Community Service

On the mornings when I'm not running late, I hit up a small coffee shop around the corner from my job. I think this is the first time that I've stayed in one place long enough for employees to know what my "regular" is (coffee with soy milk and sugar, raisin bagel with butter). My sociological experiment in how diverse communities of people interact with one another, one might call it the ability to have normal human relationships, has been at once joyful and terrifying. Emboldened by a new sense of belonging, feeling like it might be okay that strangers know my innermost earthly desires/breakfast preferences, I find myself suddenly more likely to reach out to fellow new yorkers in their times of need.

Last week I was waiting for my butter vessel to toast when in walks a slim, well-dressed but not overly fashionable man in his late twenties/early thirties. He orders a coffee with skim milk and half a packet of splenda. Half? she asks from across the counter, looking perplexed. Yes, HALF a packet. Of SPLENDA. I exchanged worried glances with the other regulars, knowing instantly that one of our own was in trouble. I leaned over and patted his cardigan clad arm. Sweetie, indulge yourself. All that work you've been doing selling advertisements for some obscure trendy magazine and/or turning closetlike downtown apartments into dream homes, you've earned one full packet of carcinogenic confection. Go for it dear! You only live once!