When you work in a downtown environment, you quickly learn about the different elements of that ecosystem. Stray animals, less than reputable street folk, and the day laborer are all creatures that cross your vision on a daily basis. I'm not trying to disparage the street folk or day workers at all. Everyone has a story, and most of those stories are rife with struggle. Certainly, a human life needs to be learned before they are judged, and judging without knowledge is a dicey proposition because you really don't know anyone's history.
Sometimes, however, you have a gut feeling about a person. And sometimes, your gut is right.
My store is in the heart of my downtown community. The storefront is at the end of a giant parking lot, and in the slower times, (which are more than I would like) I get to watch the comings and goings of said lot. Observation breeds knowledge, and seeing certain people day in and day out, and what they happen to do day in and day out can give the observer certain information about certain individuals. For instance: the guy with the sweatpants hanging off his ass, who gets into random cars for about 5 minutes at a time? He's PROBABLY (not certainly) up to no good, legally speaking. He's probably alleviating someone's daily pain, but chances are it's not in the most reputable of means.
I'm not judging sweatpants guy. I think he's working, and everyone needs a job. I don't have concrete evidence of anything, so I don't actually know what his job is, but I think sweatpants guy doesn't pay his share of taxes.
A young woman works in the lot in a different way. She shows up and leaves. Then comes back a little less put together, and then leaves again. She works in a more physical field than sweatpants guy does. I don't know their stories, but I think I know their jobs. I saw her meet a fella, take cash from him and they started walking past my store. I stopped paying attention. Commerce happens.
Then the bell on the door chimed. Someone was coming in. At noon on a Wednesday, any customer is unexpected and welcome. The daytime prostitute bounced up the stairs.
"I see this place everyday!" she smiled. "It's so boujee!" Then she bounced out and went off to work.
"Huh," I said out loud to the ghost of the working girl. "That daytime hooker fucking nailed it."
She really did. My store is bright and clean, and it smells like warm bread. It's very much of the bourgeois. My clientele is middle to upper middle class white dudes with extra money. In fact, that is literally my demographic. Boujee as hell.
Then I realized that Sunshine Whore had explained my entire working experience in one happy exclamation. "It's so boujee" is what I see every day. It's been a trend for the last few years.
It started when I was working at a high end French bistro in Madison, Connecticut, perhaps the whitest place on Earth. I realized I was around a different level of white person when bottled water became a talking point.
At this bistro, I was working the line, sweating in a cramped area with two other men. We made exceptional food. Food I can't do on my own. Food I am shocked they let me near.
We were motoring through a dinner rush when the bartender pokes his head into the kitchen "Hey, what is our most expensive bottle of water?"
We stopped in our tracks. Sauces bubbled. Steaks seared. Salads sat idle in a bath of dressing. We looked at the bartender, who's wry smile let us know he had a special pair of patrons awaiting an answer.
"Well," I said, breaking the slack jawed disbelief, "I can spit in their mouths for $200 an hour. Nothing fresher than straight from the tap."
Our Chef was French, so he said with his thick accent "Wee can owlays deep from zee toilet for zem."
Now, the line, regardless of restaurant, is a brutal place. It's a vicious and unforgiving life that breaks most people. It becomes fractured, with cliques forming, pitting person against coworker for no reason other than bullshit. We were all on the same page here.
This was the moment I realized that white people are insane, especially when they get some money. It's bottled water, who gives a shit? I was serious about spitting in their mouths, as a momma bird would for her chicks. As the night went on, we continued to laugh about these honkeys.
We developed a business idea, too. A restaurant called Baby Birds, where the staff chew the food for patrons and drop it, mouth to mouth, to the customer. It'll be flappin' great. And horrific in every way.
I know there is a segment of out of touch rich white people who would be into this. Market it as boutique, predigested cuisine. The shorts and blazer crowd will pay a premium.
I hate these people and will exploit them at every turn. But if they are willing to give me $200/hr I will absolutely spit water into their mouths.
SD
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