gross but righteous act of a good citizen. Some days, as I pass in my car or on the soft seat of a city bus, I laugh at him, the poor sap, bent over the smoldering turd; but lately when I see these friends, attacked by sticky fingers in a loud family restaurant near the Hilldale mall or struggling to change a diaper in the Borders bathroom, I feel not superiority and the tickle of my ample freedom but a searing feeling of envy and loss. I want that, I think. That's what I want.
"Anything else?" Gus asks.
"Nope. Nope, I'm good then," I say, savoring the sensation of a faint buzz at midday. I put a five-dollar bill on the counter. The cocktail is three-fifty. I tip fairly well for a Midwesterner. "Thanks for the drink!"
"That's it?" he says.
"Yes," I say. "It's a bit early for a second one, don't you think?"
"No lunch? Tuna melt special today."
"I do like tuna melts," I say. "But I just needed a drink."
"Take it easy," Gus says.
"You also," I say. "Don't be so busy!"
In recent weeks, I have begun to answer the standard "How're you doing?" with the phrase "Not that busy." I've taken to doing this because so many people reflexively answer, "Busy." Especially academics, activists, and artists, who should have at least some free time each day to spend daydreaming and thinking big thoughts.
How are you? Busy,
How did we get so busy? If you think about it, busyness is decidedly not one of the ideals of Midwestern culture (see GMHI Book Discussion Series #13:
Big Business or Big Busyness?).
Hard work, perseverance, determination, yes—but busyness? No. It smacks too loudly of self-importance and futility. So, now, when asked, I always say I am "not that busy." Because I am not and that is perfectly okay; it says nothing about my intellectual might or social standing. In fact, one might argue that being busy is a very common, as in pedestrian, thing to be.
Before I head back to my office, I decide to stop by Starbucks on the Capitol Square, not so much because I want a cup of coffee—in fact, I worry that any caffeine might prematurely end the minor buzz of a midday cocktail—but because I want to see Minn, full name Minerva Koltes, who is twenty-nine years old and the assistant manager of this Starbucks. Minn is one of those service industry professionals with a competence and friendliness that are rare. I enjoy my midafternoon caffeine jolt so much, partly because she is the one who serves it to me.
We are not really friends, Minn and I, not yet. In fact, we have never had a conversation in which we were not separated by the merchandise-cluttered counter of the Starbucks, exchanging quips and pleasantries over a folk rock compilation CD and a small stand of roasted almonds and chocolate-covered espresso beans.
I have friends, beset by liberal guilt, who refuse to set foot inside a Starbucks, despite my assurances that the store has decent, and rapidly improving, business practices and geopolitical stances. I also happen to prefer their coffee's hearty richness and their homogenized and nationalized standards of quality control; so be it. But I go there, ultimately, because of Minn, with her dark hair and her blue eyes, and the smile that twitches when she shows her teeth, the freckles barely visible on her high, olive cheeks. When she serves me my usual drink, a tall, triple-shot roomy Americano, she never charges me for the third shot, which is technically an extra shot and should cost me eighty-five cents.
I'm just saying.
"Hi, Zeke," she says.
"Hello," I say. I glance at her left ring finger. Her diamond engagement ring is still there. It's one small thing I take note of each day. I do not know her fiance's name; I do not know who he is or what he does. I know nothing of Minn's life outside the walls of this warmly lit national chain. This is fine. Such relationships, based on the ancient economic principle of supply and demand, are one of the most sacred elements of our social contract in America.
"Do you have
"Anything else?" Gus asks.
"Nope. Nope, I'm good then," I say, savoring the sensation of a faint buzz at midday. I put a five-dollar bill on the counter. The cocktail is three-fifty. I tip fairly well for a Midwesterner. "Thanks for the drink!"
"That's it?" he says.
"Yes," I say. "It's a bit early for a second one, don't you think?"
"No lunch? Tuna melt special today."
"I do like tuna melts," I say. "But I just needed a drink."
"Take it easy," Gus says.
"You also," I say. "Don't be so busy!"
In recent weeks, I have begun to answer the standard "How're you doing?" with the phrase "Not that busy." I've taken to doing this because so many people reflexively answer, "Busy." Especially academics, activists, and artists, who should have at least some free time each day to spend daydreaming and thinking big thoughts.
How are you? Busy,
How did we get so busy? If you think about it, busyness is decidedly not one of the ideals of Midwestern culture (see GMHI Book Discussion Series #13:
Big Business or Big Busyness?).
Hard work, perseverance, determination, yes—but busyness? No. It smacks too loudly of self-importance and futility. So, now, when asked, I always say I am "not that busy." Because I am not and that is perfectly okay; it says nothing about my intellectual might or social standing. In fact, one might argue that being busy is a very common, as in pedestrian, thing to be.
Before I head back to my office, I decide to stop by Starbucks on the Capitol Square, not so much because I want a cup of coffee—in fact, I worry that any caffeine might prematurely end the minor buzz of a midday cocktail—but because I want to see Minn, full name Minerva Koltes, who is twenty-nine years old and the assistant manager of this Starbucks. Minn is one of those service industry professionals with a competence and friendliness that are rare. I enjoy my midafternoon caffeine jolt so much, partly because she is the one who serves it to me.
We are not really friends, Minn and I, not yet. In fact, we have never had a conversation in which we were not separated by the merchandise-cluttered counter of the Starbucks, exchanging quips and pleasantries over a folk rock compilation CD and a small stand of roasted almonds and chocolate-covered espresso beans.
I have friends, beset by liberal guilt, who refuse to set foot inside a Starbucks, despite my assurances that the store has decent, and rapidly improving, business practices and geopolitical stances. I also happen to prefer their coffee's hearty richness and their homogenized and nationalized standards of quality control; so be it. But I go there, ultimately, because of Minn, with her dark hair and her blue eyes, and the smile that twitches when she shows her teeth, the freckles barely visible on her high, olive cheeks. When she serves me my usual drink, a tall, triple-shot roomy Americano, she never charges me for the third shot, which is technically an extra shot and should cost me eighty-five cents.
I'm just saying.
"Hi, Zeke," she says.
"Hello," I say. I glance at her left ring finger. Her diamond engagement ring is still there. It's one small thing I take note of each day. I do not know her fiance's name; I do not know who he is or what he does. I know nothing of Minn's life outside the walls of this warmly lit national chain. This is fine. Such relationships, based on the ancient economic principle of supply and demand, are one of the most sacred elements of our social contract in America.
"Do you have
Similar Books
The Pleasures of Sin
Jessica Trapp
Nowhere to Run
Saxon Andrew
Hard Roads
Lily White
The Surrogate (Clearwater)
Marissa Dobson
The House on Honeysuckle Lane
Mary McDonough
Death Run
Don Pendleton
Inside Heat
Roz Lee
Maybe Baby
Lani Diane Rich
Friction
Sandra Brown