The title, which is, obviously, the story of my life. All the time transitioning from one thing to another - I guess this phase of my life is just comprised of changes. Steadily, things are changing for me, in ways I both like and don't like. I guess mostly ways that I think are beneficial, but that doesn't mean I find them comfortable. When have I ever been comfortable with changes?
I know it's been a long time since I've written, but I also know most of you are familiar with my circumstances. I'm sorry I haven't written more about Drip, really. Drip is . . . my ideal, in a lot of ways. And in a lot of ways, this may be my farewell love letter to it.
I love just about everything about this little coffee shop - the polished marble with that oh-so-particular early-morning shimmer; the dark wood tables that we buff every few hours with love; the large-pane windows that give the place such a wonderful natural glow. The aesthetics of the place are, without a doubt, the most wonderful thing I've ever seen. Watching coffee drip into a Hario, silhouetted against the cool morning light, is a somehow cinematic experience. Every time I walk into the place, I want to shoot a movie.
Aside from everything aesthetically beautiful, the people are really what I will miss the most. At any point, I can go back in and look at that place. Probably shoot that movie, too - Sean remains my biggest fan, and has offered me a shift or two a week. He's such a generous man, and the thought of leaving a boss who already loves me and respects me is terrifying.
All of my co-workers have their flaws - they're crazy or they're frantic or they're passive aggressive - but I love each one of them and will dearly miss them. The bonding that occurs between people struggling to keep up with a giant mass of customers is priceless; it's a kind of in-the-trenches camaraderie that then quickly gives way to a comfortable joking when business becomes slow. We're a tiny family, by far the smallest I've ever been a part of, but one that I'm proud to have been accepted into. Leaving that family, after such a short but strong relationship was forged, breaks my heart.
But the offer came in, and was too good to say no to. The only thing less than desirable about it was the timing, and my love for Sean and Drip had to be tempered by the fact that this sort of opportunity only comes around once in a decade. Someone has to die for the Nickelodeon to take resumes, and the odds of the Nickelodeon offering you a job out of the blue without you having actually turned in a resume? One in a million.
Even if the offer hadn't been massively flattering - Andy told me he wasn't interviewing anyone else unless I declined the position - it's the sort of thing that is either so awesome that it delays your grad school plans, or makes your grad school application look a thousand times better. Are you trying to apply to a Film and Digital Media Studies program? Everything about your application looks the same as everyone else's . . . except for the fantastic letters of recommendation and the five times you drop that you worked for one of the top independent non-profit theaters in the Southeast. Oh, and that you were deeply involved several years in a row with the renowned Indie Grits Film Festival.
I agonized. I guess I agonized less over the decision - which was more or less made the moment Andy and I walked into Hunter Gatherer - and more over the fact that I was leaving my ultimate comfort zone.
It's not just that I love this job. It's also that I'm damn good at it. I'm not just being arrogant here, but I understand the mechanics of it. I'm good at the busy moments, as I can multi-task. I'm good during the slow moments, because I'm personable and I can jump right in for conversations. I make good drinks and I take pride in the job. Everything about it is in my comfort zone. Andy asked me pointedly if I was ready to start a 9 to 5 job where I'd spend lots of time in a windowless computer room ("I worked at the Film Archive for a year," I said, which got a good laugh), and even as I was saying yes, I was wondering if the answer was really no. The first week at Drip presented me with a bit of a learning curve, but this is a different curve entirely. Nothing about this will be familiar. Not the software, not the job description, not the people. Yes, of course I'm scared.
It is important to note that I have attained the holy grail, though - a job in the field I graduated in. Less than six months after graduating, no less.
Getting back to the point, I want to say a few things about the customers: the people that I can't build relationships with any longer. Co-workers I can text and hang out with. The customers, the ones who I spoke to only for a moment or two every day, are the ones I will miss the most, in a way.
Every morning when Whitney came in, as I was pulling shots and handing her skim iced latte to her, I slowly built that relationship. She doesn't sit at the bar - she's not easy to get to know in the same way. But those little moments, like when she told me about her daughter's fourth birthday breakfast, mean a lot in this world. Marty has become important too - along with his sweet wife who has somehow managed to have five children (under the age of 11) and still look perfectly gorgeous and fit, and his three year-old son with disheveled blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. Marty gets a large coffee, and often one for his lady, and even though he's some sort of big-shot businessman or lawmaker or some such with monograms on his shirts and computer case, he takes a moment to connect with us. Or Jessica and Jame, who are board members at the Nick and two of the most loving, genuine people I've met. They came in two days ago to celebrate their ninth anniversary ("nine years of bliss," they both said), congratulated me on my new job, told me stories about their adorable kids.
Or some of the even more obscure people, like Jo. Jo just started coming in recently, and there's something unmistakably mysterious about her. She's tiny, with straight hair and beautiful dark skin; she speaks very softly and just ordered a small coffee. It's hard to explain what about her is so interesting, but yesterday was the first time I had the opportunity to ask her about herself at all. Or Heyward, the awesome web designer who asks for four shots in his lattes and always shows up at the same events I do. I'm fascinated by his crazy blonde hair, but also by how he's managed to be one of our best customers without us knowing much of anything about him.
Maybe the moral of this story is that Drip has reminded me that I like people. Cool Beans drew a frustrating crowd, college made me lose a lot of respect for people in my age range, and New York was just overwhelmingly over-peopled. But Drip was sort of the opposite experience for me - it made me remember that there's an art to food service and to connecting with people. There's just something so priceless about those moments of human connection between relative strangers. I'll miss that more than anything.
