biker bob's java garage

sounds: pleasant electric guitar and a man's voice. the guitar could be mistaken for hendrix until the man start's singing. now it sounds like scott r., my huge crush in college, who was also an english major. we took this weird class together where we lived on communes. once, we were at this weird commune in rural indiana that really creeped me out, and i didn't want to socialize with the group in the evening, so scott came to me where i was curled in my sleeping bag on a pine floor, and played the guitar and sang to me. when he thought i was asleep, he touched my hair and said, "you are lovely," and left.

smells: warm banana bread with melting cream cheese. i try to picture the barista, a large woman with multiple piercing and strong fingers, stirring a bowl of batter. is banana bread mix called batter? she doesn't seem domestic, but she's very sweet and gives me free coffee at the end of the semester during finals when my loans have run out and the new check hasn't come yet. every time i try to pay her back she swears she doesn't know what i'm talking about and won't take the money. i tip her extra well.

sights: two men--one in a business suit, one in a black sweatshirt and jeans with oil stains. many tattoos. they talk about stripping. wood, i mean, furniture. they talk about kinds of stripping and sanding, getting coats of things on, cutting doors and prepping them to go in. i think yes, strippers need coats. then i picture a dresser in a coat. my sisters and i used to hang around my father's hardware store listening to conversations about finding old pieces of furniture, of being able to see how sturdy and tough they are. they don't make them like this anymore. quality stuff that's meant to last, that people throw out these days because they're afraid of a little work, of putting in a little elbow grease. then i think of our old neighbor who used to help my dad recover furniture, and how the neighbor looked like very very much like spock. so we called him spock, and once my sister called him spock to his face (did he even have another name?) and got in Big Trouble for it. the smell of lemon oil reminds me of spock.

feels: no matter how much i layer, my toes are cold. tights, socks, another pair of socks, thick boots. maybe the extra socks are cutting off the circulation to my toes. my legs are warm, my neck is extra warm on account of the rockin' scarf jessi knitted for me for my birthday. i remember getting the scarf--we were having post-dinner chocolate cake and red wine. it was so hot--august--and i remember thinking how beautiful it was and how looooong i'd have to wait to get to wear it. ha! how long. august feels like yesterday.

tastes: coffee, of course. my mother tells me she's going to give me her french press for christmas so i don't have to spend money going out for coffee. i tell her coffee isn't always the point of going out for coffee. this is the same french press i gave her for christmas the year i didn't let my then boyfriend come home with me. i didn't want him to. i didn't like him enough. took my french press and left my pissed off boyfriend at the gate—you could leave people at airport gates then. i hauled that coffee pot from oregon to indiana. now she's giving it back—she's given up coffee and drinks tea instead, which pleases her greatly. i drink coffee. it may be bad for me. i asked a doctor once if it's bad for me, whether i should give it up to be a healthier person. he said, "what are you catholic?" which reminds me of the last time my parents came to visit. it was summer. we were grilling dinner on my deck. my father opened a second bottle of wine and my mom said "another bottle? really" and my dad said "what are you, protestant?"