Pocket Dispatch from a Playdate
The apartment was remarkably small for an American family: One mother, Amanda, divorced, and her three children. They lived in a narrow hallway that connected two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a combined kitchen and living space. It was packed with objects but not untidy. The mother worked long hours and had some help with from a nanny named Lorene, but otherwise maintained wellbeing of the home herself.
The apartment ended in a living room with a single, large window and glass door letting out onto a private footpath circling the building. A high wall with patches of ivy was all that separated the residential complex from the dense business district surrounding it.
The youngest child, Michael, was in a soccer league with my own son, Silas, and they bonded after several sessions of running and screaming. Lorene and I made shallow, polite conversation while waiting for the boys outside the gymnasium where they played.
Eventually the boys asked for a play date enough times that Lorene collected my contact information and gave it to Amanda, who invited Silas for a play date. When the invitation came, it was back to me and Lorene to coordinate and supervise, as Amanda would be out working.
On the day of the playdate, Lorene invited us to play inside because it was raining. I drove our car to be punctual, even though a bus route connected our apartments and Silas and I preferred to ride it.
Lorene and Michael met us in the lobby and we padded behind them down the carpeted hall to their unit. I said something about the exposed timber beams, then complimented the apartment when we entered even though it was very normal. I was comforted that Amanda appeared to share our values about living in small, urban spaces. Though one can never be sure whether it’s a common value for relating or a temporary condition the other hopes to overcome.
Michael quickly overcame his shyness, an inhibition Silas doesn’t suffer, and both boys set to boisterous play. Lorene and I quickly exhausted all available topics of conversation and settled into the soft living room furniture near the boys. We then stayed like this for an unusual length of time, watching the boys, saying little to each other, the muscles in my face growing stiff and sore from polite smiling.
After an hour or so of this, Amanda arrived home. She seemed flustered but energetic as she greeted me, made small talk, then reviewed some household business with Lorene. She then disappeared into the bedroom, changed, and reappeared for more of the same.
Amanda and I also had little in common. Raising children in small apartments near the center of a major city is a lifestyle full of sacrifice and struggle, and those who choose it without the help of extreme wealth often have lots to talk about. Not so in this case.
She left as unceremoniously as she had arrived, and soon after we left, too.
Pocket Dispatch from a Lyft
I drive Lyft on the side for a few reasons: A little extra income, practice driving in the city, and the chance to meet interesting strangers. I sign on when the platform is busiest, incentivized by bonuses from Lyft and the prospect of the people I’ll encounter on their way to work or a night out.
I like when I first start, full of energy and close to home. The first person I pick up tends to be someone who lives nearby, and sometimes we have a lot in common—favorite bars, music venues, lifestyles.
Last Thursday, my first ride was a guy about my age named Paul. I picked him up from an apartment only a couple streets over from my own. He wasn’t going far, and for the first few minutes of the ride he was silent.
Then he commented on the music, which I choose carefully.
“Is this Aphex Twin?”
A portal of possibility flew open. Aphex Twin is one of the best known IDM, or alternative electronic, musicians of the last three decades. But to reference him is still a badge of a subculture.
“No, actually it’s an artist I just discovered called Kodomo,” I said. “But the drum sounds are totally Aphex Twin’s style. That thin snare and the drum-and-bass style beat is totally “Flim,” I said, flexing my knowledge of the Aphex Twin catalog. “From the—what’s that, um…” I pretended not to know. “Come to Daddy EP.”
“Right! Yeah,” Paul said.
“Kodomo came up as a recommendation based on all the Tycho and Bonobo and other guys from Ghostly and Ninja Tune and… Warp I’m always listening to,” I said, searching for another opening.
Paul didn’t say anything.
So I didn’t say anything for a minute.
I heard his jacket whistle as he pulled something out of pocket, then the inside of the car glowed softly with cool light from Paul’s phone.
“I’m loving getting back out to shows,” I said. “Have you seen any lately?”
“Yeah, I’m almost there,” he said.
I didn’t quite understand. “Sorry?”
“Hang on,” he said. “Hey man, sorry, I’m actually on the phone.”
“Oh. Of course!” I held up a hand of understanding.
We were getting close to his destination. There wasn’t much time left, and he wasn’t hanging up. I checked the address and looked for an opening near the curb to drop him off.
After sliding into a spot, I put the car in park and looked at Paul in the rear view mirror. He was holding his phone to his face but hadn’t said anything in a while.
Then he met my eye. “Thanks, man.” He turned to open the door, and I noticed his phone screen was lighting up his cheek with a white dial screen.
The door closed hard. I pulled away and drove, waiting for the app to connect me with a rider.
Pocket Dispatch: Barista Rights
Pop culture themed coffee bar. Barista appears frustrated so many people are there ordering coffee. The mood is studious—people come here for the calm environment because it’s the kind of calm environment where they like to work: alternative music, alternative fashion, alternative lifestyles.
But the rules are strict. The unstated ones are to bring a screen for doing something. It is not important what you do as long as it illuminates your face.
Another rule is to never complain about the service, even if and especially when it is poor. This is often because the baristas lead alternative lifestyles and honestly they kind of have a lot going on right now.
Some of the explicitly stated rules are to not make anyone feel unsafe. Although “safe” and “unsafe” are not defined terms and it is not clear why safety would be any more important in a pop culture themed cafe than elsewhere, if you do feel unsafe it is important to notify a staff member with an alternative haircut who is frustrated to be making so many coffee drinks and has a lot going on right now.
It is also not stated or suggested what measures the staff will take in the event a customer reports feelings of unsafety, but based on the proliferation of cheeky signs it is reasonable to expect it may involve a new small sign in a dedicated stand on the service counter at some point.
The perpetrator of feelings of unsafety may also be asked to stop, or leave, or may lose WiFi privileges.
At any rate feeling safe at the pop culture themed cafe is very important.
So is the quality of the coffee, which, not that you asked, is single origin from Honduras today. You might be more interested in our sweeter offerings, though, but please refer to the sign next to the register that clearly states we do not have almond milk so please do not ask.
Tipping is hot and sexy, so please don’t forget to tip.
Pocket Dispatch From After the Show
Tension simmers in a circle of insecure artists standing outside the Metro after a concert, smoking, each envying one another’s overlapping achievements and licking wounds from mutual rejection, or inferiority, real or imagined.
Each of them feels lonely and unworthy in his own way. On the way home one or two may decide he would have been better off staying home in bed. Still others will feel recharged and restored for having gone out and engaged with the city’s music scene and his friends in it. One or two will feel both of these.
“Time to leave.” The concert had just ended, and a security guard was waving me toward the stairs. I estimate she was 5 foot, 3 inches, and weighed 100 pounds, and I wondered what she would do if I refused to leave. But her tactical uniform suggested answers I wasn’t looking for. The rest of the security crew was wearing black street clothes, but if I recall correctly, she had a military style beret.