There's this genuinely beautiful young woman that works at The Market on Larimer Square. Sleaved arms. Short hair. Lips - my God. She had a Dilated Peoples shirt on - sounded familiar. Made a mental note to remember who they were. I went to The Market for coffee because it's close to where I had dinner and they have better coffee than most.
I step inside and there's a line of three, maybe four people. Underneath my tweed hat, I catch a glimpse of her. She's a private person, I can tell, but it's written all over her face: she's having a bad day. She seems either generally upset, or just very stressed. And who wouldn't:
The people in front of me were... were, I don't know what the words are to describe their persona - yuppies would somewhat work. I don't like stereotypes. But, the guy in front of me cracked me up! He was wearing black leather shoes. Style? Sort of leisure? Clunky. Like low top Doc Martens that are more expensive. They had to be more expensive. His jeans were flared at the bottom, richly dyed to a amazing blue. He had a leather jacket - it looked as if it was trying to be a motorcycle jacket, but wasn't - it had too many weird tye-up things everywhere. Spotless. His hair was done in spikes. No shit! This guy - this 40+ year old guy, had spiky hair! And his shirt: it was a Hawaiian-esque shirt! I swear! but with toned down colors. Could have been silk. Very billowy. It was a sight. This guy was tall. Ordering coffee in front of me. He took me back, because I had such similar things on - a leather jacket, I bought for nothing, beaten up flared jeans. Suede shows purchased for a song at the local ARC. I knew what was going on. A style similar to my own had been stolen, made expensive and this guy bought it! And he spent a lot of time to look like this 23 year old. It was one of the most atrocious things I have seen in a while.
I understand why this beautiful girl behind the counter looks so long in the face, even for such a petite face - she has to serve - be nice - to people like him. You can feel what he's about. He has no voice. He has lots of money. He doesn't know one damn thing about anything except how he makes money and that supports his life. Souless. If I had to work for souless people - he didn't tip mind, I'd be pretty depressed. What do you do if you were this young woman? I don't know. What a shitty type of clientele to have to work for. No tipping, badly dressed, expensively tasted, bastards - who don't tip. Did I say he tipped? No I didn't. No tipping. Not one of the three people in front of me.
I tipped her. I always tip her. I always tip her, even if she isn't the one working the bar. I wish I could ask her name, ask her what she was like, if she'd like to get coffee at a place that wasn't crawling with the rich elite that like being called the rich elite. But I don't. Why? Because I can't. It's not allowed. You don't ask someone a question like that where they work. They have to be nice to you. So how do you approach such a person you're genuinely interested in knowing better? And I don't mean in the biblical sense - that's not what I'm going on about here. How do you do it? You cannot. It's not servitude but I hope that girl gets a raise, or at least one more smile her way.
For some reason, along the way, I kept thinking of why I hate everything that's produced - I'm not being marketed to. I want things that work well and last. No one wants to give you that. Everything is made to break easily and be bettered by the next fashion season. Make you continually unhappy. Make you want and want and want. Maybe that's why rich people seem so unhappy so much - they get sucked into this system because it's all they know. Money, the great medium of exchange between goods and services, leaves out the Experience of everything. People who buy happiness miss the point and if they become happy for some reason, they must find it suspect - something they cannot control with bank statements or double entry accounting.
I want to make a t-shirt that says, "Born Unhappy. Keeps the system going" and give it to that man.
