Personal Identity Protection

or "Debit Debts"



Week five of my walking cast and I am pretty much regulated to working at the register. Most of the other positions in the coffee shop require a lot of quick movement both with the legs and the hands. At the register you can get away with less movement as long as you keep your mouth moving chatting up the coffee consumer . Thankfully, I don’t get tired of moving my mouth, as many can attest to. I would like to think that others don’t mind my mouth moving so much either, which I will just assume they don’t. I spend most of the mornings creating conversations and taking orders.


One thing I have noticed working at the register, is that banks are issuing personalized picture bank cards. I have so many debit cards pass through the line this week with pictures plastered on face of the card. I don’t recall seeing any last month and now this week I have seen at least fifty. Picture after picture and I start to realize that I am getting bank card envy. The face of my debit card hasn’t changed once in the twelve years that I have had it. Always the same, year after year. No spice to our relationship. Money goes on the card, I spend the money.

Now I can spend the money with pizzazz. Well, in theory I can. First I have to decide on a picture for the card. I start stressing about what I want to put on the card. Pets seem to be a big draw. From puppies to birds to mean looking monsters, people love putting their pets on their cards. I don’t have any pets. I have plants, but no pets. I wonder if people will think I am strange if I have my plants lined up for a picture.

At first, I think that I would rather have some characters from my favorite tv show on my card. The idea seems stunningly generic though and I feel a tinge of guilt for being lame. Besides, rules for the personalized card states that the picture must be a personal picture and not copyrighted. Although, I know several people who have skillfully skirted that rule already. I guess the trick is, if you are going to pick copyrighted art or a picture, it has to be an obscure or unrecognizable image. Does it defeat the purpose of having a personalized card if no one recognizes the image on it?

Probably not, I guess a person should just pick a picture that they enjoy and brings them a sense of joy to see. You still have to balance out your choice though. The possibility that other people will catch a glimpse of your card is pretty high. Sure, lots of places have self-checkout and swipe now, but there are places you will have to hand over the card. You don’t want to open up a tab at a late night drinking establishment with a Care Bear card. Or maybe you do. These kind of choices say a lot about who you are.

It is the end of the work week and a stranger hands over his debit card with a personalized picture. I survey the card. It is sweet picture of a blonde around his age and I can assume safely it is his wife from the ring on his hand. It never crossed my mind to do something so tender to my own card. In fact, it is safe to say that tender things rarely cross my mind.

“Awww….” I say taking the card for the swipe, “that’s a endearing personalized card. It’s the first time I have seen a spouse on the card. I heard it’s free, right?.” I leave the question out there waiting for a response. I am fairly sure there isn’t a charge, but it doesn’t hurt to make sure. He shrugs his shoulders and looks towards the pastries in an uneasy manner.

I am never very easily deterred so I keep on in my line of questioning.

“Well,” I add, still working my angle and holding the card, “ I heard it was free. How was the process of getting the card? Was it a long process to get one?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, but he picks out a pastry instead. He is thinking it over and seems unsure of the answer to give. I start to think that maybe the process isn’t as easy as everyone else stated it was. Technology can be a pain sometimes, that I know.

“Not to mention, “ I continue, “It’s difficult to decide on a picture. I was thinking of maybe a landscape pic. I heard that cars are the number one pick for guys. Pictures of their own cars. I was surprised to hear that, although I guess it makes sense. At least you found a good picture though.”

He leans over the counter towards me and begins to speak in a lower voice. “Actually,” he says clutching his drink and pastry, “ I didn’t even realize you could do that to a card.I guess my wife knew. She went online and ordered it for me. It just came in one day and there it was. My new debit card.” He walked away, quickly tucking the card back into his wallet.

I guess the bank really does offer personal identity protection.

The Chocolate God

It finally slows down at the coffee shop after a busy afternoon. I grab a damp towel to wipe down the espresso bar area while my fellow barista takes some dishes to the back. The counter area around the syrups can get fairly sticky, so I decide to start there. Earlier this week Barry inspected all of the syrups pumps and found some of the washers in the pumps needed to be replaced.The loose seal in the mocha pump allowed for a small leak. Thankfully, someone placed a small cup underneath the nozzle until the new washers would come in.

While I was wiping the area I glanced inside the cup and this is what I saw:




"Hey, check this out!" I called to the barista in back.. She peered inside the cup.

"It's a chocolate smiley face!" I said with a smile on my own face.

"It's kind of creepy." said said.

"Well, at least he's smiling at us." I said looking back inside the cup.

"Yeah, that's true. It sort of looks like he is winking at us." she added.

"Maybe he is trying to tell us something." I said cupping my hands into a megaphone over my mouth.

"WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL US CHOCOLATE SMILEY FACE!" I yell into the cup.

Five minutes later, several women walk in and order a couple of drinks.The oldest lady begins speaking to me, but her english isn't that great. She pulls two items out of her purse and is trying to talk to me but I can't understand. Her friend steps in and explains,"She says it is too hot inside the car and if you don't mind, she wanted to give these to you two before they melt."

She handed me two Symphony chocolate bars. I love Symphony chocolate bars.

"I will only take them if it helps you out!" I said already reaching over the counter for the chocolate. The ladies received their drinks and headed back into the mall.I handed my fellow barista one of the chocolate bars.

I cupped my hands back into a megaphone.

"THANK YOU FOR THE CHOCOLATE, CHOCOLATE SMILEY FACE!" I yell into the cup.

The Chocolate God has spoken.

Secret Saucy Techniques

or "Late Night Learnings"

It is Friday night and it is far later than I would like it to be. I can’t believe I am shopping for ingredients at a 24-hour grocery store during the latter part of those 24 hours.. I had plans to be home much earlier in the evening but as it turns out, Paul’s very close friend Laila was having a going away party. We had a fantastic time with good company, conversation and as it turns out charity. Laila has always been very involved in the community and even at her going away party, she manages to raise five hundred dollars for a women’s leadership organization. Her going is still giving. That’s the kind of life Laila lives. I can’t tell if she does it to make me feel guilty or inspire me. Either way it was an evening full of laughs and inevitable tears.

After we say goodbye, I picture myself slipping into bed and enjoying a couple hours of rest. Instead I am at the all-night grocery store. I am only one of four people there and I wander the aisles looking for ingredients. Twenty people are expecting a spaghetti lunch tomorrow with garlic bread and salad. I am taking it to work in the morning so I only have a limited time left. For the first time, I am making homemade spaghetti sauce. Usually I wouldn’t attempt something new this late, but my sister-in-law gave me a great recipe that she swore was an authentic Italian recipe she received from a friend. The ingredients to the sauce appeared to be a lot cheaper to make for twenty people than to purchase bottled sauce. Plus, I love a good challenge.

We get home and I pull out various pots and pans and lay out the sauce ingredients, the garlic bread and the pasta. I pause for a moment and feel sort of hypocritical about cooking a ‘authentic’ Italian meal. Earlier in the evening there was a very heated discussion at the table about there not being enough Mexican cooks on TV. Every person on every food network was cooking Mexican food, except for the Mexican’s themselves. Not to mention, a majority of the ‘authentic’ recipe’s include canned beans and pre-made taco shells. I agreed whole heartedly in the discussion earlier, and yet here I am an hour later making what I consider to be authentic Italian food. I know nothing about authentic Italian cooking.

Although to be fair, I am making this food in the privacy of my own kitchen and not passing it off to thousands as the gospel truth. I think that whatever people want to cook and eat in the privacy of their own kitchens, is their business. There were no cameras rolling in my house and definitely not everything I do in my kitchen is audience approved. In fact, just the other day I was using a tortilla to eat Chinese food. Would I recommend that on a food show if I had one? Probably not, even though it tasted good (and disgusted Paul).

Personal philosophy aside though, I had to get this sauce done. I started to heat a large silver pot over the stove while I boiled some water and pre-heated the oven. I threw some garlic and olive oil in the pot and let them sauté. At the same time, I prepared the bread and opened the pasta boxes. I added more ingredients to the silver pot while I chopped away at some vegetables and herbs. I filled the silver pot with more ingredients and hit high on the stove. I know that I probably should slow cook the sauce to let it absorb flavor, but I really haven’t got the time. I throw the bread in oven and finish up the spaghetti and then check back on the sauce. It seems kind of sticky on the bottom but I give it a good stir. I package up the meal and let the sauce cool before I place it in the fridge. Mission accomplished. Time for bed.

I wake up the next morning and get everything ready to go. Before I get set to leave, I try the sauce to see if the flavors have settled nicely. It tastes great to me and I am feeling pretty accomplished. Paul asks for a sample and makes a curious face while trying it.

“How is it?” I ask, already assured it was a success.

“It has kind of a strange taste to it….”says Paul trailing off, “What did you put in it?”. I go over the ingredients with him and I can tell he is weighing through every ingredient carefully.

“Hmmm…maybe you put too much olive oil because it has a unique taste that I can’t really place.” he says while still trying to figure it out in his head.

“It’s fine,” I say “it tastes like spaghetti sauce. I have to go.” I gather up the meal and head to work where I know my food will get tested by many others throughout the day.

“Try my homemade spaghetti sauce!” I say while serving up a plate.

“Hmmm…Joseph ….this is good….” says one of my loyal testers, “What did you put in it? It has a very intense flavor. I can’t quite figure it out.” I go over the list of ingredients with her but she still seems confused. “No, there is something else in there. A smoky intense flavor. Did you use liquid smoke or anything?” she asks nodding her head still mulling it over. “No,” I say ,” I used wheat pasta, maybe that’s what you taste.” I tried to think if I had deviated from the recipe, but I was pretty sure I hadn‘t.

I checked in with the rest of the tasters. Barry seemed to enjoy it and I think he had two platefuls. That made me feel relieved and I asked him what he thought. “It is very unique,” he said, “I picked up on some different flavors the second time I had it. Did you use roasted or grilled vegetables when you made it?” he asked curiously. We usually shared cooking ideas between the both of us. “No,” I said, “I just used the vegetables as they were.” I really started to rack my brain. Several more people commented on the sauce and were asking or guessing about my secret techniques.

Finally a good friend pulled me aside and grilled me about my sauce process and ingredients. I gave a step-by-step play of the previous night. “Wait a minute.” she stopped me. “ It was sticky at the bottom but you stirred it?” she asked. “Yeah,” I continued, “I just gave it a good stir and it was fine and then I let it cool down. And then…”

“Joseph,” she said, “You burned the sauce.”

I thought about it. It was true. The intense smoky grilled flavor that everyone was trying pinpoint was the taste of nothing else but my inexperience and impatience. I felt slightly flushed with embarrassment, but I was also comforted. So many of my friends were willing to consider I had a new cooking technique rather than dismiss my burnt spaghetti sauce. That or maybe they were just good fibbers. It still felt consolatory to be surrounded by those who look past the flaws and search for the fantastic.

Ahoy, Anger Ahead

I woke up pretty upset yesterday and I was incredibly angry. I tried to let my feelings subside but after an hour I was still riled up. I was getting ready for the day when Paul woke up and entered the room.

“Good morning.” he said yawning.

“I am so annoyed and irked right now.” I snapped at Paul.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, half awake and definitely not expecting my morning response.

“Well,” I started, “ I was dreaming before I woke up that I was moving and that I was waiting for a moving truck but they never came. Finally I was upset by their absence, so I went to find them. When I got there I found my flat screen tv was smashed and glass was lying all around the sidewalk. When I looked at the house I could see my mattress against the wall. When I asked the movers about it, they said it was fine where it was for overnight. It definitely wasn’t going to rain and so I had nothing to worry about.”

Paul just smiled and shook his head. We aren’t moving anywhere and we don’t own a flat screen tv. In fact, I never even considered owning one. I was upset for the majority of the day.

Strange.

* * * * * * *

UPDATE

Today I went home and headed for a nap because I had gotten up super early to prepare for work. As I was going up the stairs I noticed a moving van blocking the way. There were several guys from the moving company standing around talking. I walked upstairs and noticed the door across from us was wide open with bare furniture but didn’t think anything about it.

When I woke up, we headed for the gym and I noticed the moving guys were gone.

“How annoying were they?” said Paul, “It looks like they broke stuff and didn’t even bother to pick it up.”

I looked around and noticed broken glass along the side walk. On the first landing there was sole rolling wheel that looked like it had belonged to a bed frame.

Strange

Somebody mentioned to me that is was like Final Destination….but with furniture.

Spot

Changing the trash at my work isn’t the worst job ever. Thankfully a vast majority of it just smells like coffee. It makes what some people consider a unpleasant job, a not so unpleasant job. As an added bonus, the receptacles for the trash is located right outside of our store. It’s in a large loading dock area that is used for mall deliveries but is also the unofficial break room for the entire mall. Anytime throughout the day you will find up to six people hanging out before clocking in. Some are smoking, some are taking in the sun but most are usually playing with their phones. When you work indoors all day, it is nice to get some non air-conditioned air.

There has to be hundreds of people who work at the mall, but surprisingly a vast majority of us know each other. If not by name, at least by facial recognition. Everyone is pretty polite if not very friendly and it is highly convenient to be kept informed of sales going on before they happen. One of the perks of being at a mall store -- lots of special discount days. I was taking out a bag enjoying some sun when I ran into Barry.

“Hey ,” says Barry excitedly, “ Guess what! I saw a baby bat flying around here yesterday!”

“Really?” I reply back, “ I don’t think I have ever seen a live bat before.” I racked my brain trying to think if that was true. I can’t recall ever seeing one, although I might have seen a stuffed one at a museum when I was young. I am not sure how prevalent bats are in Arizona, although I know that we do have them.

“Yeah, it was so tiny and furry. It was flying in circles and it kept trying to go over the wall but ended up only bumping into it.” says Barry. I looked around the loading dock area. The walls are incredibly high, probably at least the height of three diesels piled on top of each other. It dawns on me that I forgot that bats can’t see very well. I don’t have a ton of bat knowledge. Batman knowledge, yes. Real bats, no.

I start to picture the little bat flying around trying to escape but it just wasn’t going high enough. It seems so strange that a bat just couldn’t see the open air and fly away into it.

“Awww….poor guy!” I say feeling bad for the poor flying chap.

“Yeah, he had this black dot around his eye, so I named him Spot.” said Barry proudly and described him more in detail.

“Well,” I say, “ I wish I could have seen him.”

“Oh,” says Barry walking around the loading area, “He is still here.”

I follow Barry to an area near the generator. Lying in a pool of water two inches deep is Spot face down with his little arms out stretched out. I can only see his furry back and baby fingers with stretched out wings. I can’t see his trademark eye but I can tell he was adorable. He was tiny and cute and dead.

I guess I still haven’t seen a live bat yet.