Tuesday, June 11, 2013

The Wandering Barista Revision


Phil is elbow deep in ice cream when a customer tells him he’s leaving an extra dollar for tip. Phil is making a mocha shake—his least favorite order. 
“Thank you much,” Phil says over his left shoulder.
“Whad’ya say?”
“Thank you,” Phil says while straightening up, “I said thank you much.”
Phil Cowley has to repeat himself often. Customers at Fourth Coast Cafe have a hard time hearing him over the constant hum of peripheral conversation, espresso machines, and music. “I guess I’m a low talker. But I hear myself just fine,” Phil says.
In addition to his low voice, Phil has quite the poker face. His slightly pronounced jaw, tight lips, and deeply shadowed blue eyes do not leave room for many emotions other than sternness. Yet, his sternness is further translated into somberness when laid across his ghostly pale face and stacked upon a tall and lanky body —his expression always somewhat diluted, always somewhat less potent than intended.
After one and half years at Fourth Coast, and two years in the restaurant upstairs, Crows Nest, Phil is ready to leave. He says, “I’m looking for other shit. I’m getting really tired of this job. I’ve been in customer service too long.” Phil has been working in different sectors of customer service since he was thirteen years old, making him a veteran with his upcoming thirtieth birthday.
But, it’s not the years in the industry, the labor, or the humdrum routine of it all that exhausts Phil—it’s the fakeness of the forced interactions. He refers to it as “placating” when customers can tell he isn’t engaged in conversation yet persist anyway. “...Either they don’t know or they don’t care...they don’t realize the shame in it [being placated]”. He continues, “I like people talking to me. I just don’t like people I don’t want to talk to talking to me.” He feels no sympathy for others’ loneliness—he is definite in thinking that it is shameful to want to be “placated”, regardless of the reason.
In an ideal world, Phil gets out of customer service, becomes a zoologist, and builds himself a house made out of stone in a town that’s a hybrid of his hometown, Kalamazoo, Michigan and his favorite place he’s lived in, Savannah, Georgia. Savannah is the only place Phil has gone back to live in for a second time. He was initially drawn to Savannah because he has distant relation to General Sherman, the Union Army General who gave Savannah to President Lincoln as a birthday present. Phil fell in love with the simple things of Savannah: the flowers, the Southern charm, the architecture, and people’s friendliness.
He’s also lived in Washington D.C., Chicago, Fort Knox, Kentucky, Alexandria, Virginia, and Costa Rica. He’s been on the move for almost thirteen years now, leaving at the age of seventeen because he tested out of his senior year of high school. He travels out of presented opportunities—a brother-in-law in Virginia, a friend in Costa Rica, family in Chicago. He returns to Kalamazoo whenever he runs out of money, usually making his travels last about two years.
When initially asked about his frequent moving, Phil chalks it up to his gypsy blood. His ancestors must have been nomads, he thinks. He even recently turned in an application to be a flight attendant because of the free travel. But upon further reflection, he thinks it really comes down to the utter boredom he feels on a daily basis. “I’m bored at work, bored at home...I think I’m grumpy most of the time because I’m bored.”
Now that he’s older, Phil would settle down somewhere if it were the right place. His next intended city of living is Charleston, South Carolina. He asked his co-worker, Nathan, to come down and live with him, but Nathan can’t move now because of financial reasons.
Nathan becomes instantly animated when asked about Phil. In three words, he describes Phil as: independent, smart, and crazy—crazy in the sense that Phil does everything his own way... a way that doesn’t match any one else. Nathan says, “Everyone really likes him [Phil] but are confused by him because he doesn’t give you a lot.” But, Nathan is one of the people that Phil wants to talk to, so Nathan is always in the listening mood when spending time with Phil. Nathan thinks Phil’s life stories are useful because he is not caught up in the popular culture of feeling like one has to contribute in order to make one’s life meaningful. “Phil lives for himself and just exists,” he says. His favorite story about Phil is when they were both working together, and they had to kick a customer out because he was giving them a hard time. They went outside to mess around with the guy because it was a quiet night, and the customer began threatening to shoot both of them in the face. Phil got right up the man’s face, and in his characteristically steady and low voice said, “Shoot me in the face then.”
Phil’s calmness in the sticky situation with Nathan is a reflection of his growing up. He lived near the Edison neighborhood on the South side of Kalamazoo, where robberies were common. His dad taught him if he wasn’t immediately attacked, the perpetrator didn’t mean business. He learned how to bluff muggers and claims he only got beaten up once because of it.
Phil’s dad also taught him to be environmentally conscious before it became cool, and also raised him as Buddhist. Today, Phil is strictly agnostic though, saying, “I don’t think there’s any way to know...I just can’t bring myself to believe.” He also thinks, “religion is the trouble with the world”, but he’ll still respectfully listen to a religious person talk about his/her beliefs.
It is mid afternoon, and Phil is outside smoking a cigarette—American Spirits because even though they’re double the price, they’re supposed to last longer and be less addictive, which he doesn’t believe because he still smokes a pack a day. He’s got three hours left in his shift, and he’s getting agitated, “Time is dragging by today. It sucks.” He doesn’t stay outside for long though because his baby blue polyester pants are making him sweat in the humid weather.  After a short conversation with a prep cook from the restaurant above Fourth Coast, Phil returns behind the counter. He seems troubled, and looks towards the door as he talks, “Everything is made to be temporary so we can make more.” This is a typical nugget of wisdom from Phil, the discontented yet happy barista. Perhaps Phil is bored because he is too smart for his own good, or perhaps he is bored because he’s waiting on himself to make permanent change in his life.  Either way, he still has a few hours in his shift to kill, and a few more customers that will want to talk to him, even if he does not know how to grin and bear it. 

Monday, June 10, 2013

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

Wandering Barista Writing Process

I had originally intended on writing about the local food truck, Gorilla Gourmet. But, last minute, the owner called me and told me he was too busy to interview before our deadline because he was prepping for a wedding...so then I was going to do the Christian auto detailing/women's clothing shop off Westnedge, but they were closed. Then I went to Velvet Touch off West Main, and the owners declined interviewing because they wanted to maintain their privacy. Then I went to the Glass Onion and that owner never called me back...I also went to the recording studio off Westnedge and that owner never called me back. At this point, if I didn't start interviewing, there would be no way I could write my first draft in time. Later, I ended up at Fourth Coast doing some homework....Phil was the barista working that night. I had always found Phil interesting because he maintains such a steady demeanor all the time. No matter what-- he never cracks. He agreed to interviewing, and in a short period of time, I've spent a lot of time talking to Phil. A guy who normally doesn't talk. 

For my last profile, my subject talked without prodding. Phil needs a bit more encouragement....it definitely took some time before he opened up and shared stories without me directly asking for them. But, all in all, Phil ended up being pretty easy to talk to. I think what's most interesting for me while writing about Phil is thinking about how many people in our daily lives we interact with but we know nothing about. How many people get coffee from Phil four or five times a week and, if asked, couldn't say what color his eyes are? I find this to be a common theme when I serve tables as well-- a great deal of people don't even know what their server looks like, nonetheless his/her name. 

Phil is a complex guy....he's comfortable with where he is in life, but he feels awkward a lot of the time...There are a lot of layers to him that I don't know if I conveyed as well as I could. In terms of feedback, I mostly would like to know how well the reader feels he/she gets an idea of what Phil is like. 

Monday, June 3, 2013

The Wandering Barista


Intended Publication: The Index

Phil is elbow deep in ice cream when a customer tells him he’s leaving an extra dollar for tip. Phil is making a mocha shake—his least favorite order. 
“Thank you much,” Phil says over his left shoulder.
“Whad’ya say?”
“Thank you,” Phil says while straightening up, “I said thank you much.”
Phil Cowley has to repeat himself often. Customers at Fourth Coast Cafe have a hard time hearing him over the constant hum of peripheral conversation, espresso machines, and music. “I guess I’m a low talker. But I hear myself just fine,” Phil says.
In addition to his low voice, Phil has quite the poker face. His slightly pronounced jaw, tight lips, and hard blue eyes do not leave room for many emotions other than sternness. His co-worker, Joey says, “I’ve know him for a long time, but I don’t know him well.”
Phil may also be hard to get to know because of his innate restlessness. Since age seventeen, he’s been on the move. He’s lived in Washington D.C., Chicago, Fort Knox, Kentucky, Savannah, Georgia, Alexandria, Virginia, and Costa Rica. His favorite place was Savannah, Georgia because of people’s friendliness, its Southern charm, the architecture, and the flowers. Phil thinks people down South are more open-minded than people in the Midwest and describes Savannah with uncharacteristic warmth in his voice.
Phil chalks up his transience to having gypsy blood. He even recently turned in an application to be a flight attendant because of the free travel. But Joey doesn’t think Phil would be a good flight attendant simply because, “it’s Phil.” With his typical candor, Phil agrees with Joey and acknowledges that he isn’t good at faking interactions.
If flight attendant doesn’t work out, however, Phil also wants to be a Bollywood actor. “They’re pumping out two or three thousand films a year,” he says. He thinks he could play the American villain, and explains, “I don’t even need to be a good actor for that. I ‘ve already got a pretty mean looking face.”
            Undeniably, after one and half years at Fourth Coast, Phil is ready to leave. He says, “I’m looking for other shit. I’m getting really tired of this job. I’ve been in customer service too long.”
During one of his late night shifts, his best friend and roommate, Josh, comes in to pay a drunken visit. “Do you want to cover the rest of my shift?” Phil asks.
            “Fuck no, man,” Josh yells back.
            Josh walks outside and turns to leave for a rooftop party that’s going on next door, but not before flashing a piece of his chest.
            Phil smiles, “That was for me.”
            Phil has lived with Josh for three years—the longest amount of time he’s lived with anyone besides family. He explains that they get along so well because they’re cut from the same cloth. “I guess that must make me a narcissist,” Phil jokes with a straight face.
            Josh returns from the rooftop party and Phil decides to go outside to take a smoke break with him—one of the several he takes throughout his shift. He removes an American Spirit cigarette from a silver case and tucks it behind his right ear, an action he has to perform if a customer comes in before he gets a chance to leave.  
            About fifteen years ago, Phil started smoking cigarettes at fifteen years old, which was relatively late considering he smoked his first joint at age nine and his first blunt at age eleven with his older sister. Phil’s “hippie dad” smoked pot while he was growing up, but refused to smoke with Phil until he was around eighteen.  
Phil’s parents incorporated their open mindedness in different ways, however. For Phil’s first Halloween, he was dressed up as a cop with a pig mask. He says he didn’t understand the significance of the costume until years later, but now finds it funny. Phil was also raised as a Buddhist. Today, he’s strictly agnostic though, saying, “I don’t think there’s any way to know...I just can’t bring myself to believe.” But, he still appreciates Buddhism as a type of guidance in his everyday choices.
Phil relies on his ability to talk himself out of sticky situations, too. He grew up in a tough neighborhood where robberies were common, and his dad taught him if he wasn’t immediately attacked, the perpetrator didn’t mean business. He learned how to bluff muggers and claims he only got beaten up once because of it.
Phil uses the same type of calm rationality when dealing with his intoxicated friend, Elton, during his late night shift. Elton wants to get into a fight because someone doesn’t like his hat. Phil looks at Elton and without a rise in his voice explains, “He’s probably still not going to like your hat after you throw a couple punches.” Elton begrudgingly accepts that Phil is right and decides to just smoke another cigarette instead.
Phil’s history of banding up against bullies goes back to kindergarten, where he initially bonded with his childhood best friend, Larry Brooks, over a common enemy. The class bully crushed a snail, and Larry and Phil cried together over its brutal death. All Phil remembers is that he and Larry tried to set the bully straight, and someone got punched in the stomach and someone else got kicked in the face. He smiles as he recalls his friendship with Larry, and thinks out loud, “I always wondered what happened to him.”
It is mid afternoon, and Phil is outside smoking a cigarette. He’s got three hours left in his shift, and he’s getting agitated, “Time is dragging by today. It sucks.” He doesn’t stay outside for long though because his baby blue polyester pants are making him sweat in the humid weather.  After a short conversation with a prep cook from the restaurant above Fourth Coast, Phil returns behind the counter. He seems troubled, and looks towards the door as he talks, “Everything is made to be temporary so we can make more.” He wipes the same spot on the counter as he did a few minutes ago, and slowly looks up, “I don’t hate it here, but I definitely am ready to leave.” 

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Show And Tell

For my birthday last year, a friend of mine got me a book called Listening Is An Act of Love. The book is from a project called StoryCorps- "the largest oral history project in the nation". StoryCorps collects stories of everyday Americans from all over by using mobile recording booths. I absolutely loved the book (I definitely recommend it!) because there are so many lessons embedded in the stories of others that you just can't get from hard journalism or textbooks or theory. StoryCorps also has a website where you can listen to some featured stories....although the project isn't a product of journalism, I chose it as my show and tell because I'm very fond of the idea that everyone's story is important and worth listening to:



http://storycorps.org/topics/staff-picks/

(My favorite one is the fourth one down).

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Week 8 Reading Response


I could not put this book down. “The Events of October” transported me to Kalamazoo College circa 1999, and I was completely engrossed in the story surrounding the murder of Maggie and the Neenef’s suicide. I live in DeWaters, and I read most of the book in my room.... I cannot explain how eerie it was to read the book and imagine the events unfolding in my own building. It was bizarre because I felt like the campus Gail described was exactly like how it is now, but somehow placed in an alternate universe. I also wonder, how come I had never heard this story before? Is “The Events of October” the only way Maggie and Neenef’s story is shared?  Or maybe as a transfer student I missed some commemorative event in the Fall.

In one of the appendices, there is a list of all the people Gail interviewed. There are easily at least twenty people on that list. Gail’s approach to writing this book reflects everything we have read and what Marin has told us about narrative journalism. Gail incorporated details, such as Maggie’s favorite type of vodka that really made me feel like I knew Maggie and Neenef. Yet, not only did I know Maggie and Neenef, but I also knew Maggie and Neenef’s family and friends. I could easily understand the frustrations and hesitations felt by Maggie’s friends in expressing their views on the relationship, as well as Neenef’s friends’ conflicted feelings about Neenef after the event occurred. 

I thought the IM conversations between Neenef and Maggie most intensely highlighted the abusive nature of their relationship. Having that explicit documentation showed the power dynamics underlying their communication, and it also showed emotions Maggie could not have expressed to her family or friends about Neenef. Furthermore, it showed how trapped Neenef made Maggie feel, and how separating from him was nearly impossible.

I thought Gail did a phenomenal job in including educational statistics on femicide and domestic abuse. I was shocked by the facts and the ensuing analyses, and I want all of my friends and family to read this book. I thought the most disturbing piece of data was that it is during the immediate months after leaving an abusive relationship where women are most unsafe.

I’m really excited to hear from Gail how she pieced this book together and the process that went into it—I also wonder how difficult it was for her to separate herself from the story.

David Elhart Profile


Paula Dallacqua
Narrative Journalism
Profile
Don’t Judge An Artist By His Paintings
Intended Publication: The Index
David Elhart’s studio is a mess that is confined to his basement, which is not impervious to the distractions of the rest of the house, such as the barking of his dogs, Frank and Jesse. His work table is the size of a school desk and is cluttered with pens and stencils. Paintings are scattered in every direction, making the small space palpitate with color. Tools of logic, such as rulers, seem out of place in a room that looks like it regularly struggles to reign in David’s creativity. He apologizes for the mess and calls any person who ventures into his studio courageous. 
He admits his studio is particularly disorganized because he is in the process of getting thirty pieces ready for an upcoming show in Three Rivers. He’s not excited about the show, however, because he dislikes the people who generally attend art shows, “Quite a few of them are there for the wine. The more they drink, the more they think they know about art.” He grimaces at the thought of the alcoholic stink of their breath, but reasons that it is nice to sell pieces because, “It helps me pay for my habit.”
His habit. David does not see art as his job because he has never used it to support himself. Yet, art cannot simply be David’s habit. Art is the bridge from his logical mind to his innovative soul. He says, “I enjoy doing what I’m doing so much because I’m discovering.” One can be thankful for the gift of David’s discovering. It is rare that personal discovery leads to such remarkable creations, such as his painting “Sleeping Wave”.
“Sleeping Wave” exemplifies David’s flamboyant style. A bright yellow sun is set against a sky blue background, while two shapes that appear to be icebergs imperfectly mirror one another. A small ship with 3 tiered sails hides to the right of the far iceberg, and puffs of clouds are depicted as bars of white. Even though the viewer immediately recognizes the typical scene, the jolting geometry calls for a longer look. The viewer then notices the sun melting down the canvas by means of various reflections, the asymmetrical relation between shapes, and the perfectly straight lines within the icebergs that are angled out like sun rays.
Indeed, David’s work is an intriguing balance of technical art and the fine arts—he attributes the mix to his past work, which involved him being very precise. He thinks his technicality adds to the story telling capability of his artwork. David’s favorite types of stories to tell are about things that reflect memory. With a sense of awe in his voice, he describes staring at the deserted paper mill in Vicksburg and wanting to ask it, “Please, tell me what went on here...even though the building can’t talk. The older [the building] the better.”
Or on a trip to Ellis Island, when he became wrapped up in the emotional experiences preserved in the location. He speaks quickly as he thinks about the memories it holds, seeing them as still vital because they are “trapped in the walls of the building”. His face lights up during his recollection, much like the face of a little kid who has just discovered a secret shortcut.
In addition to playing with vivid colors and grand shapes, David manipulates texture. He particularly likes taking paint rollers and gauging pieces out of them in order to create spongy layers. He never uses an easel and opts to work on a flat surface so the paint remains stationary. A substantial factor in the creation of his art is his need to control. Elements, such as wayward clouds, which appear to be random, are actually painstakingly placed in order to communicate exactly what David wants to say.
Well, exactly what he wants to say, except for his political views. David explains that he keeps his political ideology completely out of or hidden within his art because people do not like messages in the paintings they hang in their livings rooms or see at coffee shops and restaurants. “I don’t set out to be political. I set out to create another place. Unless you read the titles, you might not even know.” For example, his painting, titled “Venus Barrier Sustained Biosphere”, is a commentary on current environmental practices. David explains it as “We think we can just go live in Venus after we destroy the Earth.” The actual painting, however, does not betray his true feelings. It simply looks like a barrage of colors and shapes. An attack of reds and oranges and browns.
The painting embodies David’s signature style—his rambunctious interpretation of pop art. “I’ve got a very busy mind,” he says, “I put it into my paintings.” By using acrylics, fixative, and varnish, he can separate colors and paint one over the other, thereby creating the shocks of pigment that characterize his art. He warns the oil has to go over the acrylic and not the other way around or else paint will chip everywhere. David also does a lot of work with oil based pens. The pens are pricey, but the pigmentation is well worth their cost.
While talking about his art, he repeats the theme that it’s not from a deep, philosophical message. He says the endpoint is to have fun. “I kind of paint blindly”—he explains that nothing about his art is pre-planned, and it’s more of a sum of his thoughts. He also speaks about his age, “People who don’t know me anticipate a younger person.” David, however, is a man in his late sixties, who works in light-wash jeans splattered with paint, Champion sweatshirts, baseball caps, and sandals with socks. His full beard and antiquated glasses complete the look, which is reminiscent of a grandfather.
Perhaps it is the cartoonish character of his paintings that lead people to believe the artist must be young. Or maybe David’s youthful exuberance seeps into his work. Yet David’s liveliness is equally matched by his matter-of-factness, which is also reflected in his work’s precise construction. His choice to not use his art as a vehicle for his radicalism reflects his rationality, “Here in the Midwest if you want to sell anything you got to be a bit more conservative.” But, David has never made his living off art. It was only when he retired four years ago that he allowed himself to be dedicated to his art. He had taken a few art classes at the University of Iowa and received training at the Layton School of Art in Milwaukee, but his art had to wait out of necessity. It was a practical decision that came down to having to pay the bills, “I needed to eat and being an artist wasn’t going to get it,” he explains. Instead of pursuing art, David worked in pharmacological research for forty years, specializing in animal welfare. He also taught and wrote for twenty years. Although he’s retired, he mentions possibly teaching at Kalamazoo Valley Community College in the future. His life goal, after all, “is to drive my wife crazy”.
But, David also admits, “I’d be lost without my wife.”  David has been married for 46 years to Rose, which is apparent in the way she can immediately correct him when his recollection of dates and times aren’t entirely accurate. Rose provides the balance David needs to function by remembering all the things that seem to escape his memory. When asked what her job description is, she says, “I keep him [David] in line.” Rose fills in the gaps in David’s narrative, correcting him when he forgets or adds a year to his life’s timeline.
Rose provides a necessary structure to David—in fact, her lack of presence may be the reason for his studio’s chaotic nature. Or maybe David’s creative energy had been building while he worked, and since his retirement, it cannot be contained. Either way, the explosion of paint and stencils and rulers and brushes found in David’s studio are all in good use—One can even be thankful for the mess. It is rare that disorder leads to such remarkable creations.