I wish I could say that the shower helped. I wiped it and wiped it. All the efforts made me breathless, but the shower just didn't work. There was thick sweat on my face, neck, and chest. Only for a while, my face, neck, and chest were clean-warm, shiny, and clean. My arms felt full of cement. They lifted so hard that I had to pause a few times while washing my hair to let them rest. I stood up laboriously, my legs trembling, and the back of my head hurt.
I have never felt so bad in my life. I am sick. There is nothing special I can point out ー more general things. I feel completely wrong.
After I finished the bath, Jason took me to the pork chop rest area. The pork chop rest area is a charming, small cafe on the wall, clenched tightly in the fist of an artistic, lazy Portland neighborhood. Every morning, there will be long lines outside the door and on the street. Our artistic and lazy neighbors are very loyal. Absolutely loyal. Rich in attack, coffee is the fuel for us to run. At least I know that getting up in the morning is my main source of motivation, especially in the rainy season when Portland seems to be endless. Rìzi is like pieces of grey dominoes.
Jason has a pork chop rest area. The story behind the name starts with drinking late at night, the pork chops are grilled just right and topped with pineapple habanera sauce, and it ends with a bold statement-a typical Jason-style decision. He got a kind of excitement because someone told him that a coffee shop called "Pork Chop" would never start. The apt sign is a flying pig with a balanced halo on his smug pig's face.
Jason allowed me to make his part-time coffee snacks, at least one of them. If I want to say that, I am a barista witch above the average. I can make anyone's coffee dream come true ── of course there is a reason. Portlanders have disproportionately high expectations for coffee.
I am not only a part-time barista, but also a part-time baker. I got this job because I am a friend of Jason and need extra income. I kept this job because it turns out that I am a pretty good baker. I have the knack. Working hours are terrible. I get up at three in the morning and must rush to the coffee shop to start baking before three thirty. I bake Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, spelling the full-time baker, Barlow, who works all the rest of the week.
Baking is a lonely job, and Barlow is perfectly suitable for this job because he is not a person who is good at dealing with people. Frankly speaking, he is an unbearable bastard. I also like baking. I found it to be meditative, I don't mind its loneliness. I want to know what that says about me. I like to think that Barlow and I are completely opposite in every way.
Working in a coffee shop helped me to develop a relaxed photography schedule. When I was struggling, I worked overtime everywhere. To be honest, this situation has been increasing recently. My mother kept telling me, at least every time I talked to her, she would tell me that I was too old to dream of becoming a famous photographer anymore. She would also say that now is the time for me to find a real job to make real money, just barely trying to do it for other people, not for me. For the sake of God, I was only 8 years old.
I don’t care about being famous so much, I just need to eat and wear warmth and stay away from the benefits of photography. that's great. Once I told my mother about this, she made a wide-eyed and dry gesture, and I understood it as an objection.
The pork chop is about the same size as a large walk-in closet. A blue velvet sofa occupies an entire wall, while several tables and chairs are squeezed in between. The walls are decorated with local artworks-photos, paintings, sculptures, and a huge crystal fork-shaped chandelier, hung from the ceiling, clinking and shining.
Jason was sitting in one corner of the blue couch, and I was drinking Italian wine in the other corner. We talk very little. Well, he said something inconsequential to me. I talk less and less and try more to ignore my thumping headache.
"Have I told you what Cindy said?" he asked.
"No," I took a sip. This usually smooth and tasty beer tastes like tar and cigarette ashes on the tip of my tongue. I sighed and took another sip.
Cindy teaches yoga in several studios next door. She looks like a fairy tale without wings. Her smile is as charming as any smile I can imagine. I thought I found a trace of evil in the smiling corner, but I might be wrong. Jason Cindy. important moment.
"Someone told me yesterday that Cindy's nickname for me is a medium t-shirt. Can you believe it?" He looked at his arm. Curved. "I'm not that thin."
"Medium t-shirt, eh? What size t-shirt do you wear?"
"I am a person. I want people to judge me based on my qualities, not the size of my t-shirt."
"Medium," I said, "I thought you would wear a large size at least. If I buy you a T-shirt as a gift, I will definitely buy you a large size."
"Ha," he said. He stroked his irregular curly hair with both hands, dragging his palms down his cheeks. He is wearing a healthy tights today. I can hear him rubbing his beard. He looked up at his forked chandelier, then at me, "Another one? Is it hot?" He raised his eyebrows and pointed to my empty glass.
"I beg you."
I'm cold, and it's not cold. In fact, it is very hot outside. Portland was caught in a constant heat wave that was knee deep. We are already on the eighth day, and everyone is very grumpy. Usually, I also have a grumpy temper, but at this moment, I really wish I was wearing a coat. I feel the permanent goose bumps on my arm are all up and it hurts. I rubbed my arms to make them disappear. It did not help.
Jason stood up and scooped up my cup with a spoon. After a few minutes, the cup came back, warm and full.
"Do you need to see a doctor?" He asked, "You need to see a doctor. I will take you. Do you want me to take you?"
"I feel better. If I feel worse, I will go."
"You have been missing for a week. You seem to have lost twenty pounds and you don't need to lose twenty pounds. You have big eye circles. I know you have no insurance. I can help if—"
I looked into his eyes and shook my head. He closed his mouth halfway through, and read what he was about to say without missing a word.
"I'll be fine. I feel better. Really. I'm sure it's just some terrible virus. I came out from the other side. I could feel it. The worst part of the whole thing was that I had a series of terrible fevers. Dreams. Some are so real. This is so strange."
"Okay," his mouth said, but his facial expressions, especially his eyes, did not join the OK team. "Will you come here to bake bread tomorrow?"
"Yes, of course."
"sure?"
"certainly."
"It's just that you don't look good," he said. "I know you are proud, but if you need me, I will be here. You know. Whatever you want."
I took a sip of coffee. I look at him through my cup, look at him with my best eyes, it's always funny. "Hmm. Very good. The best ever."
He smiled and sighed: "I'm glad you like it. Our goal is to please others."
Some guests walked in in a line, their eyes blurred, and the coffee-drinking zombies needed caffeine. Jason came to save us. He jumped up from the sofa, his curly hair drooping on his eyes. He put his hands on the counter and leaped effortlessly over the small swaying door behind - the door the rest of us just walked through. Coffee might cost a lot of money, but the Jason show is always free. .
When customers came and went, I drank a second cup of coffee, enjoying the normality of the cafe and the heat outside the window. The door was opened, and the fan was blowing hot in the shop. I'm so tired that I can fall asleep as long as I close my eyes, but maybe for the first time last week, I didn't give in. I forced myself to open my eyes. They feel hot and swollen, and they have sand. They feel good when they are closed - really great, but I still didn't give up.
"Hey, hey, baby," Zach walked in the door swaggeringly.
Today's theme is purple sè. He is wearing a purple hoodie, purple jeans, and almost all of his clothes are purple. Zach runs the hair salon next door, and one glance can convince him that even the most determined lover will preach that love is innate.
"Long time no see, girl with freckles."
I smiled, "Hey, Zach."
"Huh! I just saw a ghost, God. Merciful Lord, are you half dead?" His eyes were full of real worry.
"Obviously I saw it, didn't I?"
"I heard that you are not feeling well, but madam, you look like a copy of a sad hot yourself."
"I feel better, thank you."
"What do you need, Abby, just speak up," he said to me softly and sincerely. Then the voice got louder and everyone heard it, "Speaking of what I need, I'm going to fall asleep with a bang.". I need a regular customer and statistics. Miss Katie is under the dryer, I have to go back. Jason? Jason, did you hear that? You can take it slowly. If Miss Candie’s hair falls off the roots, it’s on your slow, coffee-making butt. "
We all know that there is no Miss Candi at all. "Miss Candie" is a poser. She represents that none of Zack's customers are specific. Miss Candie is always in a certain predicament. Once, she even trimmed her bangs with a hedge. God, you should really look at her!" Another time, she dyed her hair yellow with a hot drink. Zach shook his head, "I know this is Portland, you all want to do your own thing, like everyone else Same as unique, but that is not the beauty of nature. It is not even a drink found in nature. Show mercy!"
Zach was transplanted from Portland. He grew up in a small town in Georgia. He never talked about where he came from or his childhood. I have a feeling that growing up is not easy for him. He has developed a jīng-like steel magnolia style, which makes him a one-dimensional cliché—to be honest, this may be right for him.
"Thank you," Zach said as he took off the coffee cup in Jason's hand, and said "Hello everyone" and "Miss Candy is waiting for you." He left like a purple fuzzy object. (To be continued) (End of this chapter)