Are you a TIGER?

Most of the time I love crazy people.

Last night I stopped at Cafe Abir for a cappuccino on my way to tutoring (I tutor a 16 year old girl every Wednesday). I've been going there for 11 years now, on and off. For the entire time, a man has been working there who, as the years go by, has slipped deeper and deeper into annoying insanity. Cafe Abir is connected to a sushi restaurant and a sake store. Since the sake store opened, I believe he's been annexed to that area for its lack of customers. Yesterday, however, he was in the actual cafe.

He's a tiny man, with an English accent worn smooth by too much time in the States. A few years ago, he dedicated himself to growing out the wiry halo of hair remaining on his head. A miserable pony tail has since sprouted from the base of his skull. It's the kind I fantasize cutting off with a clean snip. Lucky for the world of male pony tails, you can't just cut one off in the clean snip and slink away into the shadows unnoticed. You really have to work to cut one off. I've seen it done on What Not To Wear, and noted it in the "Things I can't do" section of my brain.

When I walked up to the counter, he was being verbose and loud with a couple he clearly knew from previous orders. Every sentence was accompanied by big sweeping motions of his arms and hands. His accent was heavier and more Renn Faire-ish. Actually, he was speaking his own brand of Ye Olde English. You probably know, Renn Faire people confuse and embarrass me. I try to avoid them. He also sounded a little like Stewie from Family Guy, now that I think of it.

While he was taking his time writing on a paper cup to be used for the couple's order, they walked away. He turned to me and said, "What do you want, WOMAN?" I could have played along. It was my choice, at that point. But screw that. I suddenly found myself in shanking mode.

"Ah, I'll have a large non fat cappucino," said with death lasers coming out of my eyes.

"OH! You're a TIGER! GRRR!! Are you a TIGER?? Is that your BIRTH year??" he asked while making one of those cat scratching motions WAY too close to my boobs. He was referring to the Detroit Tigers hoodie I was wearing. Goddamn it, why don't I carry mace?

"Are you actually ready to take my order?"

"No, not really." And he continued to write on the cup from the last order. I swear to god he was holding it up like Hamlet holding up Yorick's skull.

"Well, why don't you let me know when you're ready." He was visibly disappointed I didn't want to play his little game and that I was starting to be a bitch about it. What I really wanted was to be anonymous-coffee-orderer so that I could get to tutoring on time.

"Are you having a bad DAY?" he asked in Renn Faire voice. I really hate when people piss me off, then blame my day for it. My day was just fine. There was nothing wrong with my day.

"No, my day was great. You're just driving me nuts." He was almost speechless. But not quite. At that point he went into mock-employee mode asking me what I wanted and being snidely courteous about everything in his hammed up accent. His face needed punching.

He returned my change, and I walked away. "You're welcome!" I was just so glad to be away from him, I could not care. I waited for my cappuccino for 10 minutes while he made a big deal of making the couple's drink first, then taking his sweet time to make mine. I knew my cappuccino was going to suck, and I considered just walking away from the money I'd spent to save myself the stress of standing there waiting. Instead I used my phone as a life line and texted a couple people. Eventually, he called my drink, I grabbed it and turned, in the same manner, away from him and got another "You're welcome!" Again, I could not have cared less. I just wanted away from the madness.

The cappuccino truly sucked. I drank every drop.

Me as a kid #3

When I was almost 6, we moved in to our house on Gardendale. The first night we spent in the house, I was playing in my room by myself and discovered there was a chain lock. I'd never had such privacy in my entire life and was thrilled I could keep people out whenever I so chose. Yes, I was five years old.

For novelty's sake, I locked the door and continued playing. When I decided it was time to rejoin my family, I climbed up on a chair to slip the chain from the lock. It wouldn't budge. Since birth, I've been a quick-to-panic type person. My fight or flight mode is on constant overdrive, which caused me to start yanking on the chain and yelling bloody murder. Everyone immediately come to my rescue, because I'll need you all. Or else I'll have to live in here for forever.

Through the opening the chainlock affords, I can see my mom's face first, then my dad, and my Uncle Jack. My grandma and grandpa were probably there too. There were a lot of faces on the other side of the door crack. Uncle Jack tried to get at the lock with a knife (the men in my family always have knives on them). Someone tried to reach their hand in. Ultimately, they had to calm me down, get me to shut the door (no easy feat when all I wanted to be was with the faces on the other side of the door), and explain that I must press the chain lock down and then over. When the door finally swung open, it seemed like a lot of panic for nothing.

HOWEVER

From that time on, I had weird uncomfortable fantasies about being trapped in my room for... forever. Sometimes I would imagine an evil man keeping me there, but most of the time I imagined the world had exploded, and my room was the last vestige of human existence floating in space. But I was always trapped for extended periods of time. I just assumed the duct work in that house to be space travel worthy.

What was my main concern? FOOD. Yes, the longest love affair of my life has been with food. And weird fantasy world part of my brain is not exempt. Oddly, my fear of going without food did not manifest itself with actual food. My preparation for the inevitability of being the last human survivor in the universe was to bring glasses of different things into my room and hoard them. Mainly I'm talking milk and orange juice. Have you ever lived in a room with rotting milk or orange juice? I'm not sure how I did. It got to the point where I knew how long a glass had been in my room by its state of decay. A regular scientist.

My theory was simple. Although the concoctions were foul, the solids which formed could serve as nutritious food, while the "water" that had separated from the solid could serve my hydration needs. I was able to kill two birds with one putrid stone.

Eventually, the glasses became so frought with decay, I knew I couldn't stomach them even in the event of annihilation. I'd rather starve than consume what was in the glass. Or my mother would notice that the majority of the McDonald's glasses were missing and insist I retrieve any I may have from my room (eventual space pod). She must have noticed the mold because I recall always having to wash them myself. After I scrubbed the mold from the Ronald and the Hamburgler glasses, I could feel free to start my hoarding cycle all over again. Except the next time, I'd go with Grimace.