Danger Wonka

Gunbuster (1998) Anime Review

As much as I love the mecha genre, I must admit that I am also somewhat dismissive of the actual works that encompass it. Mecha has such a rooted history, especially in anime. Perhaps, I feel too grown up to enjoy the likes of the super robot genre anymore. Even worse, I admit to having somewhat of a Miyazaki-like perspective on the medium these days. By that, I mean that I can come off as a curmudgeon. I am not a big fan of the overdramatic displays of emotion. I am somewhat sick of the mannerisms, behaviors, and tropes that have become universal code to an audience such as pushing up glasses, flamboyancy, and meaningless grunts to express emotion. I find this form of storytelling shorthand to be somewhat lazy. The worst offender of all is the over-cutesy, hyper-sexual nature that seems to have the stylistic monopoly. The most concerning about this last element is Japan’s constant use of underage girls in these depictions. I can understand Miyazaki’s cynicism. As much as he is the worst offender for old man syndrome, he has a point when he speaks bitterly about the industry that he has become a master of.

Now, I know that I am being an old man because these elements are not new to anime. I have simply gotten older while the medium that I love so dearly has remained, in many ways, exactly the same. The beauty and excitement that I found when I was 13 years old are still present in this medium even today. I want to continue to enjoy these things, but I am not sure how, especially when there isn’t a lack of great stories being told outside of the anime medium. What is there stopping me from completely abandoning this hyper-reality for…well anything else?

This is why Gunbuster caught me off guard. Released in 1988, this 6-part OVA is the first directed work of Hideaki Anno, who will later become famous for his work on the Neon Genesis Evangelion franchise. The DNA of that show is present here, with great mecha designs, cute characters, and science fiction ponderings that left me considering long after the last episode.

The story follows a girl, whose father dies prior to the start of the story as a military hero who saved the earth from an alien threat. As a high school student, she enrolls in a military mecha force and becomes a candidate to pilot the new, powerful weapon: the Gunbuster. Along with her co-pilot, she experiences the psychological and temporal cost of being a mech-pilot war hero, journeying through space for love and dreams.

I should hate the setup of the story in many ways. I am not a big fan of the high school trope. I usually don’t watch things with a full female cast. This second part has nothing to do with sexism. Like I mentioned before, I can’t take the usual sugar-coated sweetness that drenches females in anime. Yet, the main character, Noriko, doesn’t make me cringe at every turn. She is sweet, but this is simply one part of her character. She is someone with hopes, fears, and dreams. Her father’s death has had a huge influence on her own aspirations and it is admirable and heartbreaking to see her follow in his footsteps, learning how the temporal differences in space can have someone spend 6 months in space only to return to Earth with its citizens having experienced 15 years. This affects her relationships and attachments on Earth. In many ways, I identified with her as a person who put all of their soul into a passion, to reject the notion of a normal life. To watch loved ones and the entire world changed and different, anachronistic to your own existence, is one that I have felt. This naivety is something that I think would be cynically beaten down in other works but here, it is presented as a challenge to be overcome. Gunbuster is honest about these hardships and yet it presents the outcome as one of triumph and one that I couldn’t look away from with cynicism or dismissiveness.

Her co-pilot, Amano, is a great foil to Noriko. While Noriko starts the story as a below-average pilot, Amano is presented as the star candidate with the most potential. What I like about Amano

is that she is not presented as a meanspirited person. Even when she tells their leader, Coach, that she doesn’t want to be Noriko’s partner, it is out of best intentions. There are several bully/ rival characters present but the story is quick to dismiss these characters and have the story always return to Noriko and Amano. I don’t think it is a coincidence and I think the story would have faltered if Amano was anything other than a genuine and beautiful soul. I also find her life path to be a great foil to Noriko’s as well. At the climax of the 5th episode, it is her that is having the mental breakdown at the height of battle, not Noriko as the story originally suggests. She wonders if all of her training and time spent as a pilot was worth it when she could have spent it with loved ones. Noriko helps her find this strength and after, she decides to retire as a pilot and return to earth. She opts to spend her time with her love interest until the events of the final episode. I think this decision is reflective of those who reject greatness for a humbler life. I can say from experience that this rejection is portrayed in a way that was cathartic to me. If Noriko’s story is about the pain that comes from the sacrifice for greatness, Amano’s is about the beauty in rejecting it for a normal life.

The animation itself is pretty standard for the time. Not to say this is a bad thing but you won’t find the hyperreal and detailed style of Akira. Instead, you have the cel-shaded, hand-drawn style typical of the time but I think in a way, it is perfectly fitting for the tone of the story. If you like the older style of animation and design of the ’80s and 90’s retro anime, you will enjoy it here. I found most of the designs for the characters to be pretty good. Most of the mechs were ok. The starships and aliens are imaginative. The star for me is the Gunbuster. His black and gold color palette and large, imposing frame and size I think are memorable. For someone without nostalgia for the show, his cross-arm pose is something I can now see as the inspiration for the likes of Gurren Lagann.

The music is absolutely amazing. I am listening to it now as I write the review. The opening and closing are that of Japanese city pop style that is of its time. I like how those portions do not really focus on the Gunbuster or action as most mecha shows would. Instead, they focus on the high school/slice-of-life elements that are the heart and emotional core that the characters hold dear. I was most impressed, however, with the symphonic elements of the music. It is dramatic, endearing, and dare I say: sweet.

And I think this is where Gunbuster grabbed me. It is strange that this is a work that would eventually come from the man who will eventually make one of the most psychologically taxing works of the ’90s in the form of Neon Genesis. But it makes sense that if Anno were to make something so unabashedly sentimental, it would be at an earlier stage in his career.

Am I saying the work is perfect? No. Again, I am not big of fan service and you will find heaps of that here, with shots nudity and booby physics that I didn’t ask for. Yet, in some ways, there is a scene at the end that also somewhat subverts this for me. At the climax, Noriko and Amano sacrifice themselves in order to set off a bomb that would save the earth but in return, hurl them 12000 years into Earth’s future. At this moment, Noriko has Gunbuster pull his mechanical heart out, and reflected in this, she rips her jumpsuit open, revealing her breast. Is this fan service? Most definitely. But I also read this as a moment of a heroine, despite all of her sacrifice and hardships, saves the world not through a collected bitterness, but through love. She exposes, specifically her left breast, exactly where her heart is, as her mecha rips out his own. It is an unapologetic declaration that this conflict is won because Noriko fought to maintain a youthful, naive, and beautiful sense of love. As she screams these declarations of spiritual warfare into the ethers of space, her voice growling with a mecha pilot’s heroic zeal: I was touched.

Are my complaints about anime–heck probably the entire entertainment industry–irradicated

through this moment? No. But perhaps, it did cut away at some of the cynicism I have developed. After all, even Miyazaki, the old, angry, cynical man that he is, openly admits that Anno is a student he is proud of and a creator that he respects. He has said that despite all else, he is a stark optimist, even after all the years he has had to collect disdain at the world. I don’t think my suspicions of the problematic elements of storytelling will ever go away, nor should it. After all, we as a species have so far to go. But I think Gunbuster has done something in a long time that very few anime have done. That regardless of medium, tropes, and stylistic tastes: I was touched and I refuse to apologize for it.

18. How I learned that BBQ sauce has Tomato

The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.

Karen worked at the store at the end of the east wing on the first floor. The store sold local artisan crafts. Handmade journals, paintings, knickknacks, watches, and books to name a few. She never really smiled or laughed. She had the perpetual look of dullness, like a sad pit bull. She always wore a plaid shirt and jeans. Her brown hair was always between incredibly curly to nearly frizzy. Her head always seemed to be looking down a little.

I’ve only ever really heard stories about her. Many said she had some sort of mental condition, either born or gained. The details differed from person to person. Some say she had autism. Others said she had some sort of head injury. I never heard it directly from her so who is to say that this is even true.

Dick told me she had a boyfriend but their relationship seemed to have a strict line between romance and business. Several sources said she paid him to mow his lawn, even though they lived together. I’m not sure how true this is, either. Karen and I never talked about this. Maybe her boyfriend needed some sort of allowance.

I barely talked to Karen at all. I never even would have noticed her if it wasn’t for other people pointing her out as she passed the chocolate shop. She never really bought food or product from us. When I went over to their store, I usually browsed out of boredom during a lunch break. I never did find a single thing in that store that I took a liking to.

The only time I ever had direct interaction with Karen was also the only time she came to the grilled cheese shop and bought lunch from us.

“How is the roast beef?” she asked.

“Really good. I get it a lot when I buy lunch.”

“Ok great. Do you mind if I get that without tomatoes? I’m allergic.”

“Yeah, no problem. It doesn’t come with tomatoes anyway.”

“Ok good.”

I made a note on the sticky notepad that we used for orders. “No tomato.” I rang her up and told her that I could walk to meal over to her.

I took the note back to Dick who made the sandwich. It came out on a paper plate with two napkins, all on a red tray with a chip in one of the corners.

As I walked down to the end of the east wing, I could smell all of the different ingredients. White bread, cheddar cheese, 4 slices of roast beef, chopped onions, and BBQ sauce. When I walked into the store, she was sitting at the cash register, staring off into space. It took me until I went right up to the counter for her to snap back from whatever reality she was visiting. I made no judgments. I, more than anyone, could understand that.

“Here’s your meal.”

“Thanks.”

I walked back to the shop and prepared my station. I had a bunch of ganache to cut so I put on some gloves, pulled a fresh pan of chocolate from the fridge. I pulled off the tin foil that covered the top, lifted the giant slab out of the pan, and slapped it on the grilles of the cutting guitar.

Just as I was about to make the first cut, Karen came running back. I never noticed it before, but her feet were always perfectly placed so her stride could be directly straight, yet the top half of her body always swayed side to side. From the waist up, her body just seemed to go back and forth like a metronome in perfect rhythm with her steps. She came right up to me.

“Excuse me, I said no tomato.”

I didn’t know what to say at first and I am sure that long pause was enough to convey that. Just in case, I decided to use my words anyway.

“There shouldn’t be any in there, ma’am.”

“There is Barbeque sauce on this. Don’t you know that BBQ sauce has tomato in it?”

“Oh. No, I didn’t. Sorry about that.”

“You could have killed me, you know that?”

“Sorry.”

I took the half-eaten sandwich back into the kitchen.

“What does she want now?” Dick asked.

“She says she’s allergic to tomato.”

“There aren’t any damn tomatoes in it.”

“BBQ sauce.”

He looked at me in silence and it told me everything I needed to know. He gave me the courtesy of using his words anyway.
“Barbeque has tomato in it?”

Later, after we gave Karen a new sandwich, Lou and Dick got into a heated argument about the whole thing.

“We should have known,” said Lou. “You should have known, Mouse.”

“How the hell was he supposed to know? I didn’t even fucking know.”

They went on like that for a while.

Karen never ordered from us again. Good.

Previous
17. Guidelines to Being a Good Customer pt. 1

Next
19. Helicopter Parent

[Table of Contents]

The Delicate Nature of the Theatre Experience

As a film-lover, there is nothing to me like the theatre experience. It’s not just the size of the screen. The way films are projected has a softer, ethereal texture that I prefer over sleek OLED and LCD screens. Those newer screens might have sharper clarity and colors, but there is a natural warmth to projections that I equate to movie magic.

The sound, too, is elevated in a theatre. You can hear the sound stage as the audio engineers originally designed them. You can hear voices and gunshots coming from specific directions. The bass gives physical texture to the soundtrack and explosions, emulating the sensation of touch. The sound mixing has layers that I can hear and feel.

This last week, I saw 3 movies in theatres: Dune, The French Dispatch, and The Housemaid. This was a big deal for me. It’s the first time I have seen so many movies at the theatre since the pandemic quarantine. A part of me was overjoyed. Everything that I said in the first paragraph stands true. The technical power of theatre equipment is like being blasted with a cinematic cannon to hypnotize me into a state of narrative visions.

Yet, each experience went from tolerable to unbearable due to a single factor. This is the same element that has made the rest of this decade so far such a struggle. That factor is other people.

Now, I’m not so sure about other people but since I was a kid, I was always taught that when you go to a movie theatre, you really only have to do two things:

Shut the fuck up.
Watch the movie.

Now, this might seem like an outrageous set of rules to some people. After all, society’s collective attention span has been reduced to about two brain cells thanks to cell phones. For most people, the draw of our portable screens with their infinite possibilities is too powerful. Then again, if I wanted to watch a movie while my cellphone was going off like mortar fire as I shout at my friends as if in the trenches of war, I would simply stay home.

After all, two of these movies are available for streaming. Dune is practically free with an HBO MAX account. The Housemaid, an obscure Korean movie from 1960, can be rented for $4 on Amazon. The popularity of Wes Anderson films will inevitably bring his newest work to streaming.

The first movie I watched, Dune, was actually a private showing. A friend of mine who works at a movie theatre managed to get an entire theatre for just her friends. I had a great time overall, even if I had to tune out the chattering of people. I can sort of understand in this case since this was a theatre with literally just friends. It is common for private, household film viewings to drop the silence rule in exchange for playful banter. Being the stickler to the movie ritual, however, I don’t even like talking to my friends when we watch films at each other’s houses. I just put up with it.

Next, I watched the French Dispatch. Again, the chatter of these people irritated me throughout the entire movie. I tolerated it less since they were strangers. The worst part was the little old lady sitting next to me. Her hearing must be going down the drain because she couldn’t hear the five missed calls going off in her purse. This might have been due to her old age but she was also talking non-stop to her equally old husband.

This brings me to my final experience watching The Housemaid. I watched it at the Charles Theatre in Baltimore. I love this place. It’s not glitzy and glamorous like many new theatres trying to market a bougie, luxurious experience. It’s dark, with lamps that draw out shadows over brick and pipework. The chairs aren’t squeaky leather with a recliner that drones as you adjust it. The seats are a classic red fabric, the springs keeping the seats up until a patron sits as if swallowing them into the experience. The screen is elevated so everyone has to look up, a divine vision. I’m not religious but this is my church. It’s a small place, but it is part of the charm.

I usually enjoy watching movies with this crowd, too. I always felt that the Charles was run by film-lovers, for film-lovers. This isn’t like other movie theatres, where everyone acts like the movie is a peripheral experience. People here are supposed to love movies and respect the ritual.

Yet, that final experience was filled with laughter. Mocking, arrogant laughter.

I understand this to an extent. The Housemaid is an old movie. Regardless of my experience, I wouldn’t even say it is a good movie. The movie has qualities similar to Reefer Madness, a scared-straight propaganda piece about the dangers of cheating on your wife and family unit. Some of the dialogue and acting are stilted. The story beats are repetitive, especially towards the end. In today’s cinema, this movie doesn’t stand well on its own.

However, the movie is also a historical artifact. Made in 1960 in South Korea, it was made during the country’s poorest era. People forget that Korea wasn’t always the global powerhouse of economic influence that it is today. This has only been true since the late ’90s. In the ’60s, however, South Korea was fresh out of the Korean War. They were worse off than their northern counterpart in terms of economics and infrastructure. The country’s internal history of dictatorship and colonized history of oppression also left them for the worst. Along with a strict social culture that heavily regulated expression and art, this movie is an example of how people still tried to make films in the face of poverty and oppression.

Because there are interesting things in the movie. There is a clear gothic influence using harsh lighting, shadows, and rain. The titular house itself is both luxurious and haunting. It is a different sort of haunting from Western-style horror mansions. Concrete walls and glass doors do the work of evoking a darker mood.

I was also surprised to see a Hitchkockian influence. I won’t spoil how but the way the filmmakers attempt to establish archetypes caught me off guard. While I won’t argue that the movie is good, I will say it is fascinating and deserving of respect.

Yet, all people could do in the theatre was laugh. I would be ok with this if I was at a screening of Tommy Wiseau’s The Room or The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Those events are meant for lampooning and celebrating the bad and the weird with both ironic and genuine love. That’s not what this was.

At some point, I and one other told everyone to “shut the fuck up.” It worked for a while. Then, the laughter returned. I told Sophie that I wanted to leave early. I could feel my blood boiling within me, hot enough for one good fight. She convinced me to stay so I did. At the end of the film, I immediately got up from my seat and went to the bathroom to piss out some of that anger.

On my way out, I overheard an old, ragged white man saying to the theatre attendants, “…and someone told us to be quiet and that just made us laugh even harder.”

He said this like he won some moral argument. If I had to guess what argument that is, it’s the power of America’s so-called freedom. It’s the same brand of freedom I have been questioning all year after watching the entire world make an ass of themselves in the name of so-called “freedom.”

I attribute some of my anger to the quarantine. In the past year and a half, I have seen friends and family for fun roughly 20 times (this is a generous overestimation). That is .9 times a month over the course of 18 months. In that time, I’m sure that my tolerance for people’s individual eccentricities has gone considerably down. I have gotten used to only having Sophie in our little apartment, where we can spend our days simply existing. Along with getting rid of most of my social media, I have become shut off from the chaos that is the rest of human society.

The quarantine also probably had a second effect: allowing people to bask in their own absurd, gremlin-like behaviors. With only the internet as a conversational medium, the lack of physical human contact has probably regressed everyone’s social etiquette by about 5 years.

Perhaps another part of the blame is on expectation. The Charles Theatre marketed the Housemaid’s limited screening as a big influence on Bong Joon Ho’s Parasite. If that movie is a symbol of how far Korean cinema has come, The Housemaid is a symbol of where it started, warts and all. Maybe, the moviegoers couldn’t help but laugh when they compare Parasite to this, with certain expectations of cinematic art and dark humor in place.

Maybe, I also expect too much from people. After all, what does it matter if they are being loud, making annoying remarks no one asked for? What if people are going on their phones, distracting me from the cinematic magic so they can check their tweets? So what if people are making comments to their friends? They are having a good time and in the end, the movies theatre experience should be fun. Right? Maybe I am being unfair. Perhaps my rules for the theatre experience are too strict and stringent in this day and age…No.

I think people just need to shut the fuck up and watch the movie.

Yet, each experience went from tolerable to unbearable due to a single factor. This is the same element that has made the rest of this decade so far such a struggle. That factor is other people.

Now, I’m not so sure about other people but since I was a kid, I was always taught that when you go to a movie theatre, you really only have to do two things:

Shut the fuck up.
Watch the movie.

Yet, that final experience was filled with laughter. Mocking, arrogant laughter.

I was also surprised to see a Hitchcockian influence. I won’t spoil how but the way in which the filmmakers attempt to establish archetypes caught me off guard. While I won’t argue that the movie is good, I will say it is fascinating and deserving of respect.

On my way out, I overheard an old, ragged white man saying to the theatre attendants, “…and someone told us to be quiet and that just made us laugh even harder.”

I think people just need to shut the fuck up and watch the movie.

17. Guidelines to Being a Good Customer pt. 1

The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.

I read a theory recently that it only takes four minutes to find out how you really feel about someone. I’m not sure how true this is because as a former service worker, I found that this number is actually closer to about 10 seconds.

Within that time, a customer will do the following:

Greet you
Tell you what they want
Pay

These might seem simple because they are. However, the nuance is in how customers choose to naturally engage these objectives. In these moments, they will naturally perform how they treat and think about other people, even more than they do among their closest friends. Walking into a store, there is an inherent power dynamic that places customers on a pedestal because they have the capital, the fuel that makes an economy go round. Even if they don’t realize it, some people immediately take on the mannerisms of someone much richer than they actually are.

Based on this rubric, I would say that the ideal standard for a customer follows this loose outline:

Say “Hello.” It doesn’t have to be overly optimistic in tone, just not antagonizing.
Tell you what they want. Saying “Please” is optional, but it will give you bonus points on the good customer report card. This can be substituted by simply having a pleasant tone.
When paying, give the money directly to the cashier. Do not put it on the counter and expect us to pick it up (unless you’re in Japan, then put it in the little money box). The worse thing you can do here is simply to toss the money on the counter.

This last one might seem obvious but you would be surprised. I’ve had people toss dollar bills on the counter and look away as if they are waiting through a loading screen. It’s the same attitude that people have as they wait for a credit card machine to finish processing, just going through the motions.

The difference is that I am not a machine. Clearly, I have a face but I guess when I don my uniform, I am part of the establishment, the institution. I am not Mouse the person, but Mouse the worker. Somehow, behind the counter, I become a machine that takes orders and cash, then spits out a receipt.

Some of these customers are also prone to talking on the phone. This isn’t really an issue if they are waiting in line or window shopping. It becomes a problem, however, when they continue to clamp their little black bricks between their shoulders and head. This pose makes them look Lovecraftian, a distortion of flesh and technology as they mouth out their orders. I can’t lip read so I usually ask, “Sorry?”

“Hold on, Chelsea,” they will usually say. This theoretical customer will roll her eyes as if I had inconvenienced her. She most likely wears a set of jogging tights and a purple vest. Possibly a mom.

“Can I get 6 of the milk chocolate caramels with sea salt?”

Before I can say anything, she will be back on my phone. She will stare off down to the side as she continues talking, maintaining a pose that makes her look like she is doing an impression of Stephen Hawking that some might consider offensive.

The worst part is that some of these people are oblivious to my irritation. When I hand them the bag of goods, they lookup for a moment, smile, and mouth “thank you.” These customers usually get a “C” in my grade book. Not bad people. Just dumb.

Others don’t even follow this basic format that I have laid out. I’ll say “Hello, welcome!” I will not get a “hello” back. They will go straight to the point.

“I’ll take a grilled cheese.”

They will toss the money onto the counter, look to the side. Often, these are tired old white men who never learned the love of a father who was physically present but emotionally distant. They will take in a big breath, then sigh as they turn their attention to the ceiling.

With some of these customers, I ran a series of experiments. I would get their change and lead my hand into his as if I was about to give it to them directly. Their hands would be out, not in gratitude at the common decency. They just expect this, to be catered to. At the last second, I will change my hand’s trajectory, sloping down to the counter, then lay the money there gently.

The key is to maintain a level of social stealth. I have to time my hand’s landing so that it is slow (but not too slow) and steady. The distance from the drop is also important, close enough that the customer expects the money but not too close or they suspect that I’m playing games with them (which I am). They are stuck between wondering if it was intentional or just a dumb kid who doesn’t know how to socialize. This fine line is exactly where I want them, to leave the shop ultimately confused. It is like giving them a microdose of LSD that hits them all at once and lasts a fraction of a second.

Based on these experiments, I have come to the conclusion that many customers become unintentionally rude when they are interacting with a service worker. Maybe it is because many are kids. There is also the social stigma that service work is beneath many people. As I said, I lose the status of ‘person’ and become a worker.

Which is why I love playing the change game. It’s a small, psychological slap in the face. It’s a reminder to them that deep inside they are still people. It’s like how Tyler Durden splices a cock in the middle of a Disney movie. It’s so fast that you miss it, but something inside you gets cut, your ego damaged from a moment of self-realization.

So here is Golden Rule #1: Look at me when I’m fucking talking to you.

Previous
16. Evening Cocktail

Next
18. How I learned that BBQ sauce has Tomato

[Table of Contents]

Where You Write[On Writing]

October is almost over and fall is creeping its head. On the East Coast, I am experiencing days where the mornings are always cold and the rest of the day is a mystery. It might stay cold well into the night just as much as it transforms into a warm, breezy spring day. The change of seasons is upon us.

I am trying to write on these nicer days. I have found that in the past year, my favorite place to write is on my apartment porch. It’s not a big space, roughly 8ft by 5ft. But it is enough to hold a small coffee table. There is a roof over it so I don’t have to worry about a light rain. Only the cold forces me inside.

Out here, I type on my tablet that is connected to a Bluetooth keyboard. I have gotten comfortable bouncing my fingers off the chiclet keys. Hearing the clicks and bumping the rubber, spongy membranes against the tips of my fingers is satisfying. They are like little snaps of electricity that travel through my fingers, up to my arm, and through my spine. During these moments, my mind is a storm fuelled by the desire to produce these torrential thoughts into a physical form.

It helps to have a nice view. I live on the third floor of an apartment. Looking out at this height gives me a wide view of the forest that surrounds this neighborhood. The leaves on the trees sway to and fro. The wind rustles a pattern through the grass, running through each blade like a hand brushing through wind chimes. The leaves and grass catch the sunlight, creating fractal images and signals from mother nature telling me to enjoy the day.

I had the idea to start writing outside after reading that people with ADHD do well working outdoors. As an evolutionary trait, people of this psychological profile are designed to be quick to react to sudden movements and details. It’s a wonder that people with the “disorder” can’t sit still in schools and are prone to daydream as they look outside the window. Nature has a way of creating small patterns and movements into performance art and dance. It does enough to create a visual stimulus to take up some of my mind’s racing thoughts, leaving the rest of my brain to write without distractions.

When I edit and revise, however, I prefer to work at my desk. It’s an L-desk with plenty of space to sprawl out my journals, notes, and reference books. It’s also by the window so I still get that outdoor stimulus (even if I do miss out on the natural warmth, light, and breeze).

The key here is that I use my desktop. The tablet is great for drafting. I can make minimal changes to the draft but using only a touch screen makes it harder to make those detailed edits. This limitation encourages me to keep typing and make sure the core of my ideas gets out and worry about cleaning up the details later.

With my desktop, I have a full keyboard, mouse, and two screens. It is much more fitting for sitting down and diving deep into each page, paragraph, and line. The mouse gives me fine-tune control over my creation, like a digital scalpel cutting into the meat so I can refit everything as I please. The second screen, which would be a distraction when I’m drafting, is great for pulling up references and research I found online. Dividing the process into these two locations has helped me create a cycle between the two parts of the writing process: drafting and revision.

You don’t have to follow my exact process. Some people can only write at their workstation while others can’t work unless they are outside of their house. I have known people to do entire drafts in pen and pencil while others need to type.

On the topic of location, I recommend that if you are extraverted in nature, try writing at a cafe. The conversation and people can have a great effect on these individuals. Even if you are alone, it is a great way to feed off of the social energy and take off into your creative element. I might have to try this myself as the East Coast drifts into fall for a brief moment before violently entering winter. Soon, it will be cold and I won’t be able to work out here on my beautiful back porch.

That is unless I get a portable space heater. I will decide when winter is finally here if it is worth preserving this ritual I have created. Otherwise, I will have to figure out something different to keep myself typing through the harsh winter.

16. Evening Cocktail

The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.

I’m not sure where the concept of the evening cocktail came about. Someone told me recently that the daily schedule of early humans was to hunt and gather in the morning and lounge around for the rest of the day. I’m sure that those early humans had a considerably easier time getting fucked up on prehistoric drugs. There wasn’t anyone to send you to prison for it.

As a Korean, it is something of a stereotype that we drink a lot. Based on personal experience, this stereotype has not been proven wrong yet. To this day, my dad has a ritual of calling his friends over once a month. They get belligerently drunk, yell at each other until someone inevitably calls another “trash”. At the end of the night, they all hug each other then slump into the passenger seat of their cars as their wives drive them home. Overall, it’s a good time.

Despite my cultural heritage, I didn’t have any interest in alcohol until I was 17. It was the summer of senior year and I was being sad and immature because of a recent breakup. I met up with a friend of mine, Tom, who was several years younger than me. We met up at the roof of the local elementary school, a popular spot for the local suburban kids. He had several bottles of tequila and I said, “why not.”

The next thing I know, our designated driver was taking us to a McDonald’s, where Tom threw up pure liquor and stomach acid all over the front door of the establishment. As I watched Tom splash thick clean and pink elixir onto that glass pane, I distinctly remember standing with a crowd that was forming around the midnight spectacle. One of the onlookers standing next to me said,

“That dude looks drunk.”

“Yeah, he is,” I said. “So, am I..”

“No way, man. Me, too.”

We shared a brief moment of solidarity while the designated driver and I waited for Tom to finish puking. Then, we got him in the car with his head out the window before we could hear the sirens in the distance. I closed my eyes to defend myself from the motion sickness. When I opened them again, Tom and I were both on his front lawn, heaving. Luckily, nothing came out of me but Tom apparently still had enough to give away.

His dad came out of the house. I expected him to be mad. Instead, he just sighed and said,

“Again?”

At some point, the driver took me home and when I woke up, the sun blared into my room. My dad stood over me with a frown on his face.

“Did you drink last night?”

My eyes barely opened, I just nodded. It was all I could muster. He must have been able to smell the sharp sweetness of the tequila exhuming from my breath, drawn from the depths of my stomach. I was surprised how little I felt afraid.

“You know you are grounded, right?

I nodded, again.

“You have your martial arts tournament today so after that, you are coming straight home.”

“What about my concert tonight?”

“Oh. Well. After that, you are grounded.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. These were the same parents who wouldn’t let me go to a concert after they found out I had an exam the next day. Compared to that travesty, I was getting off incredibly easy. Coincidently, the day of my first hangover was also my first time placing Gold in a martial arts tournament and the night of my very first rave. All things considered, it was a day of victories.

My history with the evening cocktail started a couple of months later when I started college. Everyone was drinking and smoking weed. In those days, getting alcohol required an older sibling or friend, willing to take your order and get all the stuff for you. With weed, all you needed was finding a college kid willing to take a risk to pay off his school loans. There are plenty of those at any university.

So, weed was my daily fix and alcohol was my weekend poison. Wake up. Smoke. Go to class. Smoke. Homework. Smoke. Go hang with friends. Smoke. Get back to the dorm. Smoke. Sleep. When the weekend hit, it was back to back hitting greens and downing browns.

While weed and I got along at the beginning of college, we started having problems towards the end. I’m not sure exactly when it started, but at some point, paranoia, anxiety, and hallucinations started to get the best of me. People forget that cannabis is a psychoactive drug. Those who are susceptible become caught up in strange, sometimes frightening experiences. My cut-off point was when I took a dab of hash oil that took me into a trip that I now call the “Shadow Realm.” It was an interesting experience but not necessarily an enjoyable one.

By the time I was in my senior year, I gave it up altogether. By then, I was 21 and I could buy alcohol without relying on friends of friends, most of whom talked too much about things that annoyed me. Every evening after classes, I had a couple of glasses of soju and beer. My goal wasn’t to get obliterated. Just enough to carry soft buzz.

Of course, the plan didn’t always go my way. Some mornings, I woke up with a hangover. But I was still young. My sleep schedule was already ruined by four years of college and four years of high school before that. In those days, I barely registered such phenomena as a hangover, just another miserable morning as I dragged myself to class.

This carried over into working at the Chocolate Shop. By the time I had started working there full time as a chocolatier, I was 22 going on 23. For the first time in my life, I had a real disposable income. It wasn’t enough to go out every night (which was fine with me. I’ve never been huge on bars and nightclubs). It was enough to pay for my daily dose of motor oil.

So, here were some of my drinks of choice:

Sojo
Beer
Soju w/ Beer (called So-mek)
Jameson
Jameson and Coke

It was a good routine for a while. Go to work. Drink. It was simple. Why shouldn’t I have my evening cocktail after a long day of physical labor? It seemed to buy something of a time-honored tradition for the working-class of humanity since the beginning of time. It was something to look forward to, especially since 8 hours is a long time to be doing anything.

Yet, as time went on it became something of a crutch. An unstable crutch that seemed to be made of rotten planks and poor decisions. Knowing what I do now, I attribute some of this to my ADHD. Racing thoughts are a daily problem for me, ranging from distracting to existentially crippling. No wonder I sought an elixir that muted all thoughts and let me bask in uninhibited emotions…

Previous
15. Ice Cream Scoop Sizes

Next
17. Guidelines to Being a Good Customer pt. 1

[Table of Contents]

Modern Typewriters[On Writing]

I think people underestimate their writing tools. I started writing my stories on Lenovo laptops. I’m not big on laptops as a device class but they are a necessity for college students. I picked the Lenovo series, specifically the ThinkPad series known for their keyboards. They were really nice to type with, soft and bouncy. Yet, it was clunky and heavy and I felt like Moses lugging around the damn stone tablets.

Today, I write most of my drafts on a Samsung Android Tablet with a 10-inch screen. I bought a faux leather cover with a bluetooth magnetic keyboard. The buttons on it are more of a chiclet design but each key is raised a bit more than something you would find on a Mac or Acer. The buttons are also smaller than normal keys.

This all results in fast travel between fingers with a satisfying click and bounce. I feel that it matches the writing style that I am often aiming for, sharp and quick with a hard edge. When I am done, I can slip it into my desk shelf or my day bag for travel.

While I do occasionally use this tablet for light web surfing, video streaming, and manga reading, I mostly use this to write. I jokingly refer to it as my “typewriter” but for all intents and purposes, that is exactly what it is.

I tend to use Google Work Programs like Docs and Drive for my writing. They aren’t as feature full as a full Microsoft Suite but it still gives me enough to create a document in a format that I like. While I do need an internet connection for these programs, I can connect my tablet to my phone’s wireless hotspot or simply use the built-in note-taking app then transfer the text to a Google Doc later.

For me, this results in an experience that gives me a solid word processor with few distractions for anything other than drafting.

Now, this may not work for you and that is fine. My point is that a part of the writing experience is the physical act of writing. Once you get into the consistent ability to get into a writer’s flow, you start to notice the actual, physical act of writing as a part of the process. It should feel good.

It is like a painter with their preferred set of brushes and paint brands. In other ways, it is also like musicians preferring certain brands, setups, and modifications. Every art has its tools and the artist is willing to use them.

In our modern age, technology provides us with more ways to write than ever. Some people prefer desktops and mechanical keyboards (I do, too but for editing and revisions). George R.R. Martin uses some old ass DOS computer that looks like someone ripped it out of Fallout.

I hear Quentin Tarintino writes his first drafts in a composition notebook (yeah the ones we used in elementary school that look like a zebra) and uses different colored pens (not for any technical reason, he just thinks this is fun).

I spent several years trying to find the right “typewriter.” I wanted it to be portable and encourage the writing flow. Laptops can be heavy and having a full operating system like Windows can lead to easy distractions like checking social media or web surfing.

Initially, I was interested in devices like the Freewrites or Pomera. They are devices with e-ink displays, good keyboards, and minimalist designs. The former is marketed as a distraction-free writing tool for those looking to improve their writing productivity and the latter is designed to be a note-taking device.

While I was initially intrigued and somewhat seduced by their designs and form factors, they were far from practical. Their minimalism also restricted my ability to format documents (something that is a big deal to me). The Pomera is an especially hard recommendation for Americans as it is a Japanese product with some quirks related to their native language.

For the functionality, the price is also absurd. I understand this to an extent with the Freewrites being in limited production and the Pomera being a Japanese product that needs to be imported. Still, they’re asking for hundreds of dollars.

Still, I bring up these options because they could be for you. Maybe you like my idea of using a minimalist tablet. Perhaps, you have the audacity to throw money at the niche word processors. Most of you are probably not too picky and didn’t even notice any of these kinesthetic elements until now.

Some of you might even prefer just using your phones. Donald Glover does it to write his raps. I have friends who have written scripts this way. I know most Gen-Z students can write entire school essays the day they are due.

I just prefer the tactile hit of the keys against the tips of my nails and pads on my fingers. If you are having a hard time getting into the writer’s flow, consider experimenting with different tools. They don’t have to be expensive or flashy to be perfect for you.

15. Ice Cream Scoop Sizes

The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.

No matter the weather, ice cream always sold well. You would think that it is a seasonal treat, much the same way that cider and pumpkin pie come and go with the fall. No, people were always in the mood for ice cream. It didn’t matter if it was sweltering hot or frostbite cold. The people slowed by the ice cream display, savoring the flavor with their eyes, pretending their saliva was whatever flavor was embedded in their minds.

We had a variety of flavors, most of the standard. Vanilla, strawberry, chocolate, mint chocolate chip, coffee, rocky road, and moose tracks. We also had butter pecan but I preferred their more obscure cousin, rum raisin. I’m not a huge fan of raisins, but the ice cream itself, whether it is rum or otherwise, is damn good.

I will say my favorite flavor was the sweet and salty caramel pretzel. Vanilla ice cream with caramel swirl and chocolate-covered pretzels. The flavors combined with the creamy crunch created a unique experience. I even managed to conform some of the regulars to switch from their usual favorites. It was never the most popular flavor but it had its hardcore followers (myself included).

Despite their popularity, ice cream was also arguably one of the more controversial items on our list. The point of contention was in regards to the scoop sizes and prices. When I first started working there, a single scoop started around $1.95 for a clear, plastic cup or a cake cone. For an extra 20 cents, you could also get the waffle cone. By the time I left, it had cost $3.95.

“That much?” customers often said.

“Yes ma’am.”

“For one scoop?”

“Yup.”

It usually stopped there. Parents would look at me in disbelief as if I had just robbed them of their 401K. Still, it was for their kids, who needed a fresh form of stimulation before they would ultimately return to playing on their iPads. They ate it gratefully (well sometimes), slurping up the scoop until it would melt into a dripping cascade down their hands, then down their arms, drops caking the floor like clay. The floor I would have to clean. I never had this messy problem when I ate ice cream because I was a biter, not a licker.

Still, some people would push on the price.

“You can’t be serious,” they would say. “For one scoop?”

If I was helping the customer, all I would say is,

“Yup.”

Dick had a more direct approach.

“You go to Haagen Dazs, or Cold Stones, or any of those other places, I guarantee you pay at least $5.”

$6 actually. I’m not usually one for buying dessert when I go out to eat but on the few occasions that I have, ice cream prices start out around $6 for any size worth a damn. Depending on where you go, the scoop sizes will vary, too. In my experience, Ben and Jerry’s seem a bit skimp while Cold Stone is pretty generous (although this probably isn’t consistent even from location to location).

Hell, we weren’t even consistent in our one location. Christian’s scoop was enormous, with drips of milky cream crawling down the sides of the cup and dyeing the napkin we would give the customers. Kai didn’t have a standard. Whoever she served was rolling the dice, getting a treasure trove, or nothing at all. Jimmy, however, always filled his ice cream the same way: one nice scoop that filled the bowl and maybe and an extra little bit to top it off.

This worked okay for a while but soon people started complaining as they are prone to do.

Some found this too small so I started filling it in just over the cup. One day, however, a small elderly lady got her ice cream and said,

“Oh my. I will never be able to finish this.”

So for a while, my scoop was a little less than the cup.

One day, Dick saw me scooping ice cream into the cup, just under the standard cup, and said,

“That’s too small. Fill up the damn cup.”

And I did, just the way I originally did. If our workplace was a chessboard, Rick was the Queen. Like in the Wire, he had all the moves. Still, it was sort of a relief to have some authority give me a standard to go by.

Or at least I thought. One day, Lou was working at the sandwich store with us. If Dick is the Queen, then Lou is certainly the Kingpin. Her usual days were spent more on the chocolate business. Filling the orders, creating marketing content and art assets, contacting chocolate distributors, communicating with wholesale clients, etc. She had the vision and the driving will to push that legal drug known as sweet cocoa.

At least, that is where her responsibilities lie now. She used to be right up on the front lines with the rest of us soldiers when the business was still brand new. She did it all. Deep in the chocolate pits, dipping the treats, carving, and slicing the blocks of ganache.

By the time Dick and Lou had the sandwich shop, however, she had been far removed from those duties. She was running the business and the sandwich was mostly Dick domain. He didn’t like her in the kitchen because they were prone to fighting.

She did work with us at the front on rare occasions, especially during the holidays. On one such occasion, she helped a customer with some ice cream. They asked for two scoops, one chocolate, the other coffee. She was about to hand the scoop to the customer.

“Lou, that’s actually about the size of a single scoop.”

“Oh,” she said. Her eyes had a slight pop. News to her.

“Yeah. A single scoop just about fills the cup.”

“Oh. I have been doing it this way.”

“I mean, that is just what Dick told me to do.”

She tucked her lips into her mouth as if to hold a breath.

Then she said, “Ok. I was not aware. Now, I know.”

Some patience holding back a clear moment of irritation. I don’t think it was at me. Rather, it was because Dick hadn’t told her.

Still, several weeks later, she did it, again. That time, I didn’t correct her. I don’t know if she had simply forgotten or decided to ignore Dick’s standard. Regardless, It felt weird to tell the boss that she was doing something wrong. Whether it was a power struggle (overt or discreet) was between them. If it was just a matter of memory then who am I to judge? I forget shit all the time. I just reminded myself that my job was to make chocolate and scoop ice cream.

This was the ice-cream cycle. Customer complains. I say sorry. Customer complains. Dick tells them to fuck off. If I see someone scoop too much or too little, I will either say something or keep quiet depending on how courageous I am or how trivial the issue is that day.

It almost doesn’t help that a few months later, I was helping a customer with a rocky road on a waffle cone when Dick came out from the kitchen. He came up close to my scoop, scrutinized it, and said, “Why are your scoops so big?”

Previous
14. The Sandwich Shop Regulars

Next
16. Evening Cocktail

[Table of Contents]

Measuring Time vs Words[On Writing]

The practice of a flowstate can be the first great hurdle in a writer’s journey.

So it is no wonder that for many people, increasing their word count becomes the first big step into improving one’s skills. It is the obvious metric to measure progress, an objective measure of productivity.

Many other writers also see it this way. From my quick google search, there are many articles and online threads that discuss the habits of professional writers, especially word count. Most seem to get around 1000-2000 words a day.

Famously, Stephen King writes roughly 5000 words a day no matter what, willing to use everything or nothing from a whole day’s work. In contrast, Ernest Heminway would get up at the crack of dawn and write about 500 words(remember that they only had typewriters in those days, much slower than a modern keyboard). Then, he would spend the rest of his day hunting, fishing, drinking, and being sad.

However, the flow state isn’t the same for everyone. To some people, writing is a form of meditation, a trance in which the words just fall out like a spiritual experience that can be examined and reflected upon.

To others, writing is more crafting. In a sense, they are building their own puzzle, building each piece of the jigsaw as they go, carefully and methodically. To these writers, word count can be a terrible metric because despite the time they put into the effort, the physical fruits of their labor can seem miniscule when comparing themselves to others. To these young writers still building confidence in their style, word count can be a metric that only makes them frustrated.

The solution that I have found for these people is to count their progress not in words but in time.

I watched a video this year regarding the “Stopwatch Method”. In it, the subject, Dr. Ken Atchity, discusses how time is a finite resource and our understanding of it can greatly benefit productivity. As a university professor, he mentioned that many of his struggling students would complain they would struggle with the material even after 10 hours of studying.

He would rectify the situation by asking them a question:

“What exactly are you doing with that time?”

It’s a good question. If I look back on my own undergrad years, my time writing papers, researching, or studying would lead to long marathons in the library. Admittedly, most of that time was spent on the internet doing anything but my work. It seems like his students had the same problem

Here, Dr. Atchity provides a solution to this by recommending the use of a timer. As a professor and screenwriter, he would start the clock and do his work, then stop it when he needed a break or to attend to another matter. The point he makes is that two hours of complete focus is more productive than ten hours’ worth of sporadic attention.

The key is to keep the clock going as long as you are working. It doesn’t have to be strictly writing. It can be reading over your work, doing some content or technical edits, or even just planning. The moment that you are not in a state of productivity, turn off the timer.

This can be great for those who tend to have a wandering mind. I have a stopwatch on my phone and when it is going, I tend to keep the screen on. Being able to see that timer is a reminder of my current goals, anchoring me to the task when my brain catches the thought of going to another youtube video. The desire to hit that “GO” button is a surprisingly good motivator to get back to the task at hand.

It can also be great for those who have limited time in their day. If you only have an hour during lunch to write in your daily routine, make a goal for 30 minutes of unmitigated writing. You would be surprised how much that aggregates into a larger body of work over a period of time. I believe Terry Pratchett spent much of his early years only able to write 500 words a day due to his day job and his bibliography is now enormous.

Branden Sanderson famously chooses to work in time, writing in two segments a day, roughly three hours each. He says that through this, he gets roughly 2000 words a day. Sanderson’s work in fantasy fiction definitely compliments this style of writing. I can’t imagine all of the documents dedicated just for outlining and worldbuilding. For him, a good day’s work is not just pure word count but all of the method that goes into crafting his stories.

However you choose to measure your progress, I think the point here is not so much that one metric is better than the other. Like any other artistic craft, everyone has their own method and rituals. It is about finding the best tools, mental or physical, that work for your lifestyle and psychological profile.

Maybe you will use one or the other. I have come to a point where I use a combination of the two. I imagine that some people like Charles Bukowski would say “fuck it” to both metrics, someone who believes you should write when you damn please. Whatever you decide, make sure your metric is based on your own ideas of growth and accomplishments.

14. The Sandwich Shop Regulars

The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.

Despite the sandwich shop being a front for the Chocolate store, we still had to treat it like a real business. It did have its busy days, especially during the weekends when we got the mass of visitors and tourists. During the week, however, it functioned more like a cafeteria restaurant whose prime function was to feed an office building.

Like how Dick spent much of his time at the Old Town Mill, so did all of the other business owners. This was their livelihood without a corporate safety net. Their businesses were their first and last line of defense in surviving the capitalist crisis. These high stakes made their work hours longer than the 40 hours I ever put in.

Because of this, owners and employees often needed food. Lunch, dinner, or even a snack. They all had their preferences and their routines.

From the west end, Brenda often came around 3 or 4pm, after any lunch rush. She always ordered a side. Fries, onion rings, or cheese sticks. These didn’t take too long. Just stick ’em in the fryer and pull them out when they have that nice, crispy brown. I used to have to check the insides of the onion rings or cheese sticks with poker to make sure it was cooked all the way but after a while, I had gained a sense for it, both in time and looks.

Brenda was an older woman who worked at a beauty parlor. She provided beautician services to adults and face painting for kids. She often placed her order by phone or came personally only to say she’ll “be right back” only to disappear over at the East End for 10 minutes to gossip with Miss Kathy.

Dick found this to be annoying.

“By the time she gets back, the food will be cold as shit,” he would say.

I personally didn’t care, one way or the other. I just wanted to get back to making the chocolate. Take too long and the chocolate would set into that chalky bloom, an indicator that I fucked up a batch.

Speaking of The Gift Shop, Melissa usually came for a meal at least twice a week. She often asked me to give her the website for all my writing, which I never did. She quit (or got fired, I never found out) before I left so I will probably never get the chance. She was a (single?) mother of two or three kids. Still, she had an almost youthful way of conversation, something I always appreciated about her. She never let the long days get to her.

Next to the Gift Shop was The Clock Store. Despite analog timepieces continuing to go out of fashion, those guys never seemed to run out of clock to repair. They had a backlog that always seemed to stretch years, the waitlist famous among timepiece collectors for being a long wait. Yet, the list kept getting longer so they must have done good work

The clock guys were a bunch of old heads, working away in an old fashion shop with an old-fashioned work ethic. That’s probably why the owner, Rob, and Dick had such a tumultuous friendship. The short man, about 5 foot 4 inches, always wore a blue button-up shirt tucked under tan slacks. He wore large glasses and a white beard. Dick is of similar stature but often wore shorts over his button-up and had an apron. They both came from a time when men expected to be mean and irritable. I could expect a shouting match between them one second than a good laugh the next.

I don’t blame Dick for getting annoyed at Rob either. Rob had a specific habit of wanting custom orders. He always removed or added something to fit his fickle, ever-changing taste. Other, he wanted us to completely dissect a recipe until it was completely unrecognizable from the original blueprints.

We once had a secret menu item titled “Rob’s Salad.” Spinach, tomato, chicken, with dressing on the side. He ordered this every Saturday for a while and we hoped this would solve all of our problems. After a while, he started making modifications to this, too.

One especially busy Saturday, when we had a line that snaked around to the eatery, Bob cut the entire line and went over to one of our employees personally. We took his order. I can’t remember what it was, a testament to whatever Frankenstein creation he wanted us to make that day. I took his order to the back and gave it to Dick. He took a mean look at it. Sweating under the haze and smog of the fried oil clouds, he directed the look to me. At first, I hoped he wasn’t pissed off about my handwriting, again.

“Is this Rob from the Clock Shop?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He took a deep breath then yelled at the top of his lungs.

“God damn it, Rob! Seriously? Today of all days?”

“What?!” Rob said, screaming over the crowd. He peeked his head over the counter and lifted his hands up in a defensive shrug.

“You’re gonna have to wait, Bob. There is too much going on today.”

“That’s fine.” Bob put his hands up, again defensive but this time in confirmation. “I can wait.”

The East End also had an upstairs, where they had a game store, popular with the locals for board games, tabletop roleplaying games, and trading card competitions. The owner, Bill, was a crotchety old bag of resentment. I always imagined that his debilitating body was held together by his glasses like a pin that tied a laundry bag together. His son-in-law, Mark, was also held together in a similar way, except his body was filled with poor nutritional choices. Mark had the body and the face of a goblin and the voice of a chain-smoking Keebler-elf, resulting in a neutral nasal. He seemed to buy lunch almost every day and return later for a snack and soda.

“Why don’t you ever bring lunch?” Dick asked once. “It would be cheaper and doesn’t clog your arteries.”

“Too delicious,” Mike said followed by an awkward laugh. It wasn’t the moment. Mike was just awkward.

After he left, Dick whispered into my ear, “I’m surprised he isn’t dead yet.”

As much as Dick and I found the Game Store owners annoying as shit, we couldn’t deny that they also brought the most customers. Wednesday night was for Magic the Gathering. Thursdays were for Dungeons and Dragons. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday were for everything else. Even though nerd culture has become somewhat mainstream thanks to the internet, this was a rumpus room of some good old-fashioned goblins whose main diet was greasy sandwiches and anything fried in dirty oil at over 400 degrees. They seemed to come right around early dinner. Our last hour of those shifts was often a scramble between finishing orders and cleaning up so we could go the fuck home.

Next to them was the woman over at S&S, a thrift boutique primarily run by the owner, her daughters (must have had at least three), and a consistent group of volunteers. Most of them just got coffee. One of them, Tara, came down every once in a while. Having a strict diet due to a gluten allergy, she opted for a salad and fries. I always made sure to give her an extra dose of mayo that would have made every European proud as they spat on the soul of ketchup.

Back over at the West End, there was the Royal Quill, an arts and crafts store that puts every Michaels and Hobby Lobby to shame in the face of their Christian god. While they were smaller and didn’t cater to certain hobbies like miniatures or homemaking, the things they did have were top-notch. Specialty pens and markers from different countries. Notebooks, journals, and planners that had to be specially imported from Japan. Beautiful craft papers and tools of all kinds. This wasn’t your grandma’s art supply store (although most of the clientele were grandmothers). This was for the hardcore artist who took their tools as seriously as their craft. As the name suggested, the Royal Quill was almost a museum that displayed the best that one could write, draw, and create with.

Every weekend, the Royal Quill held classes for different arts. They would send Dick an order at the beginning of the day with everyone’s orders and the time. There was no chocolate production on the weekends (much to Dick’s disdain) so we spent the mornings getting all of the food prepped, then set them in the fridge. Then, we would time it so that we would take out the sandwiches, cook them, and plate them right when the classes broke.

Some of them were mean, others forgettable. Many were kind. The owner, Patty, was a tough old lady who walked with a cane. Her hair was always dyed (my favorite was deep purple and green, like psychedelic flames). She always told us about the pain in her legs but never of the long days she spent catering to her customers.

There was also Diane who occasionally brought her mother, Martha Lawrence. Both of them often spent their time after classes passing out homemade potholders. Then, there was Leah who always had a boisterous smile and a laugh to match, her usual being a Grilled Cheese with cream cheese and jalapenos (hold the cayenne pepper flakes) and a side of tater tots.

There is so much I have forgotten since the year and a half that I worked there. Surprisingly, there is a lot that I remember, too. Perhaps one of the reasons that I write this story is to try and immortalize these moments as best as I can. Even though some of my interactions were hard and sometimes painful, often I remember them with nostalgia and melancholy, too.

I wonder who is there now. I’m sure much of it is the same, despite knowing that businesses come and go. I myself am trying to move on from this place. There are a lot of bad memories that seem to hit me like lightning flashes and psychic nightmares when I do think of the Old Town Mill. As much as I try, however, I still have bits and memories that forever play in my mind when I least expect them.

Perhaps, I am still processing it all.

Previous
13. Smile for the Customer

Next
15. Ice Cream Scoop Sizes

[Table of Contents]