#and then it's broken by matty's Do I Look Like A Fucking Barista To You?

[lookedlikethebins]

Fuckkkk I hadn’t thought about producer George talking about/with matty in interviews!! I’m so excited

Truthfully, I hadn't either until today!! I was originally thinking it would maybe at George's house (interviewing in his home studio/a magazine focused on his set-up and gear more than any Personal Profile) and the interviewer bumps into Matty just putting away laundry or doing dishes on their way back from the bathroom. Or someone writing a different piece is sitting in while George and another artist are working together and Matty comes in and gives the artist and George coffees—and the interviewer assumes Matty is the Coffee Boy for the studio and tells him their coffee order...

Either approach I think it would be fun to try and figure out TA Matty's blend of playing it cool for George's sake (while waiting for his cue) but also very much wanting it to be known he's not just Anybody.

[the1975attheirverybest]

I hate that swifties just turned against Joe without any actual evidence and when the pictures of him looking rough came out, they were celebrating and going after his looks (like they are doing with Matty) and it made me want to punch them (not literally) and I'm not part of the fandom at all, it simply was trending on twitter and checked what happened. And now recently they've been putting Matty against Joe and while the majority is hyping Joe up again simply because they hate Matty, the ones who prefer Matty instead also get on my nerves because they are like "he's problematic but at least he displays affection publicly" and the reason why that upsets me so much is because everyone likes really shy introverts when they need someone they can trust but then suddenly we're "cold" and "too reserved" and "should change" the minute we're no longer useful and seeing those tweets just makes me so fucking sad because I am so quiet in public and I really don't do the whole PDA thing but my heart is feeling with love for the people I'm close with and I sympathize with how Joe must be feeling. There was a video going around of Joe at her show and you can see the heart eyes filled with emotion but you can also see that he's so shy and anxious about being in public.

And people being like "she deserves more" has broken my heart. it just triggered something in me. Everyone who's just a little bit like Joe knows the feeling of dating an extrovert or simply someone with a lot of friends and trying so hard to overcome our limitations and still seeing our efforts being ignored. And then people acting like Taylor did him a huge favor for dating him because in their heads "no way she'd be truly happy with someone like that"... We're not all bad, we've got our flaws but we deserve love too and we've got a lot of love to give... (sorry this is more like a personal rant)

As the self-appointed queen of introverts, I completely agree with you. In fact, now you're making me wonder if that's the reason I like joe? haha. I had never psychoanalyzed my soft spot for him, but, when you mentioned the videos of Joe standing in the audience and watching Taylor, you reminded me of a moment from my teens when we were at some big family party and...well, I get anxious asking the Barista for a straw at starbucks, I'm not a dancer. So, I was just kind of in the corner, clapping. much like Joe is in that clip, still having a good time in my own lil way, and my mom came up to me and gave me this whole ass speech about how I don't know how to have fun, lol.

BUT, whatever the swifties or Joe haters say, the facts speak for themselves. Fact: This has been Taylor's longest ever relationship. Fact: she literally wrote him a song that says "people think loves for show but i would die for you in secret." Is that not the best response to these idiots? Fact: she said she'd give him a child if he wanted. Does that sound like someone who isn't truly happy? Fact: one of her songs promises to marry him with paper rings even though she "likes shiny things." If the literary scholars who analyze every single word she writes and its meanings are ignoring these facts, it's because they're looking for someone to hate. Doesn't matter. Taylor and Joe know the love that they shared.

In fact, I'm feeling kind of the opposite haha. people are hating on joe's introverted nature now that he's left Taylor, but im enjoying Matty's weird nervousness around her friends now that he's enter her space. Sure he's sweet when he dances and wears her merch, but what's more important is that he's unsure and out of his element but trying his best anyway. which is how I feel in all social situations hahahaha.

everyone is just trying to get through this miserable life giving love and hoping to receive it in return. why would we make things extra hard on each other by comparing partners or deciding what Taylor should value or whatever? its dumb and pointless and breeds misery.

[jojoreadwhat]

you're all in my hands tonight, tonight I'm a rock 'n' roll star. / honey & smoke - m.h. x OFC story

Four Days Later, On A Friday.

Matty's POV

Computer Education had already given me a sour taste in my mouth and I only sat through two of its lectures. One because I knew majority of what was listed on the slides Professor Nolan was scheming through. I really had no explanation why I applied at UNI in the first place. I had high hopes that the tapes the boys and I sent into Capital Records would hit a soft spot. Sending us on a one way trip to success, where none of these qualifications would matter as long as I wrote out the music.

Then again if it all went down hill where I'd arrive at my flat with a box of tapes with the word 'denied' repeatedly stamped over it like fragile, even though my heart would be the fragile piece in that box. It would open the door behind the scene, the little paper of a degree with my name. A ticket of being able to tweak the shitty tunes on the radio that replayed like the TV movies do on Sundays.

Two, Professor Nolan was a bit of a drag. A fine dapper looking gentlemen in his early fifties. His hair slick back dirty blonde with what looked like emerald eyes the last time I stood close. A close shaved beard that extenuated his sharp jaw line. Dressed to the nines that if you seen him on the streets, you would've thought he had millions and a white collar type business. Even though, his Gucci navy suit that my father had exactly and bought for fifteen hundred dollars could make you believe he sat on a green mountain of dollar signs.

I felt his personality and aura resembled a present me. Barely in tune with all the new things happening but completely in tune with the young ladies that gave any advantages to pass. But in his case the young ladies could pass as daughters if the sucker had any.

"Open Audio Access on your laptops." He commanded, changing the slides that was accompanied with taps and clicks from everyone following along. I sighed to myself, everything that was on those poorly designed boards. I had edited and achieved on a new track the boys and I had recorded last night.

I slouched back in my seat, listening to Nolan's cocky Mr. Know-It-All demeanor. His degrees decorating the back of his desk fact it in that he knew more. Only giving him the approval of having Professor in front of Nolan instead of Mister.

++

After commenting on Mindy's plaid skirt, Professor Feast-A-Lot finally dismissed us.

I still had a class within the hour, just some simple music class that I signed up for the laughing matter. Always stating my answers to bands I drowned myself in as the other students wanted to cuss me out. Sighing to themselves, like that mop got the spill of answers.

With the time I had between I decided to get some coffee. The tea I had earlier with George talking about his night wasn't living up to it's strong expectations. Even though the class I just left could stand as a contender of an explanation.

I walked with the rush of the hundreds in the halls, making my way to left wing lounge and turning the corner of muraled up wall, covered in vibrant flowers and weird shapes from the art program.

Waiting at the counter I turned to scan the little lounge, just many studying with their textbooks as heads. Some talking to another. Just the common vibe of any little coffee shop you stepped your foot into.

One of them sticking out like a sore thumb.

Lucy.

Writing in her leather bound journal that rested on her crossed legs, playing with the slight tear in her in the hem of her playful colored dress.

Relaxed and looking out the window on the purple wing-back in the cafe lounge. Watching the shades of orange, red and yellow converse against the blue sky. Admiring her side profile, a high cheek bone with a light dusting of blush against her milky skin, her perfectly rounded jaw. Her lashes curled with a coding of mascara that complimented her baby blues.

I watched as she grazed her bottom rosy lip with the back of her pen in thought.

The red headed barista asked for the second time what I wanted before realizing that she was even speaking. Finding it hard to take my eyes off the scenery near the window. I ordered my black coffee, then pointed out Lucy who looked disappointed in the last drops of her cup. Dark roast, light with vanilla, sugar and two shots of the sleep she had lost the night before.

--------------------------------------------

Lucy's POV.

I was finding myself becoming a frequent patient with my therapeutic glances of the vibrant trees and the sounds of the espresso machine. Sitting in the same wingback, looking about the window, stuck in what I was going to jot in my journal next. My first week of being in London and enduring classes was wrapping up, nothing worthy had happened yet to write about and I was finding myself running around a writer's block.

As much as I wanted my creative juices to keep blending. I couldn't complain about how things were going. University has been so far treating me well. I've met a good handful of my professors in Week A, many have taken a liking to me which I couldn't quite grasp. But it wasn't a bad feeling to know about, plus Professor Jones really liked my thesis of A Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. Putting a good word into the librarian of the Uni's library and landing me a interview for Monday.

Things at the university housing with Liz and Abby was going pretty well too. I was growing more fond of them by the minute, both interested in the same type of books, music and films. Liz was a bit realistic and logic about life, which kind of put a damper on things if you were trying to live in a fantasy world with reality biting you in the ass. Then Abby was more free spirited and self aware of what made an individual very much happy, even when the world was not so happy.

Then lastly, home. I finally Skyped my brother Eric and my dad. It was early for them but quite late for me. But in all I was mixed with emotions, both joyful and sad that I wasn't home. They are doing well so far.

I sighed to myself, resting my leather bound on my lap and retreating my blue eyes to the shades of orange, red and yellow. Reaching for the coffee I had finished moments ago, but reluctant to get up and grab another.

But that was before one was brought to me instead. By another thing that I had happened to come across this week.

"Am I intruding?" The English native that I met my first night here had greeted, handing me the warm paper cup with pretty botanical flowers repeated. I shook my head, gesturing my free hand to the wingback across.

Matty sat down, folding his long legs over one another. His eyes meeting mine, smiling softly as his mouth indulged in a sip. Giving me a few moments to admire before another word.

He wasn't wearing his glasses today but his hair was the same as the night I met him. Pulled back into a bun with loose curls shaping out his face. My eyes leading down to his lined out jaw. His collarbones, the tattoo that always made an appearance no matter what type of shirt he wore this week. To the lasting hole over his knee.

I was broken from my stare when he had chuckled, possibly figuring out that I was staring long.

"Anything new?" He asked, his eyes gesturing to my open leather bound. I shook my head, slowly closing it against my knee before my eyes met his again.

He looked at me surprised and in disbelief, "So the storyteller doesn't have a story to tell?" He questioned, resting his cup on the table aside us. I shrugged, it was truly hard to believe but as my mind moved fast the world outside of it didn't and I was at a stand still.

"It just been classes, reading and then some." I finished, finally taking a sip of my coffee.

Matty smiled at me again, a smile I could watch curl at the ends of his mouth like a favorite part to a movie. "We may have to change that." He said, looking at me with tricks under his sleeves and me swimming in his over sized sweater.

I had to cut my coffee break short when I realized I had time run to my next class, Woman Studies.

Shortly becoming my favorite class as we debated fundamental rights and she played Kathleen Hanna fronted Bikini Kill winning my anarchy heart.

"Don't forget to read The Second Sex and please have your reasoning's sent in by 12 AM on Monday." She dismissed. I followed suit with the rest of the class as I packed away my things for the weekend.

Making my way to the hall to get lost in the hundred of others trying to head out and not miss the next Tube coming by. The boy in a leather jacket that I was sharing a coffee with an hour earlier was leaning against the wall next to the door.

His devious smirk gracing upon his face, "I'm feeling like you're onto something." I commented, a small smile plastering across my cheeks. Matty rippled a contagious laugh that I could listen to like an album on my turntable.

"Can't a gentleman just walk a lady home safely?" He remarked.

++

"No! That's a lie!" I laughed, hitting Matty's forearm lightly. We had moved onto music since Matty offered to walk me home. And let's just say we had a few differences.

Matty loved older music, which I did too. But I found Prince to be a bit cooler than MJ. Which didn't sit well with Matty. "Have you heard the magic in Rock With You?" He mentioned, "It's fucking legendary!" It was so funny to see him go off, but I never said I didn't like the man! I knew how the sounds had your hips moving. I was just a Purple Rain kind of girl.

Matty stood in front of me, walking backwards down the sidewalk.

Girl. Close your eyes... He began singing, moving his hips to the beats that played out in his head. Taking my hand, and pulling me close.

Let that rhythm get into you, don't try to fight it. Placing one hand above my hip, the other still in mine. Directing my hips into a sway, as his voice hit me like sweet serenity.

He went on, and I was enjoying every bit of it. Music was his muse like books were mine and he wasn't ashamed to show it. His hips showing that he never stopped moving either.

We had arrived to the front of my flat, Matty belting more songs of MJ.

"I have to get in," I mentioned, not really wanting to do so. Matty's lips kept moving "Not until you change your mind." Singing in the measures of Don't Stop Till You Get Enough.

I chuckled, still dancing with him till I finally caved in. "Alright, Michael Jackson is better." I confessed, meaning every word that fell from my mouth. He just chuckled, pulling me closer and bringing his lips to my ear.

"I think you're lying" his warm breath grazing my lobe. Sending chills down my spine. I went to protest when Liz and Abby got out of their car. Interrupting our manifest. They just softly smiled, saying Hello before retreating up the porch. I looked up at Matty, who still had his hand around my waist.

Matty pulled away with a soft but questionable expression on his face. I wondered what was on his mind.

"Come watch us play tonight." He said, "The boys and I are playing at the bar George's bartends in. I'd like to see you there."

Many different excuses ran through my mind. Studying, catching some sleep, watching the same three episodes of The Office, outline my far along memoir that would be a flop. Just a rush of things that could've fallen from my mouth.

"Alright, sounds like fun." Happened to be the better option.

Matty's smirk turn a bit shy, looking to the ground before he looked back up at me.

"I'll pick you up at 6?" He questioned, I nodded. Still confused on why I was agreeing to this extravaganza in the first place. A smile gracing his face once more before turning on his Vans to head back to where his road led him.

"See you soon, Blue."

[michaelfallcon]

I’m Just Digging Out From My Email

“Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player…”

I woke up with a start, neck crooked, with a cold sheen of sweat on my brow. The headphones were still somehow in my ears, but the movie, another vainglorious biopic, had long since ended. Lights were on in the cabin; the drink cart jostled my elbow.

How did I sleep? There was the worst fucking turbulence for a couple of minutes, and then I was just…went out for an hour and a half at least, maybe longer, in a twilight, twinkly state of half-rest.

I’d slept through my allotted in-flight work time, which was extremely unusual. Totally unlike me, honestly, but this was a long, long travel day, a set of two international flights over unfamiliar destinations, split up by a three hour layover. And that meant I could make it up in the International Lounge.

Flights like this—work flights—afford few if any luxuries. Once, exactly once, I was upgraded to Delta One, for reasons I don’t totally understand. I know other people in this business who fly business class every time: the international CEOs, the Executive Directors Emeritus, the consultants who demand it in their dignity riders, and the sort of folks for whom money doesn’t matter, whose careers in coffee are really more like hobbies.

The rest of us sit in coach.

But the International Lounge, well. On flights like these, access is complimentary, which means between flights I can put my feet up, grab a handful of snack mix, maybe a soda water with lime, and relax for once in my life. I hate traveling for work, and affliction I can’t seem to shrug off or numb myself out to it no matter how much I fly. It’s something really hard to explain to people who never travel for work, and look at travel as being intrinsically connected with holidays and fun. Traveling for work is neither. But the lounge, of all things… I find myself looking forward to it.

In what felt like a fast-forward batch of seconds we landed an de-planed. My feet were numb. My hands, too, numb all through my extremities, first like my fingers and toes had been rounded into clubs, and the there were thousand fire ants inside my skin. I couldn’t shake it off. I started doing a little dance, right there in the aisle, the people around me politely looking away into their cell phones. It faded a bit but not completely as I walked out into the terminal.

“May I see your ticket please?” She stood tall, blonde, in a perfectly manicured blue and grey uniform with a tiny silver nametag. It read Leentje. 

I handed my ticket to Leentje, awaiting her next direction. It came efficiently. “Oh! Welcome Mr. Mike-El-Man, you are welcome to International Courtesy lounge at Gate 52. It is this way.” She pointed down a vast concourse of numbered gates.

“Thank you, Leentje.” I’m pretty sure I pronounced it right.

I walked and walked, in what felt like another batch of fast-forward moments, still just slightly numb, shaking off the combination of a flight and a nap, running through my task queue in my head. I owed a bunch of email replies; I’d assigned myself a couple of stories to edit; I needed to dig out from a half-dozen different things.

At the lounge they checked my ticket—their nametags read Marieke and Jopie—looked at their computer, checked my ticket again, looked at another computer, and then finally admitted me. I glanced at the ticket before tucking it back into my passport, and for just a second it looked jumbled, like the words and letters were all mixed up. Have you ever broken a digital display screen? It looked like that, but on paper, and for just an instant.

The lounge was massive, an interconnected series of rooms dotted by service areas with row upon row of breads, cold salads, Segafreddo superautomatic coffee makers, self-service Diageo booze, and entry level charcuterie. I wasn’t hungry, but my feet still hurt, and I needed somewhere to set down my shit, plug in to a power source, and start finishing all my work.

There was every possible seating configuration: low tables, private desk nooks, huge high-backed privacy swivel chairs, bar stools near the food, and a set of long lounger daybeds with a raised portion, like what you lay down on in a cartoon shrink’s office. I chose that one, finding a lounger with nobody else on either side. A small mercy that lasted just a moment, barely enough time to put on my headphones and plug in my laptop.

He was maybe 50, or 55, and had that rumpled suit coat with shiny elbows thing that people get when they live their lives in the same set of suit coats. He sat down on the lounge directly next to me and made hard eye contact.

I looked up from the computer.

“Hey! How ya doing? Crazy running into you here!”

“Sorry, I don’t really like to smalltalk when I travel,” I heard myself saying in reply, which is what I always say in these situations. Yes, I know it’s rude, but it’s rudeness as a sort of self-defense, which I consider at worst a menial sin. “I have travel anxiety,” I said; I like to add this bit in to sort of buttress the self-defense posture. It’s not my fault I don’t want to talk to you, it’s my medical condition, you understand.

He didn’t understand.

“Whoa, sorry, hey—you’re the guy from Sprudge, right?”

I was.

“I’m sorry, hey! Good to see you!”

I always say this—good to see you—because I’m shit at remembering if I’ve met someone before, and so good to see you functions as kind of a catch-all salutation without causing offense. Of course I’ve seen you before, and I remember, and so it’s good to see you—but if we have never met once on this earth in life or death, well, it’s still really good to see you now, in this moment we’re sharing.

“Good to see you, too! I’m really glad to catch you here, you know. I sent you that email last week but maybe we can just talk about it now? I’m gonna run to the bar and grab a hot toddy, you want anything?”

I did not want anything. I wanted to be left alone. What I wanted most of all was for him to get up and walk away so that I could furiously check my inbox, and cross check its contents with this interaction so as to best figure out who this person was, what they wanted to talk about, and how to manage the rest of this interaction as efficiently and inoffensively as possible.

“No I’m good, let’s talk when you come back! I’m just digging out from my email.”

The man walked away in his rumpled suit coat, leaving his bag behind in the lounger next to mine. I had to know this dude, but I couldn’t for the life of me… couldn’t remember. So I opened the laptop.

100 new messages

My heart started pounding very quickly. My cortisol levels spiked. I had just looked through this shit before the 10 hour flight and there was what, maybe a dozen emails that needed replying? I had to scroll back to a second page of the inbox to get to the last tronche of read messages. I started to feel the fire ants again running up and down my legs…

Maybe I need some tea or something, or a glass of whatever shitty wine they’re pouring. It’s unhealthy to go straight from a flight to more work, after all. A big glass of spa water—that’s the best thing they serve here, you know, in these lounges, is the tower of water with cup up fruit inside. I stood up from the lounger, surveyed the room, and in that very instant felt the creepy-crawly sensation of a hundred eyes upon me.

I knew everyone in the room. And, I suspected, they were waiting on me for an email.

They were all there. Rob Riggle, Director of Coffee at Pik-Kwik Coffee in Nashua. Helga Ingiborg Gunnarsdottir, the international green coffee buyer and coffee competition judge. Ezekiel Christian, owner/founder/marketing manager at Hallowed Coffee Roasters of Grand Rapids. Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, a third generation Salvadoran land owner and general manager of a network of washing stations. Dizzy Morris, editor of the industry-focused trade publication Bean Teen Magazine. Hector Hernandez of Finca Hernandez in Chiapas, whose Finca Hernandez Yellow Bourbon (roasted by Goatyard Coffee) just received an unheard of 96 rating on Coffee Scores. Tina Sonsgard and Ricky Kim, who owned Construction Yard Coffee Roasters in the Bay Area. Constance Marino, the national barista champ and green coffee buyer. Hercules Siffaretti, the current international president of the World Coffee Association. Julio Trocas, the land management advisor and UC Davis trained agro-chemical salesman.

There was Lev Piav, the Ukrainian-cum-Australian international coffee consultant. Next to him sipping an Amstel was Matty Morely, son of Mickey Morely, who since the 80s had run Morely Roast Academy, a ten day $12,000 independent coffee shop owner certification. Hiroko Mayamara, who had personally judged more coffee competitions than any living person, and lived in a state of perpetual travel. Tim Wright, the Dean of Coffee Studies at Texas A&G. Dane Copeland, the hard-living Gen X bad boy founder of Little Beirut Coffee Roasters. Giacomo Olio and his team of staff representing La San Luigi Produzione, makers of the world’s most expensive espresso machines.

It went on. The entire coffee industry, it seemed, was sitting in this lounge, as though it were one of those invite-only executive after parties that pop up around the international trade shows.

I sat back down. I rubbed my eyes. My hands were completely numb, and fumbling, stumbling, I opened my laptop.

1,000 new messages

The words and addresses became like a floating jumble of crushed LED display. The whole lounge started to float. The man—I still didn’t know his name—came back over and sat down next to me, holding two large glasses of liquid.

“I went ahead and got ya a spa water, looks like you need it. You look tired! Ahawhawhaw…”

“Oh, yeah, you know, long flight—so do you!”

I hate it when someone says that—”you look tired!”—as a way of making conversation. I don’t look tired, you look tired. Of course I’m tired, I just flew 10 hours, and I’m starting to get the sinking suspicion that in fact I am dead, and this is hell, or at least purgatory.

“Listen—that thing I wanted to talk to you about. I just think it’s crazy that nobody is reporting on it yet!”

“Oh definitely, me too, me too. Listen—these days for news tips your best bet is to email my colleagues directly…”

“Of course,” said the man—I still didn’t know his name—”but since I’ve got you here right now I just figured…” but his dialogue was broken by a second man, looming before us, his enormous mustache gleaming in the early morning airport lounge light.

“Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, what are the odds!”

What are the odds indeed. I stood with my spa water, smiled at both men, and began walking back through the lounge. There was Lettie Dinklage, PR emissary for Toraji Springs Syrup Company. I had to write her back. There was Duke Iannucci, who I’d known for a decade, whose nominal job was fixing espresso machines for Metallico Espresso but who functioned as a sort of all-around brand emissary for the company. He’d emailed me two weeks ago asking for travel recommendations and I just… well, I still needed to dig out. I hadn’t written back. I kept walking, my eyes focused, my numb hands slipping on the water glass, back to the front of the lounge.

Marieke and Jopie were still there, standing in their crisply pressed blue suits. I approached with my ticket and passport in hand.

“Listen… your colleague Leentje sent me here… am I pronouncing that right?

“Leentje, yes.”

“Anyway, is there a way I can get on an earlier flight today? There’s something weird going on here and I need to… know my options.”

“Yes of course,” said Jopie, in no-nonsense lilting English. “Let me check your layover.”

“I think it was just supposed to be like, three hours. I have it in my email…” Reflexively I looked down at my phone, opening the Gmail app. My lock screen was now a digital spiral, like a black hole or a vortex or the gaping mouth of hell IDK…

10,000 new messages

“Were you on the 8am from Portland?” asked Marijke.

“I… was but something is… very wrong…”

“The computer here says there was a delay in your connection,” I heard Jopie say. “You will be delayed on your next flight. I suggest you enjoy the lounge, and we will call your name when there is an update.”

I paused for just a beat. My head felt numb now, like my extremities had from the moment I woke up on the flight. The lounge buzzed and hummed behind me, a service cart of fresh pastries clattering through the room.

“Give it to me straight, Jopie. Am I dead? Did my plain crash? Is this hell?”

She paused for a moment. Jopie and Marijke looked at each other, spoke briefly in Dutch, and turned back to me with a smile.

“Our records show you will be here for some time. The WiFi password is ‘relax’ spelled in English. That’s R-E-L-A-X.”

“I know how to fucking spell relax!”

“Alright sir. Perhaps you want to chat with the other guests in the lounge, and enjoy a complimentary drink? Or use this time to catch up on some emails?”

I thanked them, Jopie and Marijke, and apologized for raising my voice. How terribly American and embarrassing of me, to act like that. Totally unlike me, really. I try to be the most polite American of all time when I travel. It’s just, this had been such a long travel day, and it was only getting longer.

It’ll be fine. I’ll just go sit back down in the Lounge. You know, I do have some stuff to dig out from. I did have some emails to send.

Jordan Michelman (@suitcasewine) is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Jordan Michelman on Sprudge.

The post I’m Just Digging Out From My Email appeared first on Sprudge.

I’m Just Digging Out From My Email published first on https://medium.com/@LinLinCoffee

[shebreathesslowly]

I’m Just Digging Out From My Email

“Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player…”

I woke up with a start, neck crooked, with a cold sheen of sweat on my brow. The headphones were still somehow in my ears, but the movie, another vainglorious biopic, had long since ended. Lights were on in the cabin; the drink cart jostled my elbow.

How did I sleep? There was the worst fucking turbulence for a couple of minutes, and then I was just…went out for an hour and a half at least, maybe longer, in a twilight, twinkly state of half-rest.

I’d slept through my allotted in-flight work time, which was extremely unusual. Totally unlike me, honestly, but this was a long, long travel day, a set of two international flights over unfamiliar destinations, split up by a three hour layover. And that meant I could make it up in the International Lounge.

Flights like this—work flights—afford few if any luxuries. Once, exactly once, I was upgraded to Delta One, for reasons I don’t totally understand. I know other people in this business who fly business class every time: the international CEOs, the Executive Directors Emeritus, the consultants who demand it in their dignity riders, and the sort of folks for whom money doesn’t matter, whose careers in coffee are really more like hobbies.

The rest of us sit in coach.

But the International Lounge, well. On flights like these, access is complimentary, which means between flights I can put my feet up, grab a handful of snack mix, maybe a soda water with lime, and relax for once in my life. I hate traveling for work, and affliction I can’t seem to shrug off or numb myself out to it no matter how much I fly. It’s something really hard to explain to people who never travel for work, and look at travel as being intrinsically connected with holidays and fun. Traveling for work is neither. But the lounge, of all things… I find myself looking forward to it.

In what felt like a fast-forward batch of seconds we landed an de-planed. My feet were numb. My hands, too, numb all through my extremities, first like my fingers and toes had been rounded into clubs, and the there were thousand fire ants inside my skin. I couldn’t shake it off. I started doing a little dance, right there in the aisle, the people around me politely looking away into their cell phones. It faded a bit but not completely as I walked out into the terminal.

“May I see your ticket please?” She stood tall, blonde, in a perfectly manicured blue and grey uniform with a tiny silver nametag. It read Leentje. 

I handed my ticket to Leentje, awaiting her next direction. It came efficiently. “Oh! Welcome Mr. Mike-El-Man, you are welcome to International Courtesy lounge at Gate 52. It is this way.” She pointed down a vast concourse of numbered gates.

“Thank you, Leentje.” I’m pretty sure I pronounced it right.

I walked and walked, in what felt like another batch of fast-forward moments, still just slightly numb, shaking off the combination of a flight and a nap, running through my task queue in my head. I owed a bunch of email replies; I’d assigned myself a couple of stories to edit; I needed to dig out from a half-dozen different things.

At the lounge they checked my ticket—their nametags read Marieke and Jopie—looked at their computer, checked my ticket again, looked at another computer, and then finally admitted me. I glanced at the ticket before tucking it back into my passport, and for just a second it looked jumbled, like the words and letters were all mixed up. Have you ever broken a digital display screen? It looked like that, but on paper, and for just an instant.

The lounge was massive, an interconnected series of rooms dotted by service areas with row upon row of breads, cold salads, Segafreddo superautomatic coffee makers, self-service Diageo booze, and entry level charcuterie. I wasn’t hungry, but my feet still hurt, and I needed somewhere to set down my shit, plug in to a power source, and start finishing all my work.

There was every possible seating configuration: low tables, private desk nooks, huge high-backed privacy swivel chairs, bar stools near the food, and a set of long lounger daybeds with a raised portion, like what you lay down on in a cartoon shrink’s office. I chose that one, finding a lounger with nobody else on either side. A small mercy that lasted just a moment, barely enough time to put on my headphones and plug in my laptop.

He was maybe 50, or 55, and had that rumpled suit coat with shiny elbows thing that people get when they live their lives in the same set of suit coats. He sat down on the lounge directly next to me and made hard eye contact.

I looked up from the computer.

“Hey! How ya doing? Crazy running into you here!”

“Sorry, I don’t really like to smalltalk when I travel,” I heard myself saying in reply, which is what I always say in these situations. Yes, I know it’s rude, but it’s rudeness as a sort of self-defense, which I consider at worst a menial sin. “I have travel anxiety,” I said; I like to add this bit in to sort of buttress the self-defense posture. It’s not my fault I don’t want to talk to you, it’s my medical condition, you understand.

He didn’t understand.

“Whoa, sorry, hey—you’re the guy from Sprudge, right?”

I was.

“I’m sorry, hey! Good to see you!”

I always say this—good to see you—because I’m shit at remembering if I’ve met someone before, and so good to see you functions as kind of a catch-all salutation without causing offense. Of course I’ve seen you before, and I remember, and so it’s good to see you—but if we have never met once on this earth in life or death, well, it’s still really good to see you now, in this moment we’re sharing.

“Good to see you, too! I’m really glad to catch you here, you know. I sent you that email last week but maybe we can just talk about it now? I’m gonna run to the bar and grab a hot toddy, you want anything?”

I did not want anything. I wanted to be left alone. What I wanted most of all was for him to get up and walk away so that I could furiously check my inbox, and cross check its contents with this interaction so as to best figure out who this person was, what they wanted to talk about, and how to manage the rest of this interaction as efficiently and inoffensively as possible.

“No I’m good, let’s talk when you come back! I’m just digging out from my email.”

The man walked away in his rumpled suit coat, leaving his bag behind in the lounger next to mine. I had to know this dude, but I couldn’t for the life of me… couldn’t remember. So I opened the laptop.

100 new messages

My heart started pounding very quickly. My cortisol levels spiked. I had just looked through this shit before the 10 hour flight and there was what, maybe a dozen emails that needed replying? I had to scroll back to a second page of the inbox to get to the last tronche of read messages. I started to feel the fire ants again running up and down my legs…

Maybe I need some tea or something, or a glass of whatever shitty wine they’re pouring. It’s unhealthy to go straight from a flight to more work, after all. A big glass of spa water—that’s the best thing they serve here, you know, in these lounges, is the tower of water with cup up fruit inside. I stood up from the lounger, surveyed the room, and in that very instant felt the creepy-crawly sensation of a hundred eyes upon me.

I knew everyone in the room. And, I suspected, they were waiting on me for an email.

They were all there. Rob Riggle, Director of Coffee at Pik-Kwik Coffee in Nashua. Helga Ingiborg Gunnarsdottir, the international green coffee buyer and coffee competition judge. Ezekiel Christian, owner/founder/marketing manager at Hallowed Coffee Roasters of Grand Rapids. Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, a third generation Salvadoran land owner and general manager of a network of washing stations. Dizzy Morris, editor of the industry-focused trade publication Bean Teen Magazine. Hector Hernandez of Finca Hernandez in Chiapas, whose Finca Hernandez Yellow Bourbon (roasted by Goatyard Coffee) just received an unheard of 96 rating on Coffee Scores. Tina Sonsgard and Ricky Kim, who owned Construction Yard Coffee Roasters in the Bay Area. Constance Marino, the national barista champ and green coffee buyer. Hercules Siffaretti, the current international president of the World Coffee Association. Julio Trocas, the land management advisor and UC Davis trained agro-chemical salesman.

There was Lev Piav, the Ukrainian-cum-Australian international coffee consultant. Next to him sipping an Amstel was Matty Morely, son of Mickey Morely, who since the 80s had run Morely Roast Academy, a ten day $12,000 independent coffee shop owner certification. Hiroko Mayamara, who had personally judged more coffee competitions than any living person, and lived in a state of perpetual travel. Tim Wright, the Dean of Coffee Studies at Texas A&G. Dane Copeland, the hard-living Gen X bad boy founder of Little Beirut Coffee Roasters. Giacomo Olio and his team of staff representing La San Luigi Produzione, makers of the world’s most expensive espresso machines.

It went on. The entire coffee industry, it seemed, was sitting in this lounge, as though it were one of those invite-only executive after parties that pop up around the international trade shows.

I sat back down. I rubbed my eyes. My hands were completely numb, and fumbling, stumbling, I opened my laptop.

1,000 new messages

The words and addresses became like a floating jumble of crushed LED display. The whole lounge started to float. The man—I still didn’t know his name—came back over and sat down next to me, holding two large glasses of liquid.

“I went ahead and got ya a spa water, looks like you need it. You look tired! Ahawhawhaw…”

“Oh, yeah, you know, long flight—so do you!”

I hate it when someone says that—”you look tired!”—as a way of making conversation. I don’t look tired, you look tired. Of course I’m tired, I just flew 10 hours, and I’m starting to get the sinking suspicion that in fact I am dead, and this is hell, or at least purgatory.

“Listen—that thing I wanted to talk to you about. I just think it’s crazy that nobody is reporting on it yet!”

“Oh definitely, me too, me too. Listen—these days for news tips your best bet is to email my colleagues directly…”

“Of course,” said the man—I still didn’t know his name—”but since I’ve got you here right now I just figured…” but his dialogue was broken by a second man, looming before us, his enormous mustache gleaming in the early morning airport lounge light.

“Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, what are the odds!”

What are the odds indeed. I stood with my spa water, smiled at both men, and began walking back through the lounge. There was Lettie Dinklage, PR emissary for Toraji Springs Syrup Company. I had to write her back. There was Duke Iannucci, who I’d known for a decade, whose nominal job was fixing espresso machines for Metallico Espresso but who functioned as a sort of all-around brand emissary for the company. He’d emailed me two weeks ago asking for travel recommendations and I just… well, I still needed to dig out. I hadn’t written back. I kept walking, my eyes focused, my numb hands slipping on the water glass, back to the front of the lounge.

Marieke and Jopie were still there, standing in their crisply pressed blue suits. I approached with my ticket and passport in hand.

“Listen… your colleague Leentje sent me here… am I pronouncing that right?

“Leentje, yes.”

“Anyway, is there a way I can get on an earlier flight today? There’s something weird going on here and I need to… know my options.”

“Yes of course,” said Jopie, in no-nonsense lilting English. “Let me check your layover.”

“I think it was just supposed to be like, three hours. I have it in my email…” Reflexively I looked down at my phone, opening the Gmail app. My lock screen was now a digital spiral, like a black hole or a vortex or the gaping mouth of hell IDK…

10,000 new messages

“Were you on the 8am from Portland?” asked Marijke.

“I… was but something is… very wrong…”

“The computer here says there was a delay in your connection,” I heard Jopie say. “You will be delayed on your next flight. I suggest you enjoy the lounge, and we will call your name when there is an update.”

I paused for just a beat. My head felt numb now, like my extremities had from the moment I woke up on the flight. The lounge buzzed and hummed behind me, a service cart of fresh pastries clattering through the room.

“Give it to me straight, Jopie. Am I dead? Did my plain crash? Is this hell?”

She paused for a moment. Jopie and Marijke looked at each other, spoke briefly in Dutch, and turned back to me with a smile.

“Our records show you will be here for some time. The WiFi password is ‘relax’ spelled in English. That’s R-E-L-A-X.”

“I know how to fucking spell relax!”

“Alright sir. Perhaps you want to chat with the other guests in the lounge, and enjoy a complimentary drink? Or use this time to catch up on some emails?”

I thanked them, Jopie and Marijke, and apologized for raising my voice. How terribly American and embarrassing of me, to act like that. Totally unlike me, really. I try to be the most polite American of all time when I travel. It’s just, this had been such a long travel day, and it was only getting longer.

It’ll be fine. I’ll just go sit back down in the Lounge. You know, I do have some stuff to dig out from. I did have some emails to send.

Jordan Michelman (@suitcasewine) is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Jordan Michelman on Sprudge.

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