SMALL VS TALL

If someone asks Peggy for a “Tall coffee,” she’ll respond with, “What’s that?” She can drag it on for a couple of minutes trying to get the person to say, “Medium.” It really just depends on how stubborn the customer is. There was a time when people resisted calling a cup of coffee anything but small, medium or large. That was when “Short,” was still “Small.”
I could care less one way or the other. If someone asks for a “Tall,” I just assume they mean medium. I don’t argue it anymore; there aren’t enough hours in the day. The phrase that makes me cringe is, “I’ll have a double-double.” To me “Double-double,” is the coffee shop equivalent of, “Would you like fries with that?”
Not only have people succumbed to Corporate Coffee Culture, they have embraced it. If they don’t like their hot beverage, they know they can exchange it or get a refund. These are the people who put their satisfaction above all else, by whatever means necessary.
“I’ll have a large cup of decaf mixed with the Columbian - but mostly decaf,” the woman said, rifling through her purse.
“We only have decaf Americano,” I told her.
“Whatever.”
I opened my mouth to tell ask her if she would prefer half and half Americano, or a just a coffee with a shot of espresso in it, but she cut me off, annoyed with me.
“Look, I don’t care how you do it, just do it,” she said to me, like I were her assistant and the shop was her office.
“Charming, “ I muttered under my breath.
Ollie walked over to the cash register as the woman fumbled through a stack of coffee cards. “Can you ring in a large coffee with a shot of espresso?” I said, pouring the shot. Ollie charged her $2.15.
“The sign says a large coffee is $1.90.”
“I charged you for a medium coffee with a shot of espresso.”
“Well, you’re the only shop that does it like that,” she humphed. “Do you take any of these cards?” she asked, spreading them on the counter. It looked she had a card for every coffee shop she had ever been to in her life.
“No, but we have our own if you would like one.”
“I won’t be coming back.”
“You won’t?” Ollie said.
“Not if you’re going to be like that.”
We watched her, slack-jawed as she stirred her coffee furiously at the condiment stand, probably devising some short-term revenge. “That woman is a total bitch!” Ollie said.
“I’m way too fucking old for this shit Dude.”
“I hope she fucking complains to Neil,” Ollie said.
Although she was by all means the type of person who would call and complain, I doubted she would be tracking Neil down to call him. She was obviously passing through the neighbourhood, probably from Yaletown. Were this her regular coffee shop; she would have been demanding we be fired.
As the door swung shut behind the woman’s ass, Ollie said,” I need a cigarette.”
“I need one too,” I said. “But I don’t smoke anymore.”
I replayed the episode over and over in my head for the rest of day. I wished there were things I had said; I wished I had refused her service. After a couple of hours of this I wondered if she were doing the same thing, replaying our encounter over in her head, and if she was, was she feeling smug? Hurt? Or if I was typical of her every transaction.



GarpinBC

EMPTY CHAIRS AT EMPTY TABLES

EMPTY CHAIRS AT EMPTY TABLES

There is no sadder song than, “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables,” particularly when any gay men’s chorus around the world sings it. The song, from “Les Miserables,” has come to be the anthem for the AIDS movement. I was reminded of it Sunday afternoon at a rally for justice in the murder of Aaron Webster, a local gay man who was beaten to death in 2002. Of the four charged with his murder, two were sentenced to three years in prison for manslaughter; another, Danny Rao, was acquitted in December. The ringleader, Ryan Cran, is being sentenced on the 27th but was free on bail so he could go home for Christmas.
The community has been disappointed with the trial and sentencing so far. The four accused should have been charged with hate crimes under the criminal code but the Crown Attorneys failed to do so. In his ruling one of the sentencing, Judge Rumali, admonished the Crown for not seeing the crime for what it was: a hate crime and a fag bashing. Rumali, who is black, compared the accused actions to those of young Nazi’s in Germany. The release of Danny Rao came as a blow to the community, but the judge in that case did not have the evidence to put him at the scene of the crime. Even those who witnessed the trial said they had to agree. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind he had his hands in the murder.
There should have been a rally after Danny Rao was released, but it never happened. Everyone kept looking to each other to organize a protest. I went to the Proletariat Bookstore after I heard Rao was released. “Anything planned?” I asked Doc, who was at her computer. I just assumed the phone would be ringing off the hook and there would be people making signs, but it was business as usual.
“Everyone is pretty exhausted from the trial,” Doc said. “I’ll call you if anything happens.”
I remember thinking to myself, “I should plan something.” I imagined Bute and Davie being clogged with protesters, snarling the traffic. But then I figured I could never mobilize that many people in only a couple of hours. I wish I had though.
It was cloudy the afternoon of the rally on the steps of the courthouse. The snow has melted away completely and aside from a few downpours, it has been mostly balmy – San Francisco weather. Albert and I bumped into Doc and her lover Buster as soon as we got there. “Here, take a sign,” Buster said, handing me one the bunch slung over her shoulder. “These damn things are killing me.”
There was a tent set up at the top of the stairs and the Pride Committee had hung a huge rainbow flag on the glass wall of the courthouse. Things were running late as usual. Talbert, Buster and I scoped the crowd while Doc went to work, getting the show on the road. “Hide you jewelry,” Talbert said, “Svend Robinson is here.”
I looked over Talbert’s shoulder and saw Svend looking relaxed and tanned. Talbert’s joke gave me a chuckle, but I was relieved to see him. Svend’s absence from politics is noticeable; he’s one of the politicians in either the States or Canada who actually does what he was put into office to do.
“Let’s get away from this weird clown guy,” I told Talbert. Said Clown was obviously on something, dancing around with a pair of plastic swords, pointing to people in the crowd and drawing attention to invisible bullet points in the air.
“I hope he doesn’t get on TV,” Talbert said.
“Of course he will.”
The rally lasted a couple of hours. There were some really good speeches. I was moved to tears a couple of times. As the rally progressed and more people started showing up the chorus of “Shame,” grew louder. Stephen Harper’s campaign to ban same-sex marriage was invoked a few times, but for the most part the cry for justice prevailed over politics. Then Svend Robinson took his place behind the microphone while them from, “Welcome Back Kotter,” played.
Say what you will about Svend, but he can give a speech. He’s the type of person who can inspire you to do something; someone who has proved you can change the government if you really try. After the letdowns of the Webster trial, it was really important to be reminded of that.
The rally ended with the Gay Men’s chorus singing an Irish song of inspiration. I can’t say I walked away feeling hopeful. Everything seems to point out that this murderer, this monster, Ryan Cran is going to get less than ten years in prison. I don’t for one minute believe he feels at all sorry for what he did and that, free or incarcerated, Aaron’s life is just a notch in his perverted belt of masculinity.
Before the rally started, a reporter asked me why as I there and what it meant to me. I struggled to find the words that would encapsulate my feeling and emotions in a sentence that any moron could understand. The words came to me yesterday. Ever since being threatened on the beach I’ve felt vulnerable walking the dog after dark. I keep wondering if there’s another group of guys waiting for me; Hawkeye has suffered for it in the amount of exercise he’s been getting. But worse than feeling vulnerable, is the feeling that makes me want to go out and buy a gun. The dog has to be walked, and I don’t feel I should be scared off the beach, and yet, I have to defend myself. Now I would never actually go out and get a gun, but in all honesty, in a situation of three or four on one, it’s the best defense.


GarpinBC

STRENGTH IN NUMBERS

Part of the charm of snow in Vancouver, is that never lasts more than three days; if you want to enjoy it you have to act fast. Such was the case last Saturday before work at around five in the morning. It was beautiful down by the beach, the landscape glowing in the dark, the ocean quietly lapping up against the snow that had nary a footprint. Snowmen stood guard on the beach on the lookout for enemy vessels while a snow couple took in the view on a bench by the Inukshuk; the snowwoman had big boobs. Hawkeye was in all his glory, bounding through the snowdrifts. We couldn’t have been happier; I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect way to start the day.
As we were walking back from the Inukshuk I could hear some morons whooping and hollering from the parking lot at the bottom of Jervis St overlooking the water. I wasn’t alone; there were a few couples, mostly male and the odd straggler. The noise of these three guys startled Hawkeye – he doesn’t like loud noises, be it firecrackers or my cell phone vibrating on the kitchen counter – so he stuck close to my side.
“Hey man, what’s going on?” one of the three morons shouted.
“Not much Dude, what about you?” There was no one around. The other two guys hung back a bit, packing snowballs. Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and felt around for my phone. It wasn’t there. I couldn’t believe it. I’m always joking with Upchuck, “I better take my phone with me in case I need to call the police.” The only time I forgot to bring it with me and I needed to do just that. This has the potential of getting ugly so I quickly examined what my options were. The cement path had yet to be cleared; if I ran, I risked slipping. The tide was in, beating against the seawall so I couldn’t go out towards the water. The only way to go was forward.
“We think you’re pretty ugly,” the moron said.
It was tempting to go into bitch mode. “Had I known I was going to be doing the catwalk, I would have put my contact lenses in,” I wanted to say, but I didn’t want to give these guys any more ammunition that they already had. If I got into a game of name calling it could potentially be described to the police as “Asking for it,” or “Flaunting it.” So I had to settle for, “Then what does that make you?”
“One good looking guy,” he said. “We’re looking for an excuse not to beat the shit out of you.”
“Yeah, you fucking fag,” another one said from the darkness. “You’re fucking dog is ugly. I have a German Sheppard that’s going to kill your dog.”
Part of me wanted to shout, “You want a piece of me mother-fuckers? Bring it on!” Four guys in jumped in park in San Francisco; I walked away with a tiny fracture in my foot, but I walked away. But there were only fists involved in that altercation, who knew what these guys were hiding. Still, you get so fucking sick of these of three-on-ones. “If you guys are so tough, why does it need three of you to take one fag down?” I wanted to shout, but again, if I said anything to antagonize them, it could be interpreted that I was egging them on.
I kept staring at the guy who was talking to me, meeting his gaze trying to get a good look him – sending telepathic messages, “I’m not afraid of you,” even though I was shaking inside with fear and rage. One of them threw a snowball at me, nicking the edge of my coat. “Faggot!” one of his friends shouted from behind him. I just kept walking, never taking my eyes off them. Another couple of guys came around the bend, and the three of them stepped back out of eyeshot.
When I got home, I called 911 to let them know about the three shit-disturbers on the beach, knowing they would be long gone by the time cops got there, if they bother to investigate it at all.

GarpinBC