Café Worker
by Lisa Wells—Age 24—Portland, OR
Linda comes into the café with Cathy and the tall junkie guy. They’re all junkies, but he looks extra bad, jaw hung open like a hooked fish, stringy hair falling out in places, graying prematurely in others. He’s on his ankles like a sloppy stilt-walker, beginning each step at the quadricep, his leg reaching a right angle before he sets it down again. Like the sneaky walk villains use in silent movies.
Can’t really tell much on Linda but for the distended stomach. If she weren’t 50 years old she could pass for pregnant. And poor Cathy, who began coming to the café just a year ago, a normal, healthy woman. Fully cognizant as far as anyone could tell, holding down a job in hosiery at Nordstrom, but who now mistakes coffee beans on the counter for raisins and falls asleep standing up or lights cigarettes in the middle of the dining room while waiting for her drink.
Sometimes I’m afraid that if I look in her eyes long enough I’ll get sucked into Cathy’s body, so I steam more milk. Middle aged conference attendees from the convention center down the street come filling in. They order sugary drinks using Starbucks vernacular and smack their lips ravenously.
Detailed reciepts for everyone and stipends that don’t factor gratuity. I inquire as to the reason for which they are convening. Energy, says bald man in khaki, it’s the only topic worth discussing.
Its funny how people say things as if they’re true. For example, when I am tired of making drinks and exchanging money I just tell customers, I don’t work here.
This isn’t my college job or my post-college job or my, It might be fun to work in a café for while until I land that graphic design job, job. This is my life. And sometimes when things are slow and I’m mopping under the condiment bar I can feel my working class ancestors standing up in me. One voice admits that this beats the hell out of welding steel girders. Another whispers, “Consolations are for the half-alive.”


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