Invariably wherever I live, I gravitate toward a coffee shop.  In Los Angeles it was of course Cafe Tropical, the coffee joint which will always be regarded by me as unbeatable on every level.  

In Brooklyn and here in Chicago, the coffee shops of choice occurred more by default than kismet.  Cafe Tropical was a gift from the gods, whereas the Outpost and the Grind, respectively, were more or less the best available.  Last summer, when I was miserable and unemployed, I found myself frequenting the former.  It was there that I came to find myself at odds with a particular barista by the name of Lawrence.  Despite my regular status, Lawrence always regarded me frostily.  He never remembered my order, or at least pretended not to, though it was usually the same.  He never made idle chit chat, never even cracked a smile.  I knew Lawrence was capable of performing all these barista tricks, for I had seen him do it.  He remembered the orders of other patrons.  He greeted.  He smiled.  He made idle chit chat.

My Chicago coffee shop lacks all of the charm of the Outpost, as well as the good music, comfortable seating, and um, good coffee.  Theirs is sort of a murky brew, that at once tastes rather syrupy and charred.  The seats are neither abundant nor inviting.  I would have to agree with one reviewer on Yelp that the music, no matter who is working, tends toward Lilith Fair. Still, the people who work there are unfailingly nice and for a few months now this has been my go to spot.  

Last summer, just when my mental standoff with Lawrence was reaching its most passionate timbre, I decided that I had no choice but to get to know Lawrence.  I needed to find out what made Lawrence tick.  Knowing nothing about him save the angle of his sneer and his fondness for Will Oldham, I steeled myself.  It finally occurred to me that Lawrence was a southerner.  This much was pretty apparent from his accent and manner of speaking.  And so I had to do it.  I had to start reading Faulkner!  I went to the library and checked out the only novel they had available, which I believe was called The Hamlet.  I read several chapters of it before declaring it super boring, thus abandoning both the book and my quest to understand the inner workings of Lawrence the rude barista.

By some act of fate or folly on my part, I now find myself reading, through no choice of my own, Faulkner’s The Sound and The Fury.  My opinion on the author has not changed. Yawn and yawn.  The sound is that of my slowing breathing as I fall asleep.  The fury is what I feel when I realize I still have a hundred pages of this snoozefest to read before the weekend.

Perhaps it was never meant to be between Lawrence and me.  It’s okay.  It was never meant to be between Brooklyn and me, either.  And, things aren’t looking so hot for me and Faulkner.