Apples for $10 a day

I don't think any amount of coffee can wake me up today. 

The time, 9:55 am on a Thursday. I am sitting at my desk at the pilates studio listening to the sounds of breathing and grunting that many of the older clients tend to exude without hesitation.  I nod my head to the melodic rhythm of the 100 exercise, "Inhale 2, 3, 4,5  and exhale 2, 3, 4, 5."  This week the studio is slow due to everyone out for spring break. I dont mind getting paid to sit here and write for $10 and hour. Gee, $10 an hour. I get paid this and I live in New York City. At the coffee shop I get paid less. As I sit and write these amounts out, thoughts run through my sleepy mind. It is ironic that the majority of people who go to college try and come out of the thing with more intelligence, a career in site, and debt free. Unfortunately, this does not happen. I am a college graduate beginning from square one, working minimum wage, and in debt beyond comprehension. I struggle to eat a simple sandwich during my day and scramble my money together to take the train to and from work. I am not saying all of this for sympathy or for a pitty party. Just saying.....

All of my friends have goals and things they want to do because they have been dreaming about them all of their lives. I have wanted to dance professionally for years. My passion truly is dancing and making art with dance. So I moved to New York City, the land of dreams and art, right? Now I am dancing less than I was before. I spend $18 on a dance class and then feel guilty going home to make dinner with the remaining $10 from my weekly budget. This week, I have actually said "Fuck this, I am going to just go to class." Once this occurred, I took my classes, had my routine coffee on the way, and went home to eat dinner. All week this was my schedule. Then, I receive an email from my bank. LOW BALANCE THRESHOLD. ahhhhhhh those words are terrorizing to me. I take a breath and tell myself that tomorrow is another day, just don't go to class this week, only work. Then, the phone rings. No, its the 800 number from the collection agency calling about my credit card. I am behind on my payments this month. I can't catch up. I feel so far behind. If I try to catch up, I will be behind on the rent. The credit card debt is from my travels to London for a week. If it were not for the credit card, I would not have been able to go, and let me tell you it was the best experience of my life! I would have stayed over there if it were possible financially. Once again, I must put off my dreams to work for $10 and hour. 

Breathe. "Inhale 2, 3, 4, 5 and Exhale 2, 3, 4, 5". With each breath I just question everything. I am walking in the midst of a city where no one knows your name. Do I want to be a nobody in a world full of somebodies? Certainly I feel this way. 

 I step back and take a look...

I worked at the coffee shop yesterday for the first time in 3 weeks. I had taken off for the pilates studio and have missed the regular faces in the morning. One in particular, Mr. Monroe. He came in yesterday and saw me standing behind the counter waiting to say hello. "Oh, my! Well hello there darlin'!" He exclaimed as he opened up his bag. "Where on earth have you been? I have missed you're face."

I told him that I am now at the studio full time and training to be a Pilates instructor. He pulled out a shinny red apple and sat it onto the counter in front of me. "Wash it off now, ok?" I smiled at him and hugged the apple close to my chest as if it were my lover. "Yes Monroe, I will." Monroe lingered for a while at the counter with his half smile printed on his face and gathered his belongings from the floor. I proceeded to ask him questions to find out a bit more about this older,lonely gentleman. I asked him the usual "Where do you live, what do you do all day, where are you from?" He only answered one out of the 5 I ended up asking him. He lives around 55th and 10th Ave. Monroe would not answer my questions about why he visits the bank everyday, where his wife is (because I know he has one), where is he from, what did he do when he was younger? He did ask me a few though. I told him I was leaving for Chicago to see my man and he asked, "Well is he good to you? Treat you well and with respect? You need that." I smiled and nodded that he does treat me well. Once he was satisfied with that answer he waved goodbye and left the coffee shop. 

Maybe this was a complaining session, but I'm blogging right? Anyway, I have finished my cup of coffee and have pondered the facts of a college graduate on $10 an hour. Now I am going to have an apple.

The sound of the "Clonk"

On my way, I got a coffee and observed...

The sound that I hate the most is not nails scratching against a chalkboard, or ultra high pitched sounds, or even many Kenny G. songs. The sound that most annoys me is the sound of clunking high heels. Yes, high heels clunking against the pavement "clonk, clonk, clonk". Now of course there is a reason for this hatred, but I didn't always dislike this sound. When I was a little girl, my mother would dress my sister and I up in Sunday's best and then zip us off to church. My favorite outfit  was always the floral patterned dress with frilled white laced socks and of course my black dress shoes that buckled on the side. One Sunday morning I was the only one dressed and ready to go, so I waited in the kitchen for the rest of the fam. As I waited, I placed my black, round-toed shoes onto my feet and squinted my eyes to find just the right hole to secure the buckle of each shoe. I stood up and walked around the kitchen. The tiles on the floor made 1" diamonds inside groups of larger squares. Delicately I placed my small feet on each diamond and began to do this throughout the kitchen. Oh, the crisp sound of dress shoes clunking against the floor. I stared down at my feet and began to stomp on the floor, because the heel of the shoe made a much louder sound. Of course my enjoyment was interrupted when my mother came in to control my stomping session. I had always heard my mother and other women stomp around in them, why shouldn't I? Regardless, this is the sound I hate the most...

Power, control, and dominance are only a few of the traits portrayed by high heels and the women who wear them. Yes, I am a woman and occasionally I will submit to wearing the high heel, but I try not to. It isn't because I don't think they are cute or because I am a feminist and I think its demeaning towards women. All of that aside, something happens to women when they put those damn shoes on and strut around town. Some of them do not even pick their feet off the ground, they just let them scoooot across. That is another subject all together. Anyway, let me explain...

I got stuck behind a pair on my way to one of my various jobs. I stepped off the 4 train at Brooklyn Bridge and began my journey to Battery Park City. The sun was shining and the air was still a bit chilly. I strolled through the park across from City Hall and found my way to Starbucks to grab a coffee. Time remaining: 10 minutes. Runners jogged by and people shuffled throughout the sidewalk to begin their busy work day. I reached the overpass that crosses over to West End Avenue. On my journey, I am surrounded by suits, briefcases, and HIGH HEELS! I looked down at my tennis shoes and thought of my ornate clothing attire: sweat pants, tennis shoes, and a pullover. I was a bag lady amongst a cloud of corporate workers. Then, I noticed that in front of me was a woman, 3 inches taller than me. I looked down at her 3 inch heels and how they clunked swiftly in front of her. Her perfectly straightened, long black hair swayed to the left and to the right with each stomp. My eyes followed her clonkers and I could feel my eyes widening and my neck protruding off of my spine to get a better look at this woman. Quickly I shook my head and told myself,  "get a grip!" However, I could not contain the frustration within me. So I decided to maneuver around her and head to the right. As I tried to free myself from the "clonk" she veered to the right and I was still behind the long black hair. Ok, then I tried to head to the left. Again, she goes to the left. "What?" I wondered. "Does she have eyes in the back of her clonkers?" Finally, I see some stairs approaching. FREEDOM! Swiftly, I manage to get to the left side of the clonk lady and head up the steep stairs. A silver railing separated two sides of the stairway. She took the right, I the left. Then, I noticed that she was directly beside me on the opposite side of the rail, climbing at warp speed, taking on a whopping 2 stair step at a time! "NO, this clonker is not going to up step me!" Suddenly, I found myself competing with this woman of the high heeled club. I sprinted up the stairs, trying to keep up with her. The heat was on and my heart was racing. Soon, we reached the top and I approached the last step, winning by two seconds! 

I am proud to say that all of this was done with my coffee in hand.

A race against job status? Perhaps.. or it could be a race against the extinction of the tennis shoe. 

Mr. Monroe and his apples

His name is Monroe. 

Everyday he comes into the cafe with his metal mug and meanders over to the counter. Holding his mug he looks for me through squinted eyes. He only wants me to pour his coffee. I saw him through the corner of my eye. My  fellow barista shouts, "Hey, your boyfriend is here!" I rolled my eyes and walked over to the counter. "Refill today?" I know it isnt really a refill because this is his first venture here today. Water from his eyes streamed down his wrinkled face. His hands were shaking as he managed to twist off the lid. "Hey darlin' how are you today?" He reached into his bag and pulls out a shinny red apple. "I brought you an apple today." He managed to sputter out as if I didn't know what it was. I gratefully took the apple and sat it on the counter. He recommended that I wash it off because they (whoever "they" may be) do not wash the dirt off. He brings me an apple everyday. I guess you can say that I've started an apple collection. When he leaves, the apples go off into a corner by the espresso bar. I never eat the apples. It isn't that I don't like apples or that I don't think it is considerate that he brings me one, but where are they from? I asked him where he gets his apples. "Well from the farm of course!" The farm? In manhattan? I did not ask which farm or if he grows them himself. I think it flatters him that I even take the apple. 

For some reason I feel sorry for Monroe. I've seen him at the Bank of America down the street when I go to make my deposits after work. He heads over there after he leaves the coffee shop and hangs out there all day. One afternoon at the bank he was wondering around checking out the magazines they have available to read on the shelves. After I deposited my loads of money, I noticed he had made his way over to the teller. "Now Mr. Monroe, am I going to have to call your wife? Yes, I have a boyfriend." The woman had a look on her face as if she was trying nicely to make him leave her alone. So I wasn't the only one he was giving apples to! My mind wandered and I began to place him into a time where men wore pen stripped suits and woman wore fancy hats and mink scarves. Everything was black and white and everyone said "Darlin' and sweetie" like in the old movies. I pictured him as a young Clark Gable and smoking a cigarette hitting on the ladies. Now he is wondering the streets of Manhattan hitting on young woman and giving them apples. 

Who is Monroe and what does he do at the bank? Where does he get his apples? I will ask him tomorrow.

Decaffeinated

I woke up this morning half an hour later than I intended to. Somehow that snooze button was being pushed! I scrambled to my feet and threw on whatever was lying on the floor in front of my bed, zipped out the door and headed to the train. As I arrived at the pilates studio door I whined with frustration, "Why do people work out on Sunday mornings? What happened to the day of rest? I want to go back to bed." I pulled open the door and threw my bag onto the floor next to my desk. The phone immediately rang. Somehow my voice was not coming out of my mouth. I placed my hand over my lips to see if  they were moving. Nothing. The lips were not moving, but I was saying the routine words in my head. Finally, I managed to spit out a "hello" into the phone. That conversation ended finally and I plopped into the chair and stared into the computer. My mind had shut off from the world around me and all I could think about was how much I needed some coffee. If anything I needed it for something to do. My mouth was aching for its morning delight. The phone kept ringing and ringing with no chance to go downstairs, right next door, and into the deli for just a drop of coffee! I sat in the chair with rolling wheels, and spun around in circles. My eyes were slowly closing and I could feel a headache approaching. I must look like a drug addict. Maybe I am a drug addict. I am certainly reliant on it every day. Gosh, I would rather be in bed right now curled up in my pajamas with my cat, reading a good book. Maybe even sipping on my own coffee from the french press. Shaking away those thoughts I tried to do my measly little job and schedule clients into their appointments. "A moment of silence? Should i go and get the coffee now?" I wondered to myself. Half way off the seat but still holding on as if I was playing musical chairs I contemplated "Yes, go just go." I stood up and threw my coat on and flew down the stairs. Then my heart pounded, I was so close, I tripped and fell flat on my face. I laid there on the concrete with busy New Yorkers stepping over my splayed decaffeinated body. Yea, I never got the coffee. I never actually woke up that day. I was stopped by gravity and my own clumsiness. This should be a lesson to all who need their morning coffee and cannot function daily without it. 

The first sip and beyond...

My first experience with coffee occurred in a McDonald's drive thru in the suburbs of Nashville, Tennessee with my mother. Yes, I said McDonald's.

"Hi, yes I'd like a small coffee to go please. Two packs of sugar and a stirring sick, thank you." The blonde sweet voiced woman said projecting into the golden arched speaker. As we approached the window, a heavy set Hispanic woman handed my mother a Styrofoam cup, which read "CAUTION" around the edges. we drove away from the McDonald's drive thru, and my mother placed her coffee onto the dashboard of her Dodge mini van. I watched as the rising heat send a small ring of steam onto the windshield. She used exactly two sugar packets, no cream, and stirred until the sugar was completely dissolved. 

"Can I try a sip?" I asked preparing my taste buds for pure delight. The sweet aroma of this profound liquid filled the mini van and I couldn't wait any longer. I snatched the coffee and took a colossal gulp.

"AHHHHHH" I screamed with unexpected terror and handed the coffee back to my mother. 

"Yeah its hot." She exclaimed offering to buy me a coke instead. 

What I really wanted was coffee, but this watered down brown liquid, calling itself coffee did not appeal to me. As I grew older and could drive out into the world on my own, I would discover my true addictive love for coffee. After school I would drive over to my favorite coffee shop, The Frothy Monkey . This was the downtown Nashville  hangout of artists, musicians, and students. Artwork from local artists hung on the mint colored walls and conversation loomed in the air. I sipped on lattes, cappuccinos, and mochas. However, my all time favorite and cheapest beverage was simply a black, dark roast drip coffee. I preferred to sip on roasts from Latin America and South Africa. The nutty and sometimes fruity flavors would draw me into a world I had nut discovered until I tasted these magic beans. The lively flavors would fill my mouth and trickle onto the sides of my tongue, informing me that this is a bold coffee. Most people dump cream and sugar into their coffee to try and cover up what makes these roasts unique. This is a sinful act against the holy coffee gods! Sometimes I think that I could be a coffee god. My mother certainly is and after all, she did introduce me to drug. Thank the coffee gods for that!