lil' fella vs. the potted plant

I called in an order for Thai food last night from the place on my block. Twenty minutes later I went in to get my food and the tiny sweetheart, who always takes my order and smiles excessively, scurried to get my to-go. She came back with a delicately furrowed brow. "You not order Thai iced tea tonight?" I laughed. Then I told her that I forgot to order it. After I hung up the phone I was like, shit. I forgot to order Thai iced tea. But with a proud smile, she emerged from behind the counter brandishing a heavenly container that I just knew was chock full of sweet and creamy goodness -- prepared just for me. "I remember!" she giggled her tiny giggle as she put the cup in my bag.

So on my way to work this morning, I smiled when I passed East Asia. I didn't realize I ordered that much Thai food.

I dopped into the Laundromat to pick up my laundry. I never have the ticket. It's one of those things that I can't seem to hold on to. In my wallet is 75 receipts from Au Bon Pain but my laundry ticket, I can't find. Doesn't matter. Laundry Dragoness comes running over in her red satin shirt with my bag -- she knows which one is mine. She puts it up on the counter. "Light this week!" she says. "Usually so heavy!" She freakin noticed that I've replaced my nubby sweaters with little spring tees. Am I creeped out? I'm not sure.

Though as a side note, I had a hard time reconciling someone else washing my underwear for a while. It freaked me out to have someone else touching my underwear. Don't ask me why. I used to take the underwear out of the laundry bag and wash them separately myself. I got over it a while ago though, and I think it's brought me and the Laundry Dragoness closer together.

And as an additional side note, I'm not lazy. I just hate doing laundry with such a violent passion. And, it actually costs the same if you spread the math out over a long enough time line. (Though on a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.)

Okay?

Continue my mission on, laughing to myself over what an implant I've become in Davis Sq. I wave hello to Mike, the guy from the half-way house up the street. He's deaf but verbal, so he yells and his voice is frightening and uncontrolled. He's also frustrated by his inability to communicate, which makes him seem very violent, which he's not. One morning I was in the Someday, and Mike came into the crowded cafﾈ and announced that he was going to commit suicide right there and then. It was terrifying. He was in the middle of a full-blown panic attack, and couldn't breathe. I grabbed him and sat him at a table and made him breathe with me. Got him chilled out. Asked him why he wanted to kill himself. He had my attention. I asked him to explain it all to me. He said he wanted to kill himself because no one ever listened to him.

I see Mike every morning and every night -- he takes the first bus in the morning to his bench and takes the last bus home at night. He sits on the bench all day, chain smoking, trying to talk to everyone who walks by. Most of them ignore him or run away. He's an intimidating guy. He waves his hands around a lot, one of them always containing a lit cigarette. Once a day he runs frantically into the Laundromat across the street and in his lurching voice demands that the Laundry Dragoness give him five dollars so he can buy a pack of Marlboros. Usually she threatens to call the cops. If it's busy and she wants to get him to leave, she gives him the money.

Further down College Ave. is Lil' Fella. He's got the whole window of the Realtors to bask in his sunny tank, little turtle head sticking out of his red-eared slider shell, webby feet working the water. If it's early, there are little fish swimming around with him. If it's late, he's fat and sunning himself on a hot rock.

Apparently some time ago, someone in passing expressed concern over the bright green tinge of Lil' Fella's tank water. In response, a plaque was posted beside his abode. It said, "HI! MY NAME IS LIL' FELLA! I'm a red-eared slider turtle!" It went on to explain what algae was and why his water was green, and that his home at the Realtors was a fruitful one, that he was happy. Almost to prove their point, our friendly neighborhood turtle, now a good six inches in length, moved into a Barbie Dreamhouse-sized 55 gallon tank with a little shelf and everything.

One day I wrote "HI LIL' FELLA!" on a post-it note and stuck it to the window, facing him.

Except this morning, after three years in that window, he was gone. Plaque, tank, algae, turtle and everything. And mysteriously, there was a potted plant in his place.

With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I dragged myself into the Someday. Talk about where everybody knows your name. While the Thai place surprised me with its intimate knowledge of my choice of cuisine, the Someday could write a book on my culinary habits.

For damn near five years, I have gone to the Someday Cafﾈ for one hour every morning to write before work. From 7:30 to 8:30 I sit. Often writing, sometimes thinking about it. When I was working on National Novel Writing Month, I was there earlier and for longer periods of time. I also ingested significantly elevated levels of caffeine and paced the floor a great deal more. On Fridays I always treat myself to a soy Mocha. They're like $12.

I love the Someday deeply and possessively. One of the chairs by the window had my ass print on it and I was justifiably pissed when they rearranged the furniture. I wanted that seat gilded with my own damn plaque on it.

So I get a special smile from the counter guy every morning as he gives me my free coffee.

For quite some time I had a raging crush on an unlikely boy who worked mornings there. Come to think of it, that actually may have fueled my dedicated attendance at my notebook. Every morning I would grab flowers from someone's yard on my walk to the cafﾈ and put them in the tip jar. He played good music. He was always playing Pinback, Death Cab or Pedro the Lion. I wrote him into a few of my stories. Of course, after a year and a half, I still had only spoken about five words to him. Large. For Here. Thank you. Suddenly he was gone. But I saw him at Charlie's karaoke night and told him I missed him and that the coffee just didn't taste the same. He blushed and stammered and I haven't seen him since.

But there's a new girl working there who is uberkoot and looks like Christina Ricci and wears good little izod shirts with alligators on them. She's no Jordan, but she makes me smile.

So I guess the free coffee and the "Here's my girl!" and the red carpet reception I got last week after having been away for over a month was to be expected at the Someday. But the thing at Au Bon Pain this morning that led me to sit down and write about all this was out of left field.

First off, the Au Bon Pain in Harvard Sq. serves between 5 and 7 people per minute. I'm not exaggerating, either. There are six cashiers and the line often snakes halfway across the coffee shop. But every morning, after finishing my brew at the Someday, I have to refill at ABP. I drink way too much freakin coffee.

I always get in the same line and I always get the same cashier. She is sweet and shy and I'm probably the only person all morning that smiles at her or makes eye contact. I get the large French roast. The stupid covers for the cups there have that annoying peel-back lid that spills and drips and never tears quite evenly. In general, it pisses me off. So I always ask for a dome lid, which they normally only put on their espressos. This morning she went in the back to get me a dome lid without asking. She handed me the coffee and I couldn't help but laugh.

Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I mean, I enjoy having a space that feels like I belong here. But I don't know if routine interferes with adventure or something. It's not like I don't try new things. I love new things. But I also love going into the Thai place and having my iced tea waiting for me before I've ordered it.

I'm gonna miss this place.