Working with the public means two things: Seeing people at their worst, and seeing people at their best. Somewhere between "I want..." and "Give me..." comes the guy who tips $5 on a $1 cup of coffee. Or the regular who's been fixing your car ever since you bought it, without charging a dime. Or the lady who buys you a bottle of perfume because you mentioned one day that you really liked whatever that scent was. Yeah, the upside is pretty good.
Someone came in a few days ago when the place was nearly empty, the kind of guy who orders a small, black cup of coffee without fluctuation in his voice and without blinking. He sat at the counter and started making his demands on who I was and where I was from. Now, when you're a girl stuck behind a counter, you learn quickly that a number of lonely men have figured out that you 1) Can't escape and 2) Are paid to be nice. I read the guy lickity split and knew he was 'one of those.'
Here's the thing with me, though. I read people like a book, but my first impression is pretty much always wrong. I'd say 90% of the time. Realizing that I am paid to be nice to people, I sat down and chatted with him. After listening to his very strong opinions on my car and why I need to use synthetic oil, the topic turned to books. I was a lit major, he was a Latin major. You can really only beat out English majors with some sort of Classics degree, so I knew I'd finally met my match in wasteful majors. He'd never heard of Borges, but we hit common ground in Flannery O'Connor, so it turns out he was all right.
"You need to read In the Heart of the Heart of the Country," he demanded finally. "It is an astonishing story, a very, very important piece. But it's impossibly hard to find." Well, so much for that. "Okay," I said, and let it go. Who knew but maybe I'd come across it randomly someday? And then, sure, I'd read it.
The conversation continued, weaving in and out of the Aeneid and Tarzan (no, not the common choice for most universities but somehow it was the choice of one of my profs), but it came back to this astonishing story. Suddenly, this guy tells me he was in a second hand bookstore back in the 70s and he just happened to come across a copy of In the Heart of the Heart of the Country, which was, of course, just the most incredible stroke of luck seeing as it was such a rare find.
"I'll tell you what," he kept on. "I have this book out in my car--" (Oh, this was about to get scary) "--and I'll let you borrow it--" (scarier) "--but I need you to mail it back to me when you're done. Can you do that?" I nodded and he took off out the door, returning with a well kept copy of the very book I'd now heard so much about. He scribbled down his address, shook my hand, and was gone.
All I could think was how a stranger could be so trusting. I often tell people "always trust your barista," but I'm usually talking espresso, not literature. But now I have this rare copy of a short story and I actually feel a little bit honored. After the way he talked about it and his pleas that I assure him I'd return it, it's no small thing that he just left it with me.
So, In the Heart of the Heart of the Country.... here goes.
Someone came in a few days ago when the place was nearly empty, the kind of guy who orders a small, black cup of coffee without fluctuation in his voice and without blinking. He sat at the counter and started making his demands on who I was and where I was from. Now, when you're a girl stuck behind a counter, you learn quickly that a number of lonely men have figured out that you 1) Can't escape and 2) Are paid to be nice. I read the guy lickity split and knew he was 'one of those.'
Here's the thing with me, though. I read people like a book, but my first impression is pretty much always wrong. I'd say 90% of the time. Realizing that I am paid to be nice to people, I sat down and chatted with him. After listening to his very strong opinions on my car and why I need to use synthetic oil, the topic turned to books. I was a lit major, he was a Latin major. You can really only beat out English majors with some sort of Classics degree, so I knew I'd finally met my match in wasteful majors. He'd never heard of Borges, but we hit common ground in Flannery O'Connor, so it turns out he was all right.
"You need to read In the Heart of the Heart of the Country," he demanded finally. "It is an astonishing story, a very, very important piece. But it's impossibly hard to find." Well, so much for that. "Okay," I said, and let it go. Who knew but maybe I'd come across it randomly someday? And then, sure, I'd read it.
The conversation continued, weaving in and out of the Aeneid and Tarzan (no, not the common choice for most universities but somehow it was the choice of one of my profs), but it came back to this astonishing story. Suddenly, this guy tells me he was in a second hand bookstore back in the 70s and he just happened to come across a copy of In the Heart of the Heart of the Country, which was, of course, just the most incredible stroke of luck seeing as it was such a rare find.
"I'll tell you what," he kept on. "I have this book out in my car--" (Oh, this was about to get scary) "--and I'll let you borrow it--" (scarier) "--but I need you to mail it back to me when you're done. Can you do that?" I nodded and he took off out the door, returning with a well kept copy of the very book I'd now heard so much about. He scribbled down his address, shook my hand, and was gone.
All I could think was how a stranger could be so trusting. I often tell people "always trust your barista," but I'm usually talking espresso, not literature. But now I have this rare copy of a short story and I actually feel a little bit honored. After the way he talked about it and his pleas that I assure him I'd return it, it's no small thing that he just left it with me.
So, In the Heart of the Heart of the Country.... here goes.
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