I am home, in New Jersey.
Lately, I've had the funny idea to write small vignettes about the people who I had encountered in Bethlehem regarding how I understood them in the context of work, jobs, employment, whatever, or how they understood themselves in such situations. It seemed natural to start with my boss from the Hard Bean, Dan. So here's an excerpt, rough, unpolished and truthful to my point of view.
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Outside the shop are fliers written in bold, black capitals: “RESTROOMS ARE FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY” or “NO LOITERING OR SOLICITING.” Dan speaks like his signs: loudly in your face and bordering on rude. I used to tell him he needed more signs. Like how about one that plainly says “NO COFFEE, NO INTERNET” or “DON’T TALK TO ME ABOUT YOUR RELIGION; I DON’T CARE.”
The coffee shop is Dan’s money making venture, not his curiosity, passion or project. It shows. He almost threw a guy out who asked for a glass of water. When Dan told him bottles of water sold for a dollar, the guy (who was actually just a kid in the evening’s band) took a friend’s empty coffee cup and filled it from the bathroom tap. He snuck upstairs with his checkered cap pulled low over his brow.
“I don’t care if fuckin’ Jesus Christ walked in here! Water’s a dollar!” Dan hollered, his voice dampened by the ska/punk band screaming and thumping upstairs.
“They’re just kids, and it’s just water,” I cajoled, leaning my arms against the counter as several syrup bottles clinked tops.
“Yeah but my cups ain’t fuckin’ free, y’know?” he answered somewhere between whining and demanding.
When Dan fired me, he told me in response to my prompting question. “Am I fired?” He hadn’t called me that whole week. I left him several messages asking for my hours, and when I got him on the phone on a Saturday, he mumbled that he was busy and would call back with my schedule. Never an answer. I was in Vermont at the time, wholly thrilled with flora, fauna, red wine and blueberry picking. I rushed to get back like sap ran to greet the roots of a maple.
When I came in a few days later, Dan handed me an envelope with check for two hundred and sixty-eight dollars.
“Yeah you’re fired,” he said, rifling through his drawers, rearranging his pens. “You know the hours. You didn’t come in.”
Petty or not, I took the money and stayed for the night’s show. (The band that played for honking cars, some stragglers, and this one guy who looked like Hyde from That Seventies Show.) I told myself, “hey this might be useful for my project,” and “well at least it’s more money than I thought,” or “well this just goes to prove that turnover is expected and people replaceable in this town.” (But maybe the latter is a bit sinister.)
Lately, I've had the funny idea to write small vignettes about the people who I had encountered in Bethlehem regarding how I understood them in the context of work, jobs, employment, whatever, or how they understood themselves in such situations. It seemed natural to start with my boss from the Hard Bean, Dan. So here's an excerpt, rough, unpolished and truthful to my point of view.
------
Outside the shop are fliers written in bold, black capitals: “RESTROOMS ARE FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY” or “NO LOITERING OR SOLICITING.” Dan speaks like his signs: loudly in your face and bordering on rude. I used to tell him he needed more signs. Like how about one that plainly says “NO COFFEE, NO INTERNET” or “DON’T TALK TO ME ABOUT YOUR RELIGION; I DON’T CARE.”
The coffee shop is Dan’s money making venture, not his curiosity, passion or project. It shows. He almost threw a guy out who asked for a glass of water. When Dan told him bottles of water sold for a dollar, the guy (who was actually just a kid in the evening’s band) took a friend’s empty coffee cup and filled it from the bathroom tap. He snuck upstairs with his checkered cap pulled low over his brow.
“I don’t care if fuckin’ Jesus Christ walked in here! Water’s a dollar!” Dan hollered, his voice dampened by the ska/punk band screaming and thumping upstairs.
“They’re just kids, and it’s just water,” I cajoled, leaning my arms against the counter as several syrup bottles clinked tops.
“Yeah but my cups ain’t fuckin’ free, y’know?” he answered somewhere between whining and demanding.
When Dan fired me, he told me in response to my prompting question. “Am I fired?” He hadn’t called me that whole week. I left him several messages asking for my hours, and when I got him on the phone on a Saturday, he mumbled that he was busy and would call back with my schedule. Never an answer. I was in Vermont at the time, wholly thrilled with flora, fauna, red wine and blueberry picking. I rushed to get back like sap ran to greet the roots of a maple.
When I came in a few days later, Dan handed me an envelope with check for two hundred and sixty-eight dollars.
“Yeah you’re fired,” he said, rifling through his drawers, rearranging his pens. “You know the hours. You didn’t come in.”
Petty or not, I took the money and stayed for the night’s show. (The band that played for honking cars, some stragglers, and this one guy who looked like Hyde from That Seventies Show.) I told myself, “hey this might be useful for my project,” and “well at least it’s more money than I thought,” or “well this just goes to prove that turnover is expected and people replaceable in this town.” (But maybe the latter is a bit sinister.)
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