Coffeepiphany

This story comes from long ago in my youth.  College years, to be precise.

I worked for Big Coffee, and it was a great job.  The job, along with my parents, got me through college with zero debt, and their insurance plan was good enough that I could indulge my hypochondria whenever I wanted.

At the time (this is going to date me), there were only eleven Starbucks stores in the Portland/Vancouver area.  On any given day, a store employee somewhere in the district was sick, playing sick, or going to a concert and couldn't work their shift.  Then managers would call around and get someone to fill in.  So, I worked at every store in Portland.

Several times, I filled shifts at the NW 23rd store.  This was the old 23rd store...before they moved down the street next to Coffee People and stomped them in the ground! (Yessss.)  This was the place to work if you wanted to see a cross-section of Portland culture in the 1990s, when the city was coming into its own, and where it's still stuck.  To a naive 19-year-old, most of the customers seemed aggressive - almost baleful - in their quest to be unique.  Besides, when they approached me, they hadn't had their coffee yet.

Well, one day, in the midst of all these people, a homeless man walked up to the bar.  He was big and black and his corneas were yellow; I asked him how I could help.

"Kee," he said.

"Kee?"  I looked behind myself at the menu board.  There was nothing on there that could be interpreted, "kee".

"Coffee?" I asked.

"Kee."

I grabbed a coffee cup and held it out to him.

"Kee."  His voice was soft, but his eyes looked a bit desperate. I passed him a pad of paper.  I was so addled from all the other customers (Should I smile at this one? Will he yell at me if I call him sir?  Is that a man?) that I didn't have brains enough to decipher his code.

He took the pad and drew a key.  It was simple but pretty, like an old skeleton key.

"Key!"  I said.  He nodded.  I was stumped.  Why did he come in a coffee shop wanting a key?  Finally, after a few more pleading looks, he shuffled back out the door.  And I kept working and got through college and quit selling coffee and got married and had kids.

Last month, eighteen years later, I was driving somewhere in the car, radio off, when I smacked my forehead and groaned.

He wanted the bathroom key.  He needed the bathroom.  I still feel sorry for that guy.