Company Calls

I made a new playlist at the shop today, the All Death Cab Mix. "The New Year" was playing as my first customer came in at 6:45 and ordered two tall coffees and two blackberry scones. A young man, a regular, blue pinstripe shirt and red tie, glasses. Cute guy, seen him tons, never really gave him a thought beyond "Office worker, bad tipper".

He bobbed ever so slightly on his toes as I put his scones in a bag. "Who is this?" he asked as I crossed to pour his coffee.

"Death Cab For Cutie." (I have tipped so many people off to their existence, people to whom Ben Gibbard's gentle vocals are familiar via commericals and The Postal Service.)

"Ah. My roommate in college used to listen to them a lot. Them and . . . Hey Mercedes?" I nod and smile as I hand him his coffees. "And something about orange . . ."

"Hey Mercedes? In college? Then that can't have been that long ago," I ask, suprised to hear these bands that are, to me, timeless, dismissed as "college rock". And seeing this man with new eyes. Hey Mercedes' "Every Night Fire Works" came out in 2001, as did Death Cab's "Photo Album". "Transatlaticism" in 2003, the year I graduated high school. This man cannot be more than a few years older than me, he's likely 25, 26. The age of many of my friends, Melinda's age. And yet, I'd lumped him in with the mortgage holding, PTA going middle-aged office skunks who pass characterlessly through the shop every day.

"Long enough," He said. "It was a long time ago. Yes, I sold out a long time ago." He was unapologetic.

I winced. "You said it, not me," I said, hanging my head in vicarious shame.

He went to the condiment bar and found lids and sugar, saying, with a cocky toss of his shoulders, "But I like to think I bought in."

I fake laughed, "Yeah, maybe both," said Jamie-at-work.

What a waste, what a loss. The picture of everything I've rejected, the product of the life I eschew. Poor little boy . I hope to God he makes lots of money, because if he doesn't, he threw everything away for nothing. Threw away fun and freedom and noise and meaning for a stable job and a pair of pressed pants, and the chance to be the early morning office coffee lackey. Next time I see him I'll make sure to smile and make inappropriate jokes, get a little harrassment under Danny Dockers' skin, remind him what it means to be young.

It Smells Like Tar There Now

In this week's Urban Tulsa, we have another politely rabble rousing editorial by my favorite republican, Micheal Bates. My favorite part:

The appearance of the term “acreage” ought to be a clue that a proposal isn’t truly urban development. Suburbs are developed by the acre, but real downtowns are developed in terms of blocks and lots, one building at a time. The diversity created as an area is built up over time by many different builders creates visual interest and long-term sustainability, qualities that a monolithic mixed-use development can only simulate.

Right on, Mr. B! The only way we'll get a downtown worth anything more than a visit is to take it block by block, business by business. And how can the city help with that? Answers forthcoming.

The rest of the editorial talks about the emptiness of downtown, and specifically the death of Main Street as it was guillotined by the Williams Building. There are two bits of Tulsa history, one tragic and one personal, that center around Main Street that I'd like to have remembered.

Number one: There is a building directly across the street from the "Communist Albanian gun emplacement", er, Tulsa World, on Main Street that used to be a Renbergs department store. It has a big funky green facade that makes me think the store must have made one last ditch effort at being fashionable and "with it" around 1989 with a remodel. The store is now closed and the entire building is deserted. This building was once known as the Drexel Building (and perhaps still is in some records) and was one of the first in Tulsa to feature an elevator. And on this elevator in 1921, a young white girl and a black shoeshine boy took a fateful trip, the exact events of which we will never be quite clear on, except that when the doors opened, she cried rape. The black man was arrested, Richard Lloyd Jones wrote an editorial calling for a lynching, mobs assembled, and the Tulsa Race Riot began.

Number two: At 111 East Third Street, about halfway between Main and Boston, on the north side of the street, once sat Saied Music Company. From 1948-1965 it sold band instruments and sheet music under the ownership and direction of Mr. James Guy Saied. He was my grandfather. He died last December, and his death sparked my desire to own my own business and carry on the family legacy of shopkeeping or being a "ragmerchant", as goes the family slang. My desire for a shop led to my interest in cultural development and urban planning, so I never thought to ask him when he was alive, how closely tied to the building of the inner dispersal loop was his decision to move the store? He would have seen very clearly the death of downtown from his shop, would have tracked the path of development and business from Tulsa's heart to the south and the east. His autobiography (my most cherished resource for business advice) discusses the move, but he doesn't mention his reasons for moving. He does note that he chose the new store location, 33rd and Yale, for it's proximity to Tulsa's first large shopping center at 41st and Yale. (which I can only assume would have been Southroads) I know my uncle, now the owner of the company, would love to move the shop south, but knows he couldn't compete with Music-Go-Round and Guitar Center. The path of Saied Music Company is the path of development in Tulsa.

Alert to all Local Pipedreamers!

Two new leads on bookstore possibilities:

Carlos Moreno has put me in contact with an SBA loan officer who, gasp, actually loans to small businesses! He's a fresh recruit to the job, so maybe he's yet to be turned to the dark side. I didn't believe Carlos the first time he told me he knew someone who'd be interested in lending me the dough. I've gotten so many "helpful tips" on where to seek funding, all of them ending up dead ends and wasted time, I didn't ever call the guy. But last time I saw Mr. Moreno, he told me about a small cafe that'd been given a loan by this guy. He said there's no reason, NO REASON, I wouldn't be able to get a loan as well.

On the route today, delivering to Impressions Deli at 4th and Main, I happened upon the owner outside, setting up tables on the sidewalk. After I dumped the papers, I asked him what he knew about the Kanbar deal. (Impressions is in the Oil Capital Building) He told me that they're planning a jazz club at 6th and Main, and of course apartments and hotels. He didn't know if they would all be high-end housing, though he was betting on it due to it's ultimate profitability. (Don't despair, young hipster poor! Kanbar is obviously not in this for the bottom line, he's in Tulsa.) The Pythian building, which is decadently art deco and three stories high, will be given the other ten stories that were originally planned for it in 1929, and then abandoned by the then owners. There's a pawn shop in there now, and a Quiznos, and Mr. Impressions Deli told me that Kanbar's already given the pawn shop a notice to vacate. (Again, if he's really not about the bottom line, will a boot soon be applied to Quizno's corporate ass as well?) And that he is interested in things like BOOKSTORES and other small shops to encourage people to live and work and browse in the neighborhood. I have the name and number of the leasing office.

Shivers, shivers, down my spine. Will my beloved bookstore soon be mine?

Through A Glass Dirtily

Every time I enter the Williams Tower at 2nd and Detroit, I can't help but marvel at the spotless appearence of all that glass. The whole place is glass, but so are the front doors, the tables in the lobby, the balconies and walls dividing the offices from the hallways. They must have a veritable army of little people armed with gallons of Windex and reams of paper towels to keep it all so smudge-free.

My sweaty, jangly appearance in that shining lobby always earns me a few sideways glances. I grunt my way through the revolving doors, a bundle on each shoulder, and I look remarkably out of place among the pressed trousers and briefcases that bustle around me.

The temptation to rub my grubby, newsprint covered hands all over everything is strong. When I enter the Chamber of Commerce office, I always make sure to avoid the door handles and leave an nice handprint in the middle of the glass. Maybe that'll remind me that I've been there, because they sure don't seem to notice the stack of Urban Tulsa's I leave them. Each and every week, I leave them 25 papers. And every week when I return, I pick up 25 unread papers. Sometimes, I have to dig them out from underneath Tulsa People or Community Spirit.

A smudge on their immaculate glass today, and a thorn in their political side tomorrow. They'll see who really runs this town.

Doing Shots

At about 7:15am one morning, two men pull up to Shades of Brown in a rusty green truck. They come inside and they are big, burly, construction worker/plumber/electrician types. One is older than the other, and he walks purposefully to the register, the younger trailing behind. "G'mornin', guys. What can I get for you?" I smile, and it's a genuine one, because in the morning sea of office workers and yoga joggers, these guys are a welcome spot of variety and scruff.

"Gimme a double espresso, please, sweetie?" the older one politely growls.

My smile widens. Any barista loves an espresso drinker, and this is an unlikely and delightful one. "You got it, sir."

As I knock out the familiar rhythm of pulling espresso shots, I tell him, "We actually use a triple shot basket, so two of our shots is like six of anyone else's."

"Whooee! This pool today is gonna dig itself!" he laughs, slapping the counter.

I set the cup in front of him and ask, "You want a water with that?"

"What for? Honey, I drink my espresso like I drink my whiskey. Straight, or not at all." He lifts the cup and drains it, tossing the cup into the trash behind him.

I laugh and jump up and down a bit. "That's the way to do it! See you soon, fellas," I wave as they head out the door and off to their day of honest labor.

Espresso is whiskey, coffee is beer. Lattes and such, those are mixed drinks. My M.O. of choice when it comes to alcohol, a shot of whiskey chased with a beer. When it comes to coffee, espresso and press pot coffee. I'll indulge in a latte here and there, but I feel as guilty as if I were drinking a Mai Tai.