Everything outside is blanketed white, so clean and absolute. I imagine Jerod has more than one engineering degree.The whole scene is impressive in the way a kid breakdancing on the street is impressive; it’s completely foreign to me, but I’m mesmerized. People’s faces change, visibly brighten, when they enter the cafe’s main room, kicking snow from their boots and brushing melted flakes from their parkas.In fact, the opposite was true: instead of happiness, I was faced with stress and discontent and anxiety. I didn’t have time for anything I wanted to do: no time to write, no time to read, no time to relax, no time for my closest relationships.I didn’t even have time to have a cup of coffee with a friend, to listen to their stories.But I’ve got nothing, no words—my mouth, a swordless sheath.
As my twenties mounted, so did my tab with the creditors. (American Express wasn’t irresponsible enough to grant me a line of credit, not for several years at least.) But that’s OK, I was “successful,” so I could afford it, right? Perhaps I should’ve financed a calculator before maxing out half-a-dozen cards. I’m a (relatively) young blogger with a rapidly receding hairline, self-diagnosed RSI in his right hand, and I love football. I’m also shockingly single so we have that in common too. Who knows though, maybe the reason she’s single isn’t because she’s super famous and intimidatingly attractive but because she’s an absolute nut job. An uptempo milieu of acoustic guitar and tambourine is occupying the atmosphere around me, an Andy Davis tune, and I’m singing along—”It’s a goooo-oood life”—like a tone-deaf idiot, missing every-other note, mumbling the words I don’t know while looking out the large window to my left, staring into the blankness of the morning.It’s the first week of spring, but Missoula has yet to receive the memo. The cafe’s manager, Jerod, is perched behind a large, shiny espresso machine, manning the military-grade controls, pulling and twisting levers and knobs at precise intervals as the mammoth appliance emits the grinding and whisping sounds associated with good coffee.
Cash—not a debit card, but cold hard —is the only currency I use these days; it’s harder to part with, makes me cerebrate over each purchase.