Once upon a time, 7,670 days ago, in
Denver, I took one fork in the path. This particular path did not
seem any brighter or rosier or better than the other path, it was
just the path that I took. It was the tenth of February. It was 2001.
I went to work at St. Mark’s Coffeehouse.
It was a job that came at the right
time. I had been back in Denver from Portland by way of New Orleans
for about a week or two. I was living in my sleeping bag at Chris’s
apartment on Gilpin Street. I had already gotten and lost a temp job.
And when I got the gig at St. Mark’s, it was a serious situation for
me.
The truth is, and all I really need to
do to confirm it is to look in my old journals, I was already a burn
out at the age of 28. I know I was a burnout and I can’t remember if
I knew I was a burnout at the time. See, the thing is, I wanted to be
a writer. Before the St. Mark’s gig, I had spent a few angry years
working a professional, or a “real” job which took me away from
what I really wanted to be. So, when I learned I would only be
working six hour shifts at St. Mark’s, I was eager to start.
The thing about St. Mark’s was this: it
was the trendiest place in the neighborhood and it was a scene. I was
right in the middle of it. And I felt like I got a little bit of a
celebrity status working there. The other two perks were the free
coffee any time, free food on each shift and I got to leave at the
end of my shift with cash. The tips were good.
But I didn’t like the job. I wanted to
do good work. It wasn’t easy. We worked alone. Sometimes there was
hours of boredom, few customers and lots of cleaning to do. Other
times, there were lines of customers out the door. It was, in short,
a very stereotypical service industry job but I didn’t know that yet.
I can only surmise the zeitgeist of the
early St. Mark’s days. I know that I suddenly had money. I suddenly
had a lot more time to write, which I did. I know that I was easily
able to blend into the fabric of bohemian Denver. I grew my hair. I
wore a wild array of thrift store mixed and matched clothes. I rode
an old bike. I smoked Camel cigarettes and I drank a swimming pool
worth of cheap, burnt black coffee. When I read things I wrote at or
about that time, I am instantly transported to the brightening days
and dirty sunsets of February 2001. It was a time before 9/11,
smartphones, Yelp or so many of the slick internet conveniences we
know today.
I loved having the money at the end of
my shifts. Those first few months were an all cash existence for me.
I paid my debts in cash. I paid my rent in cash. I bought the scant
sundries that kept me going in cash. Aside from the cash, and the
coffee, and the hours I got to write every day, I was dying. I hated
the job. I was as I still am an introverted person. Being in this
particular environment was not good for me. The noise. The noise. And
all those people. It was a challenging place to be if for nothing
else than the activity around me. After about 2 months of this, I was
ready to quit. I was ready to get back to life, although I didn’t
know what it was going to be.
Then, I became a bartender. And despite
the warnings as I stepped into this role, I was seduced by the money.
I was seduced by the prestige. I didn’t like that job any better, but
the money made it worth it to me.
And now. 21 years later. What then?