On the corner of my block, there's a pizzeria where I go to get my coffee. Yes, you read that sentence correctly. Although their pizza's pretty good, their coffee is really good. Probably largely because it has espresso added to it and the only coffee worth drinking is strong coffee. Also, my coffee is always made by the same person and so it always tastes consistently the same, which is a nice creature comfort in my new life where very little feels consistent. The guy - and the owner of said pizzeria - who makes my coffee's name is Joe. He's an Italian guy, probably in his late 30s, who knows me by my first name and asks me about the everyday humdrum of my life and offers me fatherly advice and words of encouragement. For example, when I was sick, he offered me hot tea, told me to stay out of the rain and told me I was probably under the weather because I was going through major life changes. When I told him I had to make it to an interview for a job, he checked in with me the next day to see how it went. I told him it went well and that I'd be selling popsicles at an indoor market place. And then, with this deeply quizzical and slightly irritated look, he said,
"What is this popsicle you speak of?"
To which I replied, "What is your accent?"
When I met this guy, I was unsure of his nationality and suspected that he was a lifelong New Yorker. At first glance, he just has that wonderfully stereotypical rushed, fast-talking, not smiling, no BS look to him, despite an accent that isn't entirely American. And so when he asked me what a popsicle was, I knew I had guessed wrong.
"Italian," he said, sounding irked to be off topic. "I came here 15 years ago. So what's a popsicle?"
"Oh," I said. "A popsicle is fruit, sugar, and water... frozen. On a stick."
"Oh," he replied, shrugging like it was no big deal. Which is wasn't. "So it's ice cream."
"No," I corrected. "Popsicles have no dairy. Ice cream has dairy."
That annoyed look again. And then, hurriedly,
"Well, whatever it is, it sounds good. You'll do fine working there."
Sometimes I feel like I live on a sitcom.
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On Saturday, I left the apartment at 11:30 a.m. to be sure that I'd make it to work by 1:00. As I sat in the subway, sweating profusely after a four-avenue walk in the blistering heat, I was amazed when an E train pulled up, instead of the anticipated R, V, or G. It was amazing because the E was what I needed to transfer to a few stops in on the R, and weekend rail construction was obviously pulling in my favor for once. Or so I thought. Three stops before mine, the conductor announced - in that too fast, too slurred, incomprehensible way that only subway conductors crackling through shoddy speakers can manage - that 34th Street/Herald Square would be the last stop for the irregular E train. Which led to much confusing, bumbling, "Um, excuse me"s and "Do you know if"s before I found out that the F would take me to 14th Street, which is where I needed to be.
Elated, I got up to street level to find out that I was at 14th and 6th instead of the anticipated 14th and 8th, which meant that I had to walk three more long avenues in the blistering heat. By the time I got to the market place at 12:30, I was damp. And I kid you not: I went into one of the private public bathrooms, stripped, patted myself down with paper towels, washed my face, and - yes - dried my shirt under the crazy-strong "Accelerator" (AKA: leaf blower) industrial hand dryer before putting it back on. With a new coat of lipstick and readjusted hair, I looked fresh for my job! ... Although if someone licked me (which wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility here), I'd probably have tasted like the ocean.
After taking a couple minutes to psych myself up by saying, "You can do this. You have a $140, 000 education. You can sell popsicles," I found the gusto to approach the stand. But all looked grim when I got behind the counter and realized that they didn't use a cash register. No cash register meant no machine to tell me how much change I owe the customers. And no form of a calculator meant trouble because I'm no mathematician. Thankfully, my boss ran to one of the other vendors and borrowed a calculator for me.
The scary thing about this experience was that I was trained via trial by fire for two hours before my boss had to leave to shave ice for an event, which meant that I, the novice, was to be left entirely alone to operate the business.
"We don't normally do this," she said. "Normally we'd train you for two days. But scheduling's weird this week. It's okay, though. We're usually not busy in the late afternoon on Saturdays. You should be fine. So... you got it?"
"I think so," I said anxiously. "I hope so. Yes."
"Okay. If anything goes horribly wrong, text me."
The subtext of this statement was that she wouldn't be able to do anything if something did go horribly wrong because she was going to be working elsewhere.
And there I was. Alone. At this popsicle stand. Selling ice pops. Me and my shoddy math skills.
And I. Got. Slammed.
The line didn't quit for about three hours.
And I handled it like a champion.
Selling popsicles was a breeze. The challenge was shaving ice, which was an athletic feat. On the counter sat a huge block of ice. Every time someone wanted a slushy treat, I had to take a small metal hand shaver and really lean into the top of that block of ice and use my shoulder muscles to scrape up a cup's worth of ice. That day, it felt like everyone wanted shaved ices.
There were often moments when people had to wait a couple minutes for service (shaved ices take a bit to do, especially when someone orders them for the whole family), but overall, I was awesome. I'll pat myself on the back for this one. I'm certain I did the math right, I was efficient, and I kept an open, friendly attitude even when, toward the end, I wanted to throttle anyone who ordered a shaved ice. Because after a while, it hurts to make them.
When my boss came back and heard that I had been slammed, she cut me a check for $70 and wrote in the memo space, "For being a hero!"
Go me.
I'm going in to work for them tomorrow.
Take that Johnson State College!
Look at me now!
Is it wrong for me to enjoy working customer service?
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I've been adapting to my neighborhood. Before I was just in it, wandering around, figuring out who's here, where things are, how to get around, etc. But now I've made my room my room, sort of (I got two awesome rugs today, but still need wall cover and a better light source), I've gone food shopping, I've done my laundry, I've taken the bus a million times. I like the feeling of walking down the street and knowing it's my street and that it's okay that I didn't take a sweater to the supermarket because my apartment is only three blocks away. I like the feeling of putting stuff in the fridge and waking up to church bells. I like knowing that the traffic lady at 42nd street is there to herd school children and that Tina at the laundromat is kind enough to force me to let her sort my laundry so that it dries more efficiently. I like going to get a coffee and having my name shouted out to me when I walk in. I like being invited to dinner with Jen, Santino and their friends, I like going out to pick up bread, wine, or cheese for said dinner, and I like seeing the bright light above 2828 at two in the morning and knowing I'm almost home.
I even like the weird late-night bus stop conversations I have with strangers. It's often said that people in New York City are rude and unfriendly, and that it makes me a bit of a target for weirdoes by being so open and inviting to people I don't know. But I like people. And more often than not, I like the interactions I have with them, as strange and random as they sometimes can be.
Yesterday I connected with a man who was sitting across from me on the subway train because we were both acutely aware of the man to my left who was very steadily falling asleep on me. We quietly laughed about it.
Life is good. I think I could stick it out here for a while.
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