It is Wednesday and the sun’s out, and I don’t know when it’ll come out again, so I go to Beezy’s on my lunch break to get a coffee. Beezy’s is this cute coffeeshop that is the equivalent to Luke’s in the Gilmore Girls; yellow and bright and friendly. If you ask for the special vegetarian sandwich it comes with bacon, and when I walk inside the cashier says, “Hello, you look fabulous today, how are you?”
Today, I’m wearing a blouse Jesse bought me for Mother’s Day a few years back. I’d never pick it out for myself, but I wear it now almost every week. I have on a pair of pants that he helped me pick out, too. He stood outside the door of the dressing room I was in and I’d creaked the door an inch and ask, “Are they too tight? I think they’re too tight.” He rolled his eyes. “I wish you’d take a look at yourself.” I said, “I’m different now,” but we got the pants, and I love them. They’re sort of a grey pair of pants flecked with black. I am wearing them with a pair of heels that are a really strange creamy grey. I bought them because they have this silver buckle on the back; just a little edge to an otherwise neutral heel.
I love high heels. I always have. I can remember standing in my Grandma A’s apartment behind Pietro’s Pizza talking to my mom about high heels. I mention her apartment because she lived there in the 80s, and I was young – young enough to not notice high heels – but it’s like something inside of me was just programmed for them. Anyway, I told my mom that my dream outfit would be to wear a tight pair of jeans with high, shiny red heels. “And I’d have long, permed hair, and long, shiny red nails.” I can remember my mom’s face, a polite mixture of confusion and shock. My mom, who knows French, can speak for days on Flannery O’Connor or Virginia Woolf, who broke her foot playing softball, who didn’t buy her 6 year old a pair of high heels, but did find some red shoes with buckles and one afternoon painted my nails red.
Beezy’s is next to a barber shop. There’s also an ice-cream shop, an organic beauty store, a restaurant that serves what looks like a pretty delicious brunch on Sundays, and across the street, a live girls dancing theatre. They have college specials I think on Tuesday nights.
Some days when I walk past the barber shop, the owner is unlocking the front door, and he says hello to me. I say hello back, and I wonder if he closes down for lunch, or if he is now just opening up. Today, the shop is closed and five or six men are sitting on the stoop. They see me get out of the car, and I see them. One says, “Mmmm, mmmm,” and I put my sunglasses on and hang my head. I am careful not to make too much noise with my heels because I don’t want to aggravate them. When I was a little girl, I loved wearing shoes I called “tappy shoes,” because they made this great click when I walked. I used to ask to go to the bathroom in grade school and I would walk down the hallway like a teacher would, tricking my friends that maybe even the principal was walking down the hallway. I was so good at making that noise.
“Hey, Queen,” one of them says. I keep walking. Quietly, carefully. I probably shouldn’t have worn these shoes. Who do I think I am anyway? An executive? I work with Kindergarteners and first graders. There’s no need to wear these shoes. Ever.
Right outside Beezy’s a woman, she’s probably my age, is knitting something for a bike rack. A bike rack cozy? I’ve never seen anything like this. The yarn is pink and green, and she’s got headphones on. She’s wearing a cardigan and baggy jeans rolled at the bottom. She has on a pair of Tom’s. Good shoes. Sensible shoes. I watch her while I wait in line and I wonder what it is she does that she can knit a cozy for a bike rack. The men at the barber shop say nothing to her. They’re pointing at the live dancing girls posters across the street.
“Hello, you look fabulous,” the cashier says. “Thank you,” I say back.
“Large coffee to go?” she says, grabbing a white cup with a Beezy’s stamp on it. I wonder who made the stamp, and who put the stamp on the cup. That seems like a fun job, to design a logo and then stamp it on a cup. “Yes,” I say, “and a small coffee to go as well.” I’m bringing back a coffee for a teacher who seems like a friend. We work pretty closely together, and today, she is testing her Kindergarteners in the library. All day she’s been pointing to a few letters and watching as her students sound them out, put them together, then shout, “Cat! Mop! Tree!” She is exhausted and she is happy, and during a break in kiddos, I tell her I’m going to Beezy’s to get a coffee, and would she like one. “It’s just drip, but it’s the best coffee,” I tell her.
My dad, when we made a trip to Tijuana, bought coffee for all the adults that chaperoned us. While we were sleeping, he figured out where the coffee was and brought it back for everyone. I remember some of the church ladies sitting outside their tents sipping coffee talking about what a nice guy he was to go and get the coffee. They were right. He is a nice guy, and he always knows where the coffee is. I don’t know, I just thought it’d be nice to buy a cup of coffee for someone who might be a friend and who is teaching children how to read.
I push the door of Beezy’s with my hip because I’m holding the two coffees. I am careful not to jut my hip out too much because I don’t want to cause attention to myself, but the bells on the door ring, and the girl who’s knitting a bike rack cozy looks up, and so do the men. She smiles at me, and I take a couple steps closer. “That’s really cool,” I tell her, and I mean it. I want to ask her how and why she came up with the idea. How’d she learn how to knit, and are there any local classes that teach beginners. Not just beginners, I’d correct myself, people who have tried and tried but can’t figure it out and risk amputating their fingers. She looks away, though. Maybe she doesn’t hear me. Maybe she thinks I’m joking, and I wonder if it’s because of how I look. Do I look mean? Do I look sassy? I actually like art, I want to tell her. I like to talk about it and I try to read important work, but I like high heels, too. And sparkly things. And red nails, and during high school when I had to take career tests, I always looked for the jobs that would make it so I could shop for a living.
“Looooord, have mercy,” the same man who called me Queen, says. “Mmm, mmm, mmm.”
“Work,” another one says, slowly.
I’m walking slowly because I have the two coffees and I don’t want to spill them. The sidewalk is cobblestone, real cute like something out of Stars Hallow, and just down the street is a church. It’s just this great community place with a gal who knits bike rack cozies, and a coffeeshop that serves veggie sandwiches with bacon, and I don’t want to trip in front of these guys nor do I want them talking to me. They’re not talking to me. They’re saying rude things but I can’t prove it. I mean, it’s my opinion, right? Maybe they’re just being kind. Who doesn’t want to be called a Queen? Who doesn’t want someone to look at you and then call upon the Lord for mercy?
I bring my hopefully friend her coffee and say, “Now listen, it’s strong, but that’s how I like it. I won’t be offended if you don’t like it.”
She sips and says, “Oh my goodness, this is the best coffee I’ve ever had.”
I beam. “It’s Intellegentsia,” I tell her.
“Who?”
“Intellegentsia coffee. It’s a company out of Chicago.” I go on to tell her about it, how it’s one of my favorites. We sit for a few minutes and I tell her about the first time my brother took me there. We ran across traffic while Jesse found a place to park. Geoff leaned over to me while we were in line and said, “Look, you can get whatever you want, but the drip coffee takes forever. I suggest a latte or cappuccino.” So I get a latte and it’s the best latte I’ve ever had. A few days later, Geoff took me back for the drip coffee, “Just because you have to have it.” He’s just like my dad. Real nice, and always finds the coffee.
I was wearing red cowboy boots the first time I had Intelligentsia coffee. My mom gave them to me for Christmas. They have a small heel, and they make a nice click when I walk.
I think about the day as I get ready to go workout. I know we’ll dance to Meghan Trainer’s “Woman Up.” We’ve been dancing to it for a few weeks now, and the class usually gets pretty uppity when she starts to chant, “All my girls raise your hand, if you don’t need a man! Because you’re already good enough.” We shake our hips and raise our hands, but that’s not the part I like. I like the beginning where she says, “Put your high heels on, because they make you feel strong.” They do.
They did.
Tomorrow, I’ll get coffee again at Beezy’s, but I won’t wear my high heels. I have a sensible boot picked out with a dark pair of jeans, fitted properly with enough stretch and bend. I’ll wear my Hogwarts shirt, too.
The heels on my boots are pretty thick and, even on carpet, they make a bit of a thunk. I guess I’ll just have to deal with it. There’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Elizabeth Ryan says
A delightful read!