“One vitamin! My, you will be a change for us all. Nancy took at least thirty a day.”
Tom interjected, “She used to tell me this scone was pure poison, all white flour and sugar and chemicals.” He took a big, defiant bite out of the scone.
“Atta boy,” I said faintly. “Go for the gusto.”
Tom grinned at me. He had red hair and a friendly face with so many freckles sprinkled across it that his face had an orange cast.
Malcolm chuckled. “Tom thrives on gusto. Or do I mean bravado? Tom here is the heroic type, a fearless firefighter. We’re depending on him to save us all in case of a fire.”
“Don’t count on me carrying you down a ladder.” Tom gave Malcolm a mocking look. “Not unless you lose a few pounds. Now Ashley here, I would carry her with pleasure.”
“That’s always the way it is with you heteros. Damning a Rubenesque queen to the flames so you can save a slender young maiden.”
“Naturally,” Tom said. “Why would I save your sorry behind when I can rescue a lovely lady? Besides, I’ve got my back to think about. Women and children first, that’s my motto.”
“Heterosexist pig,” Malcolm retorted.
I was beginning to catch on. If I was interpreting this banter correctly, Malcolm was gay and liked to tease people, and this place was a madhouse because everyone in it was nutty as a fruitcake.
“The coffeehouse is on the ground floor, so the problem isn’t likely to come up,” I pointed out.
“Not strictly true. I live in the flat upstairs,” responded Malcolm. “Well, it’s time to orientate you, dear girl. Tom, go wash your fire truck or make some chili or whatever it is that you do at the firehouse with all those handsome hunks. We have work to do.”
“Yeah, duty calls. Tell you the rest later, Mal.” Tom headed for the door. “Welcome aboard, Ashley.”
Malcolm looked around as if deciding what to do first. “All right then. Now you’ve met Louis, haven’t you? Mister Louis Ling, barista extraordinaire, is hiding behind the steamer. You’ll be working with him most mornings.”
Louis nodded to me without smiling.
“The kitchen and bathroom are back there.” Malcolm gestured behind him as he came out from behind the counter. I was astonished to see he was wearing Bermuda shorts, not a great look for a man of his age and girth. “Let’s sit down over here and get the paperwork out of the way. I’ll explain things and then Louis can get started with the coffee tutorial.”
In between explaining the job requirements and my schedule, Malcolm exchanged hellos and banal chitchat with a steady stream of customers as they came in the door. He acted as if the coffeehouse were his living room and everyone who came in, his guest. At least his conversations gave me a chance to get a better look at my new workplace.
I counted a dozen wooden tables surrounded by mismatched chairs plus an old upright piano in the corner, its top stacked with cups, napkins, and other supplies. In the midst of all this artful shabbiness was a sagging sofa arranged so that it faced the counter and had its back to the entry.
The counter and floor were made of dark wood and the walls were half-covered with wood paneling. Fortunately, it was a corner building, so the place was saved from being a dim cave by two walls of windows. A pair of huge lighting fixtures hung from the twelve-foot ceilings, and tiny white lights were strung beneath and above the counter.
Three computer stations were lined up along the interior wall. A big hand-printed sign on the wall proclaimed the price to be $3 for fifteen minutes and $5 for thirty minutes, 50 cents a page for printouts. Over in the far corner, a rickety three-shelf bookcase was loaded down with dog-eared paperbacks—mostly discarded thrillers and romance novels, I later discovered, plus nonfiction like You Are Psychic! and The False Fat Diet. Hanging over this sad literary outpost was a massive bulletin board covered with notices of all types and sizes. If you were looking for a lost parrot, math tutor, deep-tissue massage, oil painting of your pet, or workshop for sexually violated men, this was the spot to check.
In Burlingame, coffeehouses use their walls as a kind of informal art gallery, but not here. Every inch of wall space in the Madhouse displayed a collection of demonic wooden masks, many of them carved and painted in a way that looked as if a snake or iguana was eating someone’s face.
Malcolm noticed me staring at the masks.
“Aren’t they wonderful?” He gestured toward the savage faces. “I adore Mexican folk art, and these ceremonial masks are imbued with the mystical qualities of the ancient Aztecs. I add one or two to my collection every year when I take my annual sabbatical to San Miguel.”
“I’m not sure what they’re imbued with,” I answered, looking up at a particularly grotesque one. “Except that they give new meaning to the expression ‘suck face.’ ”
He chuckled. “They grow on you, you’ll see.”
Personally, I hoped not.
• • •
My first assignment was to clear tables and wash dishes. Thanks to Malcolm, that song from Cinderella where all the mice are singing kept echoing through my brain. Anyway, I managed to finish without breaking all the glasses and cups, though I did make plenty of noise.
After that, Malcolm gave me a quick course in ringing up sales on the register, but I felt slow and stupid having to look up each price. I decided to take the menu with me that night and memorize all the prices.
In addition to serving espresso drinks, the coffeehouse had a limited food menu, but nothing complicated. I could handle putting cream cheese on a bagel, heating soup, or warming a slice of quiche in the microwave.
Louis wasn’t exactly Mr. Personality, but he was patient when teaching me how to make cappuccinos and lattes. I kept screwing up and managed to burn my hand in the process.
While I fumbled around learning to steam milk properly, Malcolm disappeared for a couple of hours. A steady stream of customers came in and out, a few of them looked normal. Many of them introduced themselves—Isabella, Andre, Roger—until my head was spinning. I wasn’t going to remember half their names.
The hours seemed to crawl by, and I was certain I’d never survive the whole day. Maybe it’s always that way when you’re new and so nervous that you feel like your hands don’t work right anymore.
By twelve thirty a steady buzz of conversation could be heard around the room. I was struggling to make a mocha when a tall, wild-eyed man with bushy black hair burst through the door as if a powerful gust of wind had blown him inside. Instead of moving to the counter, he stood in the center of the room and fixed an intense, laserlike stare on each of us one by one, his eyes moving around the room as if he were trying to read our thoughts or souls. He was dressed in a flowing cloak over a dark shirt and pants, and on his head, earphones stuck up like antennas.
“Beam me up, Scotty,” I muttered, and shivered.
Stretching out his arms as if he were going to begin an oration and holding a black book up high, the man asked in a booming voice, “Does this book belong to you?”
The coffeehouse fell silent as customers turned and gaped at him. The book he was holding aloft looked like a Bible, but I wasn’t sure. I glanced over at Louis, but he didn’t say anything to him.
Raising his voice a notch, the bushy-haired man asked again, “Does this book belong to one of you?”
Still, no one answered, although everyone was openly staring at him.
Asking a third time, he shouted, “Does this book belong to any of you?”
Then he whirled around and vanished out the door, slamming it so hard behind him that the window’s glass rattled.
The place was quiet for a second, someone tittered, and then people began talking normally again.
“What was that all about?” I said.
Louis shrugged and said, “He’s crazy.”
Everyone else had resumed drinking their coffee, apparently unperturbed by what had just occurred. I seemed to be the only one who was discomfited by the whole bizarre scene. Clearly
I wasn’t in Burlingame anymore.
• • •
Around two, Malcolm reappeared, wearing jeans instead of those awful shorts, and sat down at a window table to play Scrabble with some customers. This was a livelier version of the game than I had ever witnessed. In my experience, Scrabble was an excruciatingly slow game that allowed you to paint your nails or read a book while waiting for dull-witted players to come up with words of more than three letters.
Here it was a raucous and highly competitive game involving loud voices, laughter, challenges, and name-calling. The other three players included a twentyish geek in camouflage pants named Jerry, an elderly black guy called William, and a middle-aged woman they all referred to as Mike.
Mike—real name Michelle—was a stocky, no-nonsense type with extremely short silvery hair. I wasn’t surprised when a pregnant earth-mother type walked in and gave her a wifely kiss.
Earth Mommy was six feet tall, blond, and looked as if she might give birth any minute. She was accompanied by a small blond toddler. The kid was quite a sight to behold: He/she was wearing a baseball cap, sneakers, and a pink ballerina’s tutu over jeans and T-shirt, and dragging a pink feather boa.
I was still giggling at this getup when they came up to the counter.
“That’s some costume. Are you a girl or boy ballerina?” I asked.
“I’m a boy, ‘course,” he said as if I were very, very stupid.
Earth Mommy gave me a look that would have stopped a tank.
“What kind of remark is that? Are you an idiot?” she barked. “Max is very obviously a boy. For your information, playful cross-dressing is a normal stage of any child’s development. Children can be permanently damaged if their parents or others”—she raised her voice at this point—“try to impose false gender stereotypes on them.”
I flushed bright red, but before I could say anything, Malcolm appeared at my elbow and took over.
“Hiya, Max. How about a cookie? Ashley, give this young man a nice big chocolate chip cookie from his Uncle Malcolm.”
I handed Max a cookie, pronto.
“Now, Joyce, Ashley was just joking,” Malcolm continued. “Cut her a little slack. This is her first day. She didn’t mean to offend you or Max. Did you, Ashley?”
I shook my head vigorously.
He added, “Ashley’s just jealous because she doesn’t have a beautiful pink tutu of her own. Right, Max?”
Joyce snorted.
“I’m very sorry if I hurt Max’s feelings,” I said.
Max appeared to have already forgotten us. With his cookie in one hand, he climbed up on a chair in front of one of the computers. It didn’t look as if I had damaged his delicate little psyche.
“Can I get you a hot chocolate, Joyce? On the house.” Malcolm was still being conciliatory.
“Let me do it.” I moved quickly to the machine.
As I prepared the chocolate, I worried that I might get fired over this. Gender stereotypes? Good grief. I had better watch my step around these people.
At least I was a big hit with Jerry, the nerdy Scrabble player. When Mal introduced me, he stared at me as if I were a movie star. Really, it was laughable. I gave him a nice smile, nothing else, and he started jabbering and making stupid jokes, the kind that are just a notch above “Knock, knock. Who’s there?” He might as well have tattooed the word Loser on his forehead.
Throughout the game Jerry kept looking over at me and acting like a ten-year-old with his first big crush. He came over to tell me (big yawn) that he was majoring in computer science at SF State, and he kept the Madhouse computers running. He rattled on about computer games and silly sci-fi movies like The Matrix. I was polite and didn’t say what I was thinking, which was, “Who cares?”
Then Joyce announced she needed to leave. “Max can stay here with you for a bit,” she said, and Mike nodded.
“Fine, fine,” said Malcolm. “No problem. Ashley will keep an eye on him.”
Joyce gave me a warning look in case I was thinking about promoting more false gender stereotypes. I kept my face expressionless, but I was thinking, Oh, great, now I’m a babysitter. What next?
I had just glanced at the wall clock, thinking the hands must be broken because they moved so slowly, when a short elderly woman dressed like a heroine in a gothic novel waltzed through the door. It seemed every day was Halloween at the Madhouse.
I heard her say in a high-pitched voice, “Just stay still, darling. Mommie will give you a treat in a minute.”
She was talking into her handbag. I peered over the counter and saw a black nose and dark eyes. A small, wiry, brownish dog stared up at me from inside her bag.
“Is that one of those dogs from the taco commercials?” I asked.
She cooed, “That’s Nostradamus. He’s a miniature pinscher, and he’s my sweet, sweet baby. He’s extremely talented, very intuitive, just like Mommie.”
An intuitive dog? I suppose that was possible. Dogs always seemed to intuit that I am a cat person.
“I’m Evelyn,” she announced, raising her hand and jangling what must have been ten or fifteen silvery bracelets on her right arm. Then she leaned toward me and touched my hand. “You shouldn’t worry so much, dear. Everything is going to be all right.”
I stared at her, not sure I heard her correctly. “What?”
“Don’t worry,” she repeated. “You’re going to survive all the trials you’re going through. I’m a psychic, you know. Perhaps you’d like me to read the Tarot for you one day.”
“Now, Evelyn.” Mal came up behind her and reached out to grab one of the brownies on the counter. I had already noticed that he never stopped eating. “Leave Ashley alone. She doesn’t need any of that hocus-pocus crap.”
“Malcolm’s a true Capricorn,” Evelyn confided to me, as if that explained everything. “Very conservative and judgmental, like all Earth signs. Fortunately, he’s also a dragon.”
“A dragon?” I said.
“That’s his Chinese animal sign,” she explained. “I look at the duality of each person’s nature by determining the interaction of his or her Western astrological sign with his or her Oriental year sign. For example, I’m an Aquarius, born in the Year of the Snake. That’s why I’m clairvoyant, with strong vision and intuition.”
“Does that mean you know things before they happen?” I asked. “When I read my horoscope in the newspaper, it always seems so general it could work for anyone. Or it turns out to be completely wrong.”
“Oh, there’s nothing accurate about mass media astrology. I do my own charts. I think you must be an Aries? No, you’re a Scorpio.”
“How did you know that?”
She smiled. “Tell me what year you were born, and I’ll tell you what your Eastern sign is. I’m guessing a Year of the Tiger or perhaps Rooster.”
I didn’t have a chance to answer because Malcolm walked back in, asking, “Does poor old Nasty ever get to walk, Evelyn?”
“Of course he does. But he’s really quite happy to ride in my bag. His little legs get tired. And, Malcolm, I’ve asked you not to call him Nasty.”
“Everybody here calls him Nasty because he’s a biter,” Malcolm mock-whispered to me as he turned to go back to the Scrabble fest.
“He’s just shy and doesn’t like strangers to touch him,” his indulgent owner said. “If you take the time to get acquainted, he’s very sweet. Would you like to pet him, Ashley?”
“No, thanks. I’m afraid I’m more of a cat person,” I said, keeping my hands clear of her handbag. I already had a burn; I didn’t need a bite to go with it.
Just at that moment, a tall, sturdy African-American chick bounced through the door and slammed a knapsack down on the floor by the piano.
“Hey, you must be the new girl. I’m Aphrodite. Everyone calls me Dee. My sister and I work the night shift. How’s it going?”
I let loose with a long sigh, then realized I should sound more positive. “Fine. Good.” I mustered up a smile, even thoug
h I was feeling weary.
“Hey, don’t sweat it, girlfriend. The first day is always the hardest,” she said breezily. She seemed like one of those upbeat people who can really get on your nerves.
Louis ducked into the back and emerged rolling a bicycle and carrying a helmet. “Tomorrow, dudes,” he said, and left.
I was ready to call it a day, but I had another ninety minutes to go. Fortunately, the last hour was the best of the day. Dee and I talked as we worked, and I liked her in spite of the relentlessly cheerful attitude.
Then a tall guy in his twenties walked in and whistled as he stopped in front of the counter. He had a slim build, dark curly hair, lively blue eyes, and a crooked smile, probably because his teeth were a little crooked. No matter, he was the best-looking guy I’d seen all day, and I smiled back at him.
“Well, things are really looking up around here. And who might you be?”
“I might be the new employee. And who are you?”
“Look out for him, Ashley. Patrick’s a real bobcat.” Dee snickered.
Bobcat? This sounded interesting. Patrick had a killer smile and a lilt to his voice that sounded Irish.
“Fair Aphrodite,” he said, rolling out each syllable of her name. “What have I done to earn such disdain from you?” He gave us a delicious grin that could have melted the polar ice caps. “Pay her no heed. I promise I’m as tame as a house cat. The name is Patrick Ryan Rigney.”
“I’m Ashley.”
“Mmmm, you look like an Ashley. Mal, you old dog, your judgment is improving. Where did you find this rare flower?”
“Get away from her, you Irish devil,” Malcolm called. “I don’t need you sniffing around my new employee. You’ll drive her away with all your bullshit and blarney. Get over here and take over for Jerry. He has to leave.”
“Might I have a cappuccino then, Ashley?” said Patrick. “It seems I have to get in the game.” He winked at me and walked away.
Chapter Sixteen
There’s no use trying to sugarcoat the whole camper experience. The first week or so it was tolerable. At the end of three weeks, I was tired of it. By the fifth week, I hated it. If I had read about it in a book, it might have sounded like an adventure. As a kid I’d loved reading about the children who lived in a boxcar. But the camper was cold, uncomfortable, and scary. You never realize how important having a home is until you don’t have one. I began to have sympathy for the panhandlers sleeping on the streets. At least I wasn’t that bad off.
My Lost and Found Life Page 12