remote cards

I am waiting for my sandwich to be toasted, when the guy who served me comes to the delivery end of the bar where a girl is making a latte. He is tall, floppy haired, looks incredibly young, though as he gives the girl advice it is clear he is a veteran of this establishment, and she has yet to conquer the latte wall. She is probably only a few years older than him, hair tied back, nose stud, smart/generic black blouse. She does the coffee and prepares to add the milk, no, hold it at this angle, he tells her, down low, touch the surface, that’s how you get it. She follows his instruction carefully, and gets the desired results, see, told you it was easy. She stands there and looks at it and grins, I’d been holding it too high, and that’s how someone else told me how to do it. As she straightens up and does a little victory stretch, her blouse rides up at her waist, providing a flash of colour on her hip, a flower, a lily on a pad, the kind of tattoo you expect her to have a matching one on the other side. She prepares to tip the coffee out, you should take a photo, she shakes her head, its not quite perfect, but a start. You should at least drink it, he tells her, she shakes her, you could add sugar, he suggests. Do you want it, she asks, he doesn't. I’m tempted to say I’ll take it, but don't, and it gets tipped away. He goes back to the toasting machine, takes the next customer's sandwich and puts it in the toaster. Brings mine over on a plate, shouts out that it’s ready, despite the fact I’m standing right in front of him, he looks through me. That’s mine, I say, ok, he replies, you have your drink, he asks, no, it’s on the counter behind you. He grabs it, puts them both on a tray and I go back to join my friends. Sitting down I spot the latte wall, a series of photographs of lattes, each with someone's name penned beneath it. The new girl wanders around, clearing tables, chunky boots, skin tight trousers, no doubt waiting till she is ready to get her latte up there.

Labels: coffee, girl, glasgow, guy, latte, wallet

She wears a white blouse top. Has long brown hair, propped up on her head, held back by black sunglasses. She wanders round the book shop for a while, before heading into the café. She sits along one of the sides, overlooking the floor below. She has a coffee and a packet of crisps. She eats them carefully, one at a time, each thin slice of cooked potato held between finger and thumb. Poised while she reads, and then eaten. Then the next, in hand, ready. When she is done with the crisps, she produces a lollypop – a rectangular candy on a stick. She eats this the same way, slow, precise, careful – savouring it. The stick wiggles in her mouth, protruding as the turns the page, before being poised again. With time, it gets smaller, shrinking to an arrow
head, then smaller still.

Labels: coffee, girl, glasgow, lollypop

It’s a week or two since Jackson died. But you still can’t escape him. There are two women sitting having coffee. Perhaps in their forties, but the kind that look good with it. The kind that look like they’ve probably put careful effort in to look good with it. Tall and thin, affluent and casual. As they leave, they stop to talk to someone. Walking away, the red goes up on her toes, Jackson style, in accordance with the music that is playing. The spins round from who she is talking to, to make her exit, to find the blonde, bent double with laughter. So, grinning, she does it again. Across from them, there is a mother, dressed in black, with two daughters, about 10-12,
one in grey, one in green. Thriller starts and the one in grey starts to dance as they make their way through the shop.

Labels: coffee, dancing, girls, glasgow, jackson, woman

We are in the Black Medicine café place. C is waiting at the counter for our teas and coffees, when the stubble haired guy leans forward and starts talking to him. He is dressed in black, a thick black jumper, black jeans, black boots, chunky esoteric metal chains round his neck. His hair is shaven short, maybe a 2 gauge? He wears glasses with yellow frames. There is something feral in the way he speaks to C, I watch to see how the conversation develops. Nothing seems to come of it, and after the guy has left we discuss how he was just asking about C’s phone, but there was something edgey about his manner. As we had noticed for the rest of his stay. The furniture is made of stray pieces of wood, giving it all a rugged feel. We sit at a table, the girls G and L on one side, C and I on the other. He sits behind the girls; a shelf built into the back of their bench, his mug sitting there, while he is propped on a stool. A guy with a window seat brushes by on his way to the counter. From here the conversation is fragmentary, but the gist is that they he is growling in challenge – what the hell do you want? The other guy looks surprised, I’m just passing, if I brushed you I meant no harm. He looks barely satisfied with this response. Having ordered he tries to return to his seat, the growler looks at him in challenge. Then he stands up, faces off with the guy as though he is going to start something, then grudgingly steps aside. Another customer arrives, spots something on the growler’s shelf, engages him in conversation. Can I take that? You can try, but I’m finishing my coffee here. He reaches across the growler who is not cooperating, who is obstructing. The guy is easy natured, something of a chancer, he fails, then shrugs and turns back to the counter. The growler leans precariously, waving his arms with voluble gestures, his mouth snarling silent swear words and threats. We drink our teas and coffees, we catch up, we are all conscious of his seething presence, as he glares around looking for his next victim, before finally leaving after receiving a phone call.

Labels: cafe, coffee, edinburgh, growler, hostile, tea

In the basement of this bookshop there is a branch of one of the chain coffee shops. One of those places I often wander to on a Sunday afternoon after a browse. Its quite late on this time, hitting closing, I’ve cancelled what I planned to do due to a headache – decided to grab a coffee before just heading home, maybe relax a little, read a little, see if the headache will go away before driving. It’s the same three members of staff that are usually on at this time. The blonde girl, with short hair, usually clasps, a huge chunk of hair gone dark – a style or neglect? The girl with the Gaelic name that looks unpronounceable, with the dark hair in a pony tail, always giggling as she is mocked by the others. The guy, with short dark hair, burly, bit of a spiked style, always probing the girls with his questions. Today the blonde takes orders, the guy makes orders, the Gael is on cleaning tables – last time the girls were the other way round. He says something, blonde says – no, I’m a pescatarian. A what? It means I eat fish. He gets scornful, tries to come up for what it would mean if someone only ate chicken. She isn’t impressed. As I approach the counter I scan the shop, spot the staff, the customers. There is a girl near the counter, fuzzy hair, tied back. She has a pad on the table in front of her, scans me as I scan her – and I wonder, is she writing me as I will writer her? How curious. She packs her bag as I take a seat, meticulous in the way she does so, only so much space, and so many things. Behind me a group, a family across two tables, who just seem to be sprawled, killing time, only fragments of conversation carry. Two teenage boys, one with a “fantasy art book” he is paging through – why is it all photoshopped instead of drawn – he complains loudly. Turns out the coffee shop closes earlier than the book shop, so rather than spend an hour relaxing, I feel more hurried. People are turned away - we're closed. Book staff member comes round with a guy, has whatever he has lost been handed in - nope. So I drink up and leave, hitting the super market for headache pills on my way home.

Labels: book, boy, coffee, fish, girl, glasgow, pescatarian, photoshop

There are two guys sat in one corner of the coffee house. They both have laptops balanced on their laps, with web cams, sitting side by side. I have to assume they aren’t talking to each other? Because, like, that would be odd. I take a seat down the length of the room, and forget about them. But not long after they have moved, so that they are both behind me. One at one end of a handful of tables, one a the other end. It turns out they are Americans, trying to use the WiFi in the place, trying to get the web cameras up and running, and failing. “You got anything,” one calls out to the other, his voice drawling. The other just shakes his head, the first mutters, “So weird.”

Labels: american, coffee, fail, glasgow, web cam

The coffee store in the book store is too busy, so I go to my next choice. Which of course, in the way of these things, is only two minutes up the road, the next one two minutes from there, the next two minutes from there. But only the book store one and this one stay open to a decent time, though early evening on a Sunday isn’t late, but is on the cusp for closing time. Its another wet day in May, when the sun comes out its good, but its interspersed with this miserable rain. So its an excuse for people, who don’t need much of an excuse to gather round a table with friends, with a book, to relax at the end of the weekend.

Even as I wait to get served I am scanning the place, how busy is it, am I going to get seated? There is a muscle guy over there with a sleeveless t-shirt showing off tattooed biceps, a precise pencil thin beard, and a woollen cap, chatting up a waitress who clears an empty table. Behind them a group of young Japanese folk, laughing. Two guys standing up to leave, blocking half the compact little section right in front of the counter as I try to get by them to grab one of the window shelves and stools. In front of me there are a handful of tables outside, for the smokers, or for when its dry enough. At either end they have signs up – SUMMERS BACK – CELEBRATE WITH A FRAPPUCCINO. The rain lashes down, couples wander by sharing an umbrella between, groups of teens tug at the hoods of their tops for an extra inch of coverage, hardy souls swagger without protection (as fast as they can).

Straight across from here is a huge old building, three shops built into its edifice, the central tower, with its shields and knights, along the way the columns. Straight across is the Apple Store, next is North Face outdoor clothing, then Urban Outfitters and whatever it is they actually do. Then a road, across that the newly refurbished church in an island of its own. A snapshot of the street, the shops over the space of an hour shutting up, staff pottering about, making their runs into the rain, waving at each other. Some run for coffee, some to the bank machine next door, and some to the underground station.

A long haired guy stops between two columns in front of the Apple store, sits there, the buttress sheltering him from the rain, as he props there. He has the widow’s peak and the long waist length pony tail. He wears a long black leather trench coat, which he uses to shelter his iPhone from stray rain drops. Staff stand on the stairs till they make their choices, the doors close, but he pokes away at his screen. I guess the store has WiFi and that’s him sitting outside using it. I don’t see him wander off while I read, but when I look back a girl has appeared instead, she is standing up the stairs in front of the shop, where there is a fronting – a flat surface, held up by mini columns - where the balances her laptop, better sheltered from the rain, that familiar logo glowing.

Amongst the people wandering by, there are various carrying heavy bags, the occasional suitcase, Queen St Station is just around the corner. One of those, a woman, with her full length, heavy duty, thick rain coat, giving her a hefty look. She carries what looks like an enormous black back pack, hanging from shoulder straps, adding to the impression of bulk. It looks like it could slide from her shoulders if she isn’t careful. In the far away hand she carries a big shopping bag, one of the reusable super-market bags, rather than disposable. The near hand is outstretched a little in front of her, almost as though its held to keep the leverage of the back pack. But also her hand has that tentative, cupped motion, of someone checking to see if its still raining, perhaps she can take her hood down now? It is still lashing down, there is no doubt that it is indeed still raining. She stops at the last table in front of the coffee shop, pauses, then she swipes the outstretched hand across the table. She swirls the hand through the puddle, circling it round from the centre outwards in a spiral. What is she doing? Clearing it so that she can sit down? Is she one of those hardy souls who is going to sit outside in this weather with a coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other? She gives the hand a shake, then wanders onward. Maybe her hand was sticky, and she was looking to get enough water to un-sticky it? It’s the only thing I can think of.

A couple walk down the street, both with the cultivated look of drowned rats, more obvious on her, with her long brown blonde hair a damp weave. Her phone rings, fishing it out of her pocket she starts to talk to someone. The body language is clear, one of those things that have, strangely, become part of modern culture – the person she is speaking to can see her now. She comes to a halt; the pair of them do a slow rotation, trying to work out where the person who is talking is right now that they can see them. Then her shoulders dip and rise, her body shaking with laughter as she spots her friends. The pair wave to a couple at the other end of the coffee shop, they start to walk, in an arcing path towards the window where they sit, then round to the door to come in. They stand by the table dripping on the surface where the other couple sit happy and dry.

A man pulls up the seat beside me, one of a row of three at the window shelf. I am in the middle; the remaining seat on my left has a mountain of cups and plates and remains of cake in front of it. My coffee is the black, drip, coffee of the day; his has a more frothy topping meeting the lip of the mug. He plunks down a compact black bible beside the mug, a serious book, for serious reading, not just for show. He pulls himself up on to the stool and starts to read. He obviously works out, he has a decent build beneath the casual striped t-shirt he is wearing – more understated than the body builder I saw earlier in the day with the skin tight shirt so everyone could see. He flicks through the bible and starts to read, drinking his coffee as he goes. His phone rings, he answers, the person obviously guesses where he is right now, guesses correctly. They just got out of whatever they were in, he offers to come and get them if they want its no hassle. They turn him down, obviously timing isn’t great, if you are sure he says, no problem he says, if you change your mind he says, and ends the call. He finishes his coffee, its approaching six thirty, and I form a suspicion as to his destination. The rain has slackened by now, a drizzle rather than a downpour, which is just as well, he has no jacket. Where crowds dispersed half an hour ago, there is a new one forming across the road, in front of the church. He leaves the coffee shop, strides in that clear diagonal line, disappears through the front door of the church, arriving for Sunday Service.

Labels: apple, church, coffee, glasgow, rain, sunday

The book shop stays open later than most other places, so it attracts all kinds of transients, people waiting for people, people waiting for other things to open, people just after books, or coffee. They play music, like a lot of places, just that background stuff. Tonight its gone from the Beatles to Bill Withers, “There ain’t no sunshine when she gone” he sings, or something like that. Two teenage girls stop in the middle of the store and start to dance, quite full on, waving their arms around, shuffling round each other, grinning and laughing. Four other boys and girls appear from the back of the shop to catch up with them and the girls shrug as the group continues to make its way through the shop. But they can’t resist waving their arms round each others shoulder and doing a semi-conga as they go.

Labels: book, coffee, dance, girl, glasgow

“Is that a baby?” one of the girls cries out. Two girls, walking along Sauchiehall Street. Teenage, skirts and t-shirts, with cardigans, kind of style. “What?” the other says, confused, surprised by the yelp, the tone of surprise, shock. “Over there, in the coffee place – is that a baby?” I try to track what she is talking about, stopping and looking around, scanning the window of the coffee place. And sure enough, there, a big man, with a beard, is sitting at one of the window shelves, balanced on a stool. Clutched carefully in his big hands - a tiny baby – balanced on the shelf, legs barely off the edge. The baby is so small, the kind that you are surprised to see outside a hospital, tiny head, bundled in layers of clothes, keenly watching the world going by with fascination in that way babies do.

Labels: baby, coffee, girl, glasgow

Its one of those early spring days, 4-6 pm, people coming out of work, school, college. The streets are a buzz with people, all kinds of people, all layers of clothes from t-shirt to jacket, levels of intentions. There are too many stories going on, everywhere I look, to keep up with. The school girl, dark hair, Asian face, blue tartan skirt, smiling as she reads texts from her friends. The security guard outside the coffee shop, white shirt black tie, talking on his phone, tells the person to repeat themselves, before telling them to turn the radio down because he can’t hear them over it. The two Chinese mothers with prams, the heavily, heavily pregnant one stopped to adjust her jacket in the spring warmth, while her daughter reaches out and bats it with her hands. There is a group of kids, doing street dancing. Warming up on the way down, with a large crowd on the way back up, and neither time do I catch them doing anything particularly. There is a blue haired guy, sitting outside the underground waiting for someone. A pink haired girl in the comic shop, not laughing at her colleagues lame jokes, watching the clock for when its her turn to go home. Over dosed on stories I stop to eat, to drink, to write, and they keep on coming. The girl that serves me tea and pannini is Australian. Writing the things I’ve seen down, I can hear the quick fire chatter of Cantonese somewhere behind me. While I eat a friend of the coffee boy comes in with enthusiastic greetings and gushing praise of the weather. As they seat themselves, the three Chinese women leave, each short haired, but ranging in age from 20-something to 30-something. The latter two both have fat soft toys, oversized as key rings, one clasped in her hand with her keys, the other hanging from a black shoulder bag. Two girls come in separately, one a pony tailed Scottish brunette, tiny shoulder back, long purple jumper. The other is a red-haired American, sun glasses balanced on her head, wearing a jacket, too tight trousers describe the curve of her ass, the legs tucked into beaten cowboy boots. The Scottish girl gets tea and a sandwich, the American a fruit cocktail and a coffee, the Scot takes a table inside, the American one of the handful of tables outside. I finish the pannini and stop writing, drink my tea and read other stories.

Labels: coffee, glasgow, spring, summer, tea, weather

Girl with her auburn tinged brown hair tied back takes a shelf in the coffee house. Sat on a high stool, she grabs a free newspaper that is sitting off to the side. She wears a thick long scarf, multi coloured, wrapped repeatedly round her neck and lower face. She sits propped and ready, watching for them to shout when her coffee is ready. There are a couple of false alarms, where she is half off her seat, before her turn comes for real. Once she has her coffee she can settle, take off the waist length grey jacket, with its fuzzy lined hood. Beneath that she wears a warm blue woollen jumper, a couple of inches of black t-shirt peaking out from the bottom so that it almost looks like a skirt over her blue jeans. She wraps the jacket round her legs, covering her lap. Then props her head on one hand, sips coffee, turns the pages of the paper, reading carefully. Occasionally scanning the coffee for anything that might catch her interest amongst the background noise of people receiving their orders and chattering. One page clearly delights her, her nose with one nostril pierced with a thin ring, wrinkles as she grins with appreciation. After a while she digs into her backpack and digs out her phone. Checking the time, she decides its time to leave, so she wraps that long scarf back round her head, before pulling her jacket on and zipping it up. She bends down and picks up the branded super market bag with her groceries, and the generic blue polly bag, into which she shoves the paper. She slings her bag over her shoulder, then with shopping in one hand, she picks up the cup and saucer with the other and takes it back to the bar on her way out the side exit.

Labels: coffee, edinburgh, girl, reading

Girl in blue is off the shoulder and foreign. Serves me tea, serves me coffee. And I still can’t make out where it is she is from. Her hair is a ruffled bob cut, all flared up, like she is some kind of sexy girl triceratops.

Labels: blue, coffee, girl, tea, triceratops, waitress