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Silicon valley life
I was on campus until well after 10; when I returned home found out we were almost out of milk and jumped in the car to drive to a nearby 7-11, a 24 hour convenience store.
There's a homeless man who frequents the 7-11 in the late evenings, sitting crossed-legged on the sidewalk, writing poetery. Around midnight he hangs out near an unsheltered bus stop near my house, leaning on his bicycle. The last bus leaves that stop at 11:52.
My headlights showered him in white when I pulled in front of the store. I said hi as I approached the entrance and he asked "Where have you been? I haven't seen you in awhile." I smiled, a bit confused; I really don't frequent the 7-11 that much, I hope. I asked him, "How are you?" He shrugged, "I can't get my laptop to work" and pointed at his bike; there was a ThinkPad peeping out of the computer case strapped on the rack.
I occasionally give him money when I leave the store; now I leaned backward out of the doorway, craned my head and asked "Do you want me to grab you anything? You hungry?" He said, "How about a cup of coffee?"
We walked in together and I while I pondered two percent versus one percent milk fat, he surveyed the java offerings; he's very tall (at least 6'6") with piercing blue eyes and blonde curly hair which is becoming a fro. His face was surburnt; it was warm today. With 2 percent firmly in hand I walked to the coffee station to say goodbye. He gave me a big grin and said, "See you soon."
There was a new clerk at the register; she's fairly young, blonde, and delicate. This 7-11 is usually staffed with parolees or ex-addicts. Men who wear their shirts buttoned to the chin, long sleeves in summer; women with sunken cheeks and missing teeth, aged by meth. Ravaged skin and sinewed arms regardless of gender.
The clerk's skin was creamy. She was present, intelligent, and when she waved at Ivan to find out what size of coffee he was pouring, I saw clean, manicured nails. I wished her a good night, dropped the change into fund drive dujour and noticed a minivan in the parking lot.
Some mom is working the night shift at one of the roughest 7-11s short of the East SJ barrio.
There's a homeless man who frequents the 7-11 in the late evenings, sitting crossed-legged on the sidewalk, writing poetery. Around midnight he hangs out near an unsheltered bus stop near my house, leaning on his bicycle. The last bus leaves that stop at 11:52.
My headlights showered him in white when I pulled in front of the store. I said hi as I approached the entrance and he asked "Where have you been? I haven't seen you in awhile." I smiled, a bit confused; I really don't frequent the 7-11 that much, I hope. I asked him, "How are you?" He shrugged, "I can't get my laptop to work" and pointed at his bike; there was a ThinkPad peeping out of the computer case strapped on the rack.
I occasionally give him money when I leave the store; now I leaned backward out of the doorway, craned my head and asked "Do you want me to grab you anything? You hungry?" He said, "How about a cup of coffee?"
We walked in together and I while I pondered two percent versus one percent milk fat, he surveyed the java offerings; he's very tall (at least 6'6") with piercing blue eyes and blonde curly hair which is becoming a fro. His face was surburnt; it was warm today. With 2 percent firmly in hand I walked to the coffee station to say goodbye. He gave me a big grin and said, "See you soon."
There was a new clerk at the register; she's fairly young, blonde, and delicate. This 7-11 is usually staffed with parolees or ex-addicts. Men who wear their shirts buttoned to the chin, long sleeves in summer; women with sunken cheeks and missing teeth, aged by meth. Ravaged skin and sinewed arms regardless of gender.
The clerk's skin was creamy. She was present, intelligent, and when she waved at Ivan to find out what size of coffee he was pouring, I saw clean, manicured nails. I wished her a good night, dropped the change into fund drive dujour and noticed a minivan in the parking lot.
Some mom is working the night shift at one of the roughest 7-11s short of the East SJ barrio.
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I'm not saying I wouldn't do that, but I sure hope I never have to do it. I'd go back to dishwashing and bussing tables first. The knife fights in the kitchen aren't as scary as the graveyard shift at a stop-and-rob.
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That said, she has a "don't eff with me" kind of aura, in a younger, prettier Martha Stewart way.
Myself, I'd do the overnight stocking at Safeway. Fewer customers coming through, additional staff, and all the day old bakery goods and over ripe produce you can
stealappropriate.no subject
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Um...entire first name or shortened?
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