The ghost of bearded man past

I was in the middle of writing about the dude from the coffee shop who was a serious professional impediment on Thursday -- the guy with the not-so-casually-maintained beard sculpted, trimmed and scruffied up to look casually-maintained -- when I got one of my bouts of Blog ADD (if you do not identify, please feel free to email me offline with your kindly web-friendly doctor's name or website where the anti-website-skippy drugs are doled out "legally" to post office boxes) where I can't possible write more than a paragraph without popping over to see what other mamas and papas are blogging about today too. It's like high school. But not like high school in this sense as much as high school in the way that no one has ever, ever, ever in the history of secondary education taken a French test that wasn't in some way a collective effort. That said, I stumbled upon CityMama's frustrating/flirtatious/Mary Catherine Gallagher in Starbucks experience and felt for a moment like we had maybe had a cosmically similar experience last week. And then I knew for sure that bearded dude must be blogged.

Let me first take you back about six months to the cafe where I sit, drink coffee, eat homemade hummus, chat with the owners and zone out the noise from the street to blog about important and socially-relevant things like songs about poop.

The cafe is next door to a hair salon that I tried three times before deciding that maybe I myself have an inner stylist who can work miracles on premature gray and who charges a lot less to make a grrrl feel good about my semi-curly, sometimes-straight, remnant-highlighted, sort of-Poshed-out coif. Before I went rogue, I was waiting for the stylist to show up for my appointment (another reason to love my inner stylist, her timing's impeccable) and so I went over to the cafe to get a cup of coffee, sit by the fireplace and read my book.

I sat in a big, overstuffed chair and next to me, beard guy was sitting on the couch, intently listening to the Grateful Dead live show projected on the screen above the fireplace (classy, huh?) and hammering away on his iMac. He nodded, I gave a half-hearted smile.

Within a half-minute, he threw out a random fact about the Grateful Dead to me, clearly meant to engage me in further conversation about painfully long guitar solos and pit hair and "the most righteous lyricists of all time" -- all things I didn't even give a crap about when I lived in Oregon and actually owned a nice collection of Grateful Dead CDs.

The thing is, he didn't leave it at that. He just went on and on and I zoned out in a conversation-induced patchouli haze. You know what I don't want to talk about? Ever? The Grateful Dead. Except to say this one little fact that I like to oh-so casually throw down to stump various bearded guys who get a little too friendly over the coveted set list from Nassau Coliseum, October 31st, 1979. And so, like a good little China Cat, I said it.

"I was at Jerry Garcia's last show."

It worked like a charm. He stopped his low-talking short and looked up.

"Here? Righhhht. On. Sister."

And then the kicker.

"Yup, first and last show."

"You only went to one show?!"

You see, the beauty is, it pains 'em every single time.

"Only one."

If I'm feeling particularly funny (at least to myself...oh, and now the inner stylist because she thinks I am freaking hilarious), I throw in that I did make sure to buy a t-shirt, though.

I smile innocently as the pained look spreads across
their face. I like to think that they were either on the road with
Phish that summer or that I've just embodied the most revolting vision
of a sorority grrrl gone Dead Head that they can conjure up to
negativity of over a sweet little buzz.That t-shirt thing, it's like a knife to the Jack A Roe. 

I thought that might kill the conversation but after
a moment of silence and going back to my book, Bearded Guy interrupted
me to let me know that he is a musician or something that isn't really
a surprise or of interest. And then he asked what I did for a living. I
told him I was a blogger and although he was stumped, he bounced back.
These Bearded Duded can be very tricky (be warned) and he asked which
site.

I've had to explain blogging to lots of people (my
mother still doesn't completely get what I do) but rarely do they ask
or care at all which sites I blog on. See the genius here? So I was
taken off guard and I told him. And then he did something strange and
inappropriate -- he went down the list of blogger names one by one and
asked me if each one was me.

"Are you Martha? Are you Debra? Are you -- No,
obviously not Brian. Are you Lauren? Ooh! Rigel? Are you Rigel?" And so
it continued. Was that supposed to be cute or sly? Was he trying to get
me to hook him up with a job or just hook up with him?

So it came to pass that once the dude knew my name,
where I came to work several days a week and where I worked, that it
was time for my hair stylist to arrive, whether she was really there
yet or not. So I ducked out to the tune of, "Totally sweet to meet you
blogger Jessica Ashley."

Heyyyy, thanks, Bearded Guy. Fast forward (because
this story has somehow become a novella and I cannot believe I am
giving this much space and energy to this freaky deaky) several months.
I am sitting in my regular spot next to the outlet and Bearded Guy
comes in, speaks in a hushed but terse tone to the new barista and then
stomps out with his army backpack and leaves.

Since nothing nearly as interesting is happening on my blog, I watch
intently. Was he mad the barista didn't want to play Live at Red Rocks
while he chatted with his folksy music friends about potential gigs in
Schaumburg?

A few minutes later, the barista delivered my latte and leaned in to share the story.



"That guy totally pisses me off. He comes in and sits all day and
just orders a cup of coffee. Then, he tries to get like five refills
and refuses to pay when there is clearly a sign that says how much each
refill is. Coffee is not free! What an ass."

Oh snap. Now I generally believe that regular coffee
refills should be pretty close to free but I would never, ever argue
that point with someone earning minimum wage to make very hot drinks. I
made a note to order something else from the menu and nodded with
understanding. Dude probably thought he was fighting the good communist fight or some shit. That's what I thought to myself as I agreed out loud with the barista.

Am I stereotyping? Yes, of course. But I have had
many, many encounters with these men. And for as many surprises --
degrees in Russian History or no affinity whatsoever for the banjo or a
hint of Drakkar Noir -- there are all too often the totally expected,
reliable details to fall back on.

Which is why, I suppose, I have not been surprised to
hear Bearded Guy ask the (new) barista to please burn him a copy of
some random funk song playing on the cafe's iPod speakers. Or that he'd
(puhlease) compliment the leggy blond with the halter top on her shoes.
Or that he would sing in full voice along to Ray Charles song playing
at a rather low volume while hammering out pretend spoons or Djembe
drums loudly on the table. While I was trying to work. While everyone
else enjoying lunch and their laptops was not at all interested and
actually, seemingly quizzical or just as annoyed as I was.

Shut up, Bearded Guy. Shut the Althea up, dude. No one wants to hear your shit.

That's what I wanted to scream. But the young women
and baristas sitting together at an adjacent table gave him a courtesy
smile and the moment passed.

Bearded Guy smiled as he looked back to his iMac, all proud of himself. In fact, he had a glib look on his Shaggy face.

And it occurred to me why this guy who is probably
rather harmless with the exception of refill thievery makes me mock,
laugh and then fill up with intense irritation.

It is because he is just like John, a former
boyfriend who I blame for the headaches incense give me and for nine
months of dating stupidity of my early 20s. Ahhh, John. He might as
well be that Bearded Guy or any other similar man uploading Rusted Root
to his roommate's MP3 player. The point is, he always shows up
somewhere, drumming his fingers and mentally returning to some show
some year some time long ago.

And really, as much as it amuses me at times, I really don't want to go back there at all. Especially when I've got work to do and coffee to pay for.

Comments

[SusieJ]

I would have love to have seen that smile...