“I love this bed”
“That was a splendid 9 hours of sleep”
“mmm…coffee” (big stretch, and then hop out of big comfy bed)
Clearly, the man who ends up with me is going to have to either enjoy coffee as much as I do, or be willing to go with me each morning when I get my fix. You know what? He doesn’t even have to come with me really. As long as he doesn’t say things such as “I am not pulling this car over for your cup of coffee, you can wait until we get there” (that’s where I draw the line).
Recently, I noticed something new on my corner. A coffee guy! He wasn’t there when I moved in back in January, but here he is now! Every morning from 5-11:30 he is in his silver portable coffee shop on the corner of my apartment building, and now I can take 25 steps to get to caffeine. However, the best part of this story is not the coffee I drink every morning, but rather the friendship I have established with the man behind the silver portable coffee shop on wheels. We talk about anything really. The weather (of course), my hours at work for the day, what we did the night before, and what we plan to do with our upcoming weekend. One day I mentioned that I needed to buy 2 ice coffees from him, since he only carried small cups. The next day, he had a sleeve of giant plastic cups for the ice coffees. “For You” he said. And if that’s not already the cutest darn thing you ever heard, you should know I also get a discount. The best part of buying my coffee every morning from this guy is the part where he stares at my cup, waves his hand around and goes “ehhh, for you? One dollar”. Then I go “for me? You’re too nice!” He replies “Normally, its $1.25, but you are always here!” (with a big smile on his face). Then I say “thank you so much again, you have a great day today! (followed by a “stay warm!” “stay cool!” or “stay dry!” depending on the weather). This morning routine is turning into a little tradition, & I am quite pleased with it.
(a beautiful sunny Tuesday morning, & another ice coffee to go) Growing up, my dad was a coffee truck driver. He would go to office buildings during breakfast and lunch hours and well, serve food and coffee out of his portable café. I started going to work with him when I was 2. My mom had put the car seat in the front passenger side of the truck, & I would always fall asleep by the time we were driving home for the day. What father wouldn’t love to have a job where his two year old little girl can accompany him for the ride home? It was great. When I was 4, I got promoted. I would stand next to dad, and hand customers their napkins, spoons, or forks. I should mention that the women who worked in these offices found me adorable, and would frequently “tip” me and slip a dollar in my little pink purse. By the time I was 7, I was given the responsibility of giving back change. “He gets 2.25 back jess” my dad would say. There I went, counting out the two dollars and one quarter. This was excellent math practice for a second grader. I am the daughter of a coffee truck driver. I spent years riding around with Dad, talking to people, taking coffee orders, & making friends. This is a part of who I am, and I find joy in the simple mornings where I talk to the man who serves me my coffee, as now I am the woman who is heading off to work. I always find time for a nice conversation with the coffee man before I rush off for the day.
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