s almost filling.
I take a sip.
“Wow, this is good.”
Now I have to rationalize the high price.
“Starbucks lattes are like $3.75,” I say. “I mean, $2.90 for a cup? It’s still not as bad as being a latte person.”
We talk and talk about how delicious this coffee is. One of the best things about loving coffee is talking about how great your cup of coffee is with another coffee-lover who is genuinely enjoying his or her cup.
“I think this is one of the best cups of coffee I’ve ever had,” Papa says.
“Really?! The best you’ve ever had?”
I’m thinking this is a pretty big deal for him to say, after a lifetime of drinking the stuff.
“Well, not the best, but close.”
Papa has never been a gourmet coffee drinker, preferring a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts black or the dark roast from Wawa. His all-time favorite — a 7-Eleven blend — was tragically discontinued a few years ago, and he’s been searching for a replacement ever since. He would never willingly step foot in a Starbucks; he thinks their coffee has too much of a burnt taste, which I agree with even though I buy it all the time.
Needless to say, I’m pretty happy about his newfound love for the trendy Blue Bottle.
We continue walking along the High Line, savoring our Three Africans Blend for the next 15 minutes until the coffee’s the same temperature as the outside air. It still tastes good.
That night I arrive home to an email from Papa, informing me of Blue Bottle’s dangerous new Rockefeller Center location.
“How can any one be able to save money working near a Blue Bottle coffee kiosk?” he writes. “There ought to be a law against this type of temptation.”
Swimming. Sundresses. Street fairs. There are so many things to love about summer, but writing outside may be my favorite. I have a few months to go before I begin my new job, and I’ve been trying to get some sun and catch up with reading and writing in the meantime. Here are some of my all time favorite spots to ponder ideas, scribble down thoughts or seriously write.
1. On a city bench (eavesdropping)
I learned this trick at the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio back when I was a junior in high school. There’s no better source of inspiration for a story than picking up and trying to piece together scraps of conversation from daily life. Listening to entire conversations is okay, too. I mean when you’re out in the public it’s fair game, right?
2. The back patio of my house
It’s away from the commotion, but close to an endless supply of snacks and San Pellegrino!
3. The second floor balcony of the Concord Suites in Avalon, NJ
Each year since I was about 11 my family has gone down to the Jersey Shore and stayed at the same hotel, the Concord Suites. The second story of the building has a wide balcony with tables that look out over the street. I love the clear, breezy nights when you can see the stars, and the combination of hushed conversation of and the hum of the ocean makes for the perfect background sound. Every year I try to write at least one poem from up there.
4. The bench and table at St. Joseph’s Lake in Notre Dame, IN
I never actually wrote here, but my roommate Megan and I would often go for runs around the lakes at school, and each time we passed this spot I’d vow to come back with my notebook. Basically, there’s a charming little writing desk off in a tree-shrouded area beside a beautiful lake, and I never actually see anyone using it. I’ll definitely have to find some time away from bookstore-shopping and tailgating to come back here during a football weekend.
5. Sitting outside a café
Okay I may be cheating a little bit with this one, because obviously a café is an ideal spot for writing. But writing OUTSIDE a café is most ideal! I love the outdoor tables certain coffee shops have, where you can sit with your laptop, enjoy your latte and the warm weather and still observe people on the street.
Sometimes exposure to one environment gets me thinking about the opposite of that environment. It’s strange, really. It’s the beginning of summer and I’m sitting here thinking about winter. Come winter and I’ll be thinking about summer. And not even in the sense that I’m longing for that season – I am definitely not longing for winter- just pondering it. If I’m spending time in a city I’ll imagine dusty country roads. If I’m out in the Midwest I’ll close my eyes each night to city lights. (Maybe that’s from longing.)
I guess it makes sense. As a creative writer, I write best from experience, but even better when I have some distance from that experience. Still, doesn’t it seem contradictory to remove oneself from the environment your writing pictures, develops, scrutinizes? I don’t like the idea, but I guess I have time to figure out what works best for me.
I mentioned in a previous post that the poet I’m most inspired by is Ted Kooser, former Poet Laureate. One of his poems I’ve been thinking a lot about lately is called “In January.” I love the way Kooser develops atmosphere in this poem, creating shapes and sounds from intangible things like light and age.
In January
Only one cell in the frozen hive of night
is lit, or so it seems to us:
this Vietnamese café, with its oily light,
its odors whose colorful shapes are like flowers.
Laughter and talking, the tick of chopsticks.
Beyond the glass, the wintry city
creaks like an ancient wooden bridge.
A great wind rushes under all of us.
The bigger the window, the more it trembles.
Well, not exactly. I was out for a run and it was around 9 at night. By that time, nearly the only light in my suburban neighborhood comes from scattered lampposts and the flickering of televisions in living room windows. Which means it’s hard to see uneven sidewalks elevated by tree roots, especially if you’re distracted by the first firefly of the season.
Every year I look forward to that first firefly – it’s as if the illuminated case holds within it all the wonders of childhood summer: dripping popsicles and ice cream cones, late night sprinklers, playing out in the streets and watching thunderstorms from my bedroom window. My birthday.
But now it’s a different kind of summer, because for first time in years I’m totally and completely free. And of course, this may be my last summer in that sense.
Having just graduated from college, I’ve been struggling to accept that sense of freedom, since my previous life was defined by never being free. I can’t accept summer for what it is, an open in-between period when it’s acceptable to spend hours shopping or tanning at the pool. I can’t accept that I should relax. (But should I?)
Apparently, there’s no need to power walk to the pantry just to get a handful of crackers and get back to work. I can sleep in if I want to, and accompanying my mother on a long trip to the grocery store will make no difference in my plans for the day, and will certainly not set me back from the nonexistent pile of work I still need to get done.
Because my goals — write more often, keep up with the news, spend more time with my family — are all rather vague “self-improvement” goals that do not have a set timeline. But I have this irrational fear that by letting down my guard, by not filling my free days with something like the antithesis of relaxation, I’ll lose the drive that powered me through my college years.
As I continued my run tonight, which itself had been an escape from my too-relaxing book and movie, I realized this summer is so unlike “real life” that it’s hard to define what my ideal summer would even be. By the time I made my way back up the road, careful to watch for tree roots, the fireflies had retreated to wherever they go between dusk and dawn.
I opened the door to my house, greeted by central air and the possibility of spending the rest of my night doing whatever I feel like.
The South Bend/Michiana area may not be a musician’s haven, but local guitarists Doug Rice and Anibal Fausto say the music community is small but present.
And lately, thanks to Quincy’s Cafe as a new venue, it has been on the rise.
Check out my podcast on Quincy’s and the local music scene:
Walk into Quincy’s Café on any given afternoon and the first thing you’ll notice is the people.
Students clad in oversized headphones, hidden behind their laptops and towers of textbooks. Professors holding an orange coffee mug in one hand and a newspaper in the other. A poet scribbling down thoughts in his Moleskin.
Ismail Egilmez, owner of the café, says Quincy’s has something for everyone.
“I have 90-year-old women … playing cards games down to students studying, to locals who’ve been in town forever to artists to musicians sitting in the corner,” he said. “It’s what we are, the environment that I’ve set out … if you build it, they’ll come.”
Located on the corner of Edison Road and Route 23, Egilmez credits Quincy’s success over the last year in part to its central location.
“I’m at a good crossroads,” he said. “We’re next to the campus, obviously, which we totally love, we’re next to downtown, also next to Granger, which is very popular, and everybody moves through here.”
Egilmez opened Quincy’s Café one year ago with his father, Philip Egilmez, a Notre Dame alum. Ismail Egilmez had previously owned an art gallery in Chicago, which he was forced to close when the economy spiraled downward.
Opening his own café, he said, had always been a goal.
Now, the timing was right.
“It was harder and harder to find anything to really depend on … so the best answer to that was just to work for yourself,” he said. “So we came together, brought our heads together on it, and this is what came out of that.”
The quirky ambience of Quincy’s helps distinguish it from what Egilmez calls “sterile” coffee shops, chain stores like Starbucks and Seattle’s Best that have spread across the country since the early 1990s.
He said Quincy’s is an entirely different kind of venture.
“Just because the coffee associates us two doesn’t mean the whole idea of the business is [the same,]” he said. “This is more ‘take a break.’”
With its wooden tables, mismatched chairs and abstract artwork lining an entire wall, the atmosphere of Quincy’s is a major draw for creative types who find the South Bend area lacking in similar venues.
“It does build community really well, because people talk to each other and connections happen, it’s just great for the artists to be able to do that,” he said. “That way [I can] support doing the art, without completely depending on it, and still give back in that way.”
All of the artwork displayed is by local or regional artists. Egilmez also invites local musicians to play on a small wooden stage in the back of the café.
“There’s some weeks we have [music] Wednesday through Sunday, other weeks we have it just Thursday Friday and Saturday, but always Friday and Saturday and 90 percent of the time Thursday, Friday, Saturday, so yeah we really try to keep that going,” Egilmez said.
When it comes to food, Quincy’s also goes for local flavor.
“I think the signature thing is the ingredient,” Egilmez said. “I mean every restaurant is going to have a turkey sandwich, I mean we can’t patent that … it’s how you do it.”
All of the food is locally or regionally made, he said, and none of the ingredients are “skimped on.”
The coffee served at Quincy’s — on the pricier side at about two to five dollars a cup — is high quality and regionally sourced.
“We do Intelligentsia coffee because they’re a smaller business. I [found out] about them when I went to Chicago, basically I tasted that and I said I won’t go to any of the ‘other’ places,” he said. “It really is night and day.”
Egilmez said that despite doing very little advertising, numbers show Quincy’s has grown steadily each month since it opened last April.
But he said the timeline for possible expansion “kind of dictates itself.”
“We want to see if the cup keeps overflowing to see if that’s needed and so right now we’re at just about the right capacity with our shows and everything, so [eventually] expanding the venue so we can offer more, a little bigger of a stage,” he said.
Egilmez said he does not want to be the kind of owner that “sets and forgets,” failing to keep up with increased demand or customers’ needs.
“You have to keep moving with it a little bit, and change, but still keep the very main core,” he said. “I’m never going to lose what I’m about. Just [add] to it a little bit.”
Four-page excerpt from one of my short stories, inspired by a nightmare of a high school job at TJMAXX and examining the consumer culture and hyperconnectivity of young people.
Source: Snarky’s Machine
Register 3 is now open.
Hour 1. A man comes up to me, doesn’t say hello, slams down a T-shirt about as hard as you can slam down a cotton garment. Like he’s got a problem. I don’t deal well with these kinds of customers — mostly I just don’t know how to react to them — so I adjust my nametag and play with that electronic pen-thing that’s attached to the credit card machine. I don’t understand why we have that electronic pen but we still have printed receipts, receipts that need to be signed with ink. Confuses every customer. No, sorry, you have to sign here.
0 unread messages.
Something about that is backwards.
I try to be friendly to this guy. Hello, I’m Jason. Find everything OK? How’s your day going? Beautiful, isn’t it for February? But he whispers something to his kid and doesn’t answer me so I smile and fold the shirt, scan the tag, tap the touchscreen with the pad of my finger.
Just like the manager told me to.
Fold, scan, tap.
The man’s got a salt and pepper mustache and cigarette skin. Rough around the edges. Cut-off Giants T-shirt. You’ve got lots of time to notice a person when they’re not looking at you.
Please, sir — I turn to him. That’s $9.99. Credit or debit? Debit, good, then you don’t have to sign a receipt, which means I don’t have to look for a pen. I hand the bag to the man and the man hands the bag to his kid, a blonde kid in a wrinkly red zip-up hoodie whose head barely reaches over the white counter. The kid wants to eat lunch. The man knows the kid wants to eat lunch but has some things to take care of before they do that. He reaches into his butt pocket for his wallet. For how muscley this guy’s arms are it’s kinda surprising he moves in slow motion.
Please, please, please move a little faster. Look at that line.
I slyly reach into the drawer and check my phone.
1 new message: Heyyyy are you going to Brad McNeil’s tonight? He’s having an America party should be pretty awesome. Wear something patriotic!!!
For a moment I wonder if he remembers I’m here. This guy who’s buying a T-shirt and checking his phone and looking angry. Then the kid gets pissy too about something and jumps up and down in a mini-rage. He wants Mac ‘n Cheese. He can’t have Mac ‘n Cheese till he gets home. So he runs under the line divider, over to the Purse & Wallet aisle and then to the adjacent Housewares. I hear a crash and it’s pretty loud. Sounds like a $15.99 crash to me — probably one of those ceramic platters we got a huge shipment of last Thursday. People have been flocking here to buy those platters.
Thank you, sir, and thanks for shopping at—
I’m so preoccupied with the speech, the speech they literally drilled into my mind during training that I don’t realize the man’s already gone, running after the kid and pinching him on the butt for breaking the platter, then gripping his wrist the way no child ever wants to be gripped. No. Mac. ‘N. Cheese. For. You.
The kid starts wailing — I swear to God I hate when kids do that, plus his screaming voice clashes with the elevator jazz the managers insist creates ‘the most pleasurable shopping experience for our valued customers.’ By the time I tap the touchscreen and prep for the next transaction, there’s already another customer in front of me.
I don’t even remember pressing the button. I don’t remember pressing the button but there’s someone right here.
Register 3 is now open.
The customer smiles at me and I smile back. I bugs me when they do that — come up to the counter before I press the button — I mean sometimes you need to refill the receipt paper or pick up a pen or take a breath or something. But I don’t say anything about it to her because she’s kinda hot. She’s got nice-looking big brown eyes with tons of makeup around them, but whatever. Her lipstick’s bright red. I don’t get why good-looking girls insist on wearing such bright intense lipstick.
She’s hot but Jenny’s still hotter. Jenny Brown who I kissed last night.
Jenny was wearing some fruity lipstick, not nearly as bright as this girl’s, which I thought was cute and complimented her on after I kissed her. But she said she wasn’t wearing any lipstick and that maybe it was the Juicy Fruit she chewed earlier. But I know she was wearing lipstick, she just wanted me to think her lips are naturally like that, which is cute because obviously it means likes me.
This girl at the counter, she seems familiar. She’s super-dark-haired, that almost-black color like she dumped an entire package of hair dye in it and never bothered to wash it out. She’s wearing a matching Juicy Couture burgundy sweat suit with the little dangly J on the zipper.
Dangle dangle dangle goes that silver J, as she talks and moves her hands, dangle dangle dangling, right below her boobs.
Then I realize…I know her. She’s friends with Jenny. Was friends with Jenny, last year at least. I’d see them together at lunch and getting Diet Cokes after school from the vending machine near the theater.
I don’t want her to tell her friends she saw me and I was awkward. I need to make at least a semi-good impression.
1 new message: Where areee you?
We sell those here, the Juicy sweatsuits, for 50% off the original price. Did…you buy yours here? I ask her, gesturing towards her outfit. Wow, of all the things I could have said why did I say the dumbest thing ever? God I’m an idiot. She looks offended. I’m an asshole. Ohhhh you onlybuy housewares at this store, obviously I should have known. I’m so sorry — uh, um Marissa…right! I’m—well you can see it on my nametag here but I’m Jason. We were in…Pre-Calc last year, right!
So. Embarrassing.
I consciously keep my eyes off the dangly J but the more I consciously do that the more apparent it is that my eyes are averting it. The silver J keeps dangling, I can practically hear it, louder than the Register 3 is now open, louder than that goddamn jazz music.
That J dangle dangle dangles, around and around in my head.
Focus on the transaction, not the person, I tell myself.
She’s buying scented candles! She says it like it’s the most exciting thing in the world. Like she’s been looking for the perfect set of candles all her life and here, in this store, she’s finally found them. 20 of them! Which she insists I wrap in tissue paper! Individually! And then a second time! Because they’re for her mother! In case the power goes out!
Marissa literally talks like that, with a perpetual smile and wide-open eyes. Okay, yeah no problem, nice meeting — seeing you again too Marissa, see you in school. Yup enjoy your, um, candles and have nice day. Thanks for shopping at—
Register 3 is now open.
Register 5 is now open.
Register 3 is now open.
A woman approaches, struggling to push two shopping carts to the checkout counter. In the first cart is a framed black and white poster of Audrey Hepburn, for her daughter. In the second cart are 27 pairs of Sevens Jeans. Who are those for? That she won’t tell me. Kinda sketch, in my opinion. I bet she’s one of those women who buys tons of stuff from stores like this and then sells it on eBay. She’s probably also one of those women who show up at the mall during the Christmas sales with two giant pieces of luggage and fill it with loads upon loads of discounted crap.
I reach over to scan the poster and she starts loading all the jeans onto the counter — I don’t know how they’re all going to fit on there but somehow they do. I take a deep breath and begin tackling the mountain of clothing before me.
Fold, scan, tap.
Fold, scan, tap.
They’re all marked down to $39.99. Original price — $129.90. That’s what these people come here, for the prices. Designer stuff they otherwise can’t afford. Coach. Kate Spade. Michael Kors. Marc Jacobs. BCBG. Versace. Oscar de la Renta. Valentino. You name it. That’s why they sacrifice hours of a perfectly good day trekking through the disorganized aisles, inspecting price tags, fighting with that bitch that grabbed the shirt they had already claimed with their eyes. That’s why they drag around three screaming kids, kids who are hungry and tired and just want to go home before soccer practice.
9 down.
Fold, scan, tap.
20 down.
Fold. Scan. Tap.
24 down.
27 times I fold and scan the jeans, tap the touchscreen. 27 times, and I take a deep breath and smile. Now if you could juuust sign on the dotted line—
But no, she thinks I charged her for 28 pairs.
No, no, no look here, it says on the receipt. 28 items. The poster and 27 pairs of jeans. I got it right, I promise. I can’t do them over, that would involve a void, which I can’t do, and a manager to come, and he’s on his lunch break I think, and I’d need to ring the jeans up all over again and who knows how long you’d have to wait.
No, I did not charge you for an extra pair.
Please, ma’am, this is my third day. Technically I’m still training. I know that doesn’t help my case but really, I only charged you for 27. Twenty-seven Sevens Jeans.
Before I know it I feel my manager’s breath against my neck. He asks in a low voice what the problem is and stares at me and then whispers something in my ear. I know sir, I know the customer’s always right, but look here, look at the receipt! The receipt says 27!
Notre Dame MFA student and fellow Writing Center tutor Betsy Cornwell was kind enough to chat with me about her two upcoming novels, life at ND and experience with the book publishing process. Betsy’s debut novel, Tides, will be released from Clarion next spring. Her second novel, Mechanica: A Steampunk Cinderella — also from Clarion — will be published in the spring of 2014.
SKETCHING A STORY 