Judgments

I sat in a somewhat sketchy coffee shop in a seat that was actually an old wooden school desk. The place was full of mismatched places to sit. A chair from a yard sale, a loveseat from Goodwill, etc. I looked around feeling like an elephant in a china shop. My silk blonde hair rustled every chance it got at the opening of the shop door. This set me apart as the other folks had dyed hair of orange and red; most of which hadn't been washed since Christmas and the dred locks formed naturally, making me instantly curious what that rat's nest could possibly smell like.

My outfit was casual, bought right out of an American Eagle outlet store in Charlotte; it was a simple black, but wrinkle-free and smelling of Snuggle. This also set me apart. The last concert tee I bought was probably Kenny Chesney; somehow I didn't think to wear it. They had theirs on however. The women in long skirts, bra-less with homemade bags that hung heavy across their shoulders. It's only the first of March but they are so proud of their white, shiny, skin that they shown it off as if it were June.

I ordered a tall (tall, as in small, not tall as in large; I always found this coffee lingo a little confusing) decaf, vanilla latte, with two shots of espresso from a man covered in tattoos. The worst part about trying a new coffee shop is attempting to understand the menu. I looked at it dumbfounded for a couple seconds, then decided to disregard it altogether. Instead,
"Okay, Im just gonna tell you what I want, & I trust you will make it happen for me." I like to eliminate the guess work. I walked away forgetting to pay. I guess this is because the gentleman didn't ask for any money, he and his tattoos just stared at me, enjoying the view of a woman who had recently showered.

I looked down at myself remembering how I thought I might be under-dressed for an interview. I couldn't have been more wrong. The three average Joes at the counter wore oversized t shirts that most men I knew would wear as undershirts or to mow the yard in if anything. Their hair was a a mass of clusters rather than individual strands that peeked out from their ball caps. But they worked diligently and made the best latte I had ever had. At one point I caught the chashier staring at me sipping my drink & turned my eyes away quick as possible. "Get me out of here already".

They don't know it, but I knew the TOOL song playing on the radio as well as I knew my name. I had seen those Frank Zappa posters a thousand times. And I could tell you the name of the tour the man sitting next to me's Cure t shirt came from and probably what year. I was singing rock n roll before a had my ABC's down. They don't know it but Im a writer. I sing country music pretty well. I've got a tattoo they'd have to strip me naked to find.

I'm pretty sure I didn't get that barista job because the interviewer took one look at me and sent me on my preppy way, back to my Taylor Swift listening, Hannah Montanna watching, do gooder way. She did what I do, judged.