Type-A Zen

I’m cheating on Peet’s at Wild Oats.  By now, the Peet’s people have seen me so much they think I don’t have a life.  I don’t, but now I’m recognizing other people who also don’t have a life and who hang out at Peet’s too. 

Why aren’t they home, or somewhere else with walls, enjoying their newspaper without it getting stolen when they use the restroom?  I’d guess everyone who hides at Peet’s is hiding from something: work, life, a house without walls.

This morning I mentioned I live in a house without all the walls.  The guy got quiet for a minute.  “Inside or outside?” he asked.

“Some of both, up until the beginning of the week,” I said.  “Charlie gave up on two years’ of promises and paid someone to finish siding the back of the house.  We’ve had blue tarp as exterior through two winters.”

He didn’t ask anything else, unfortunately for me.  I was excited to tell him about the quotes we recently got for sheet rocking the dungeon.  Someday I’ll have a home with walls.  When I do, I’m reading the newspaper there.

For now, I’m at Wild Oats.  Wild Oats has organic Paul Newman coffee and the refills are free.  I worked in a Natural Foods store when I lived in Montana.  We could have all the free organic coffee we wanted.  I took sips out of desperation but it was like licking an ashtray.  Now I’ve discovered the joys of unlimited amounts of half and half.  I can drink almost anything and like it, even organic, fair trade hot ashtray juice.

Across from where I’m sitting is the microwave.  Healthy people wander over and heat up cheesy puffy things for their lunch.  What is it about Organics and cheese?  My Mom’s an Organic so I grew up with a stomach full of cheese.  I had my lifetime allotment before I moved out and now the smell makes me sick.  I’m way too close to the microwave.

The Wild Oats Demonstration Kitchen is in front of me, too.  The people working in the kitchen walk around the store like movie stars or princesses.  They hold their heads up high and talk to each other for too long about whatever they’re making.  “Let’s add even more pomegranate juice,” one of them says.  “Right on!”

I notice one of the movie star chefs, the only guy, has been bagging the garbage for at least ten minutes by now.  He’s squatting, putting plastic bags inside plastic bags; he’s pretty much throwing away plastic bags at this point.  He’s distanced himself so much from the real trash he must be doing this to avoid getting back to work.  He probably doesn’t want to taste what they’re cooking with pomegranate juice.  It smells worse than cheese.

One of the Organic puffy cheese microwavers sits down near me and starts talking fast and loud.  He’s ranting about his Zen master freak.  He’s talking so fast I can’t understand a word except the swear words, which I didn’t think was part of being an Organic or Zen. 

Either his Zen Master is a freak, or he’s a bad student of Zen because this guy’s anything but meditative.  He’s moving around in his chair, tossing silverware and saying, “What the f*ck?  What the f*ck is that about?” all with a mouthful of cheese.  Can you be Type-A Zen?

I don’t come home with cheesy/cooking-with-pomegranate smells when I go to Peet’s.  This Wild Oats smell is going to be with me the rest of the day.  I wonder how many times people will ask me if I threw up.  I wonder if I will.

The Type-A Zen guy worked himself up into a little hissy fit and stomped out.  Nobody seems to want to heat up any more cheesy puffy things so I’m alone except for some guy with his hair pulled up in a messy bun like a girl’s.  He’s talking all about why he’s so smart to one of the kitchen princesses.

“Some people take it personal,” he says.  “That’s just about them.”

Who talks like that?  I look over again and realize the guy’s interviewing for a job.  What do you bet he doesn’t get to put on a Wild Oats uniform anytime soon? 

“I especially enjoy your produce,” he says.

Walls or no, that’s when I decide to go home.

“Can I go out with you guys tonight?” Jenn asks as soon as I walk in the door.  “I have nothing to do.  I punched my only friend in the face.”

“Who?” I ask.  “The guy you were going to move in with?”

“Yeah.  He was drunk last night.  He put his hand behind my head, pushed me toward him and tried to kiss me.  I pushed him away.  He did it again and that’s when I punched him.  I woke his drunk Mom up and said, ‘drive me home.’”

“Eww,” I said.  I figured I should say something.

“Then he told me, ‘Don’t get mad, it’s just my way of getting to know people.’”

Jenn must be bored if she wants to go out with us.  She didn’t even ask what we planned to do.  For all she knows, we could be looking forward to three hours of browsing at the bookstore. 

We took her to the $3 movie at the Mission.  She’s not going to be here for long and that seemed like a better thing for a couple of old people to do with their adult kid. 

On the way, she pointed out a gold Sebring convertible.  “That’s exactly like my Mom’s car,” she said.  “We go low-budget pimping in it when she’s out of town.”

“Your Mom has a Sebring convertible?” Charlie says.  He laughs so hard he’s bending over.  Good thing we’re parked.

He doesn’t tell Jenn why he’s laughing, but I know.  He thinks they’re white trash cars.  He calls Sebring convertibles Seventies’ porn-star-mobiles.

“It’s gold,” she tells me since I’m not laughing.  “Exactly like that one except hers has a big dent in the back because of me.”  Now she’s laughing, remembering how she dented her Mom’s car. 

We arrive at the Mission and while getting our tickets, once again there’s some guy screaming about his Zen master being an assh*le.  I made sure we sit far away from him.  When the movie gets boring, I look over at him fidgeting.  He keeps getting up and acting like the other Type-A Wild Oats Zen guy.  I wonder if they have the same master.

On the way home, Charlie’s driving a little too fast for me but I don’t say anything.  He enforces speed limits for a living.  So does the motorcycle Cop behind him who just turned on his lights and sirens.

“You’re getting stopped,” I say. I see him first since I’m in the back.

“You’re kidding,” Jenn says.  “A Cop is stopping you?”

“Happens all the time.”

Charlie has a hard time pulling over in the construction zone on the highway.  This time, the third time he’s been stopped in the past year, he doesn’t get out and he doesn’t do anything else you’re not supposed to do when you’re stopped.  He’s learning.  He even brought his wallet this time.

“Driver’s license,” the motorcycle Cop says.

Charlie opens his wallet and fumbles around, taking a long time to look for his license.

The motorcycle Cop shines his light on his wallet to help him see.  That’s when he notices Charlie’s badge.

The motorcycle Cop laughs, pats Charlie on the back, turns and leaves.

“Wait a minute,” I yell after him.  “Where are you going?”

Jenn didn’t say a thing.  She’s still scared.

We get home and the skateboarder is practically standing by the door.

“You went out,” he says.  “Where did you go?  Why didn’t you leave me a note?”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be saying to you?” 

“You’re always going out,” he says.  “What’s wrong with staying home once in a while?  Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?  Don’t do that again.”

That’s when I tell him to heat up some cheese and get a new Zen master.  Since when did he get so Type-A?

A little help? [] 11:55:00 PM