Personal Yummy #45
Every time she walks in—a bit unsteadily—with that big, black, book-laden leather satchel hanging over her left shoulder (I swear it’s a permanent fixture there), holding—in her left hand—her metal, Chatham-insigniaed container of coffee (she must drink at least ten to twelve containers-full a day), I’m so happy to see her. Some days she’ll sit in my section and order a skinny glass of cranberry juice, the sun-dried tomato pesto pasta, and a side salad (which I always cut up for her) with blue cheese dressing; other days she’ll sit at the bar and de-stress with a cigarette and a seven and seven and chat with Curt, whom she can’t say enough good things about. But no matter where she’s sitting, she takes out her books and works, whether writing poetry (which is always so interesting) for her creative writing class, or working on her tutorial about the massacre of the American Indians—her forehead furrowed. And whenever I get the chance, I’ll sit down for a while and visit with her.
Somehow, no matter my mood or outlook, this always makes me feel wonderful.
Not only do we spend a lot of time enjoying each other’s company at The Grill, but our absolute favorite thing to do together is to hang out at the coffeehouses in Squirrel Hill and Shadyside—there are just so many to choose from. I relish going to them at any time and with anyone, or alone, but I have the best time when I’m enjoying these magical, eclectic, inspiring, comforting, cozy, noisy-but-quiet havens with Teeli, because she “gets” them just as much as I do. On any given day we’ll make an appearance at one, and on special occasions, sometimes two or three, including the Arabica and the Coffee Tree Roasters on Forbes; the 61C on Murray; the Greenhouse on Ivy (the building really does look like a greenhouse, solar windows and all); the Coffee Beanery on Walnut (there’s a cute Thai American guy who works there, whom Teeli has become rather friendly with); the Beehive on Pitt’s campus (you just have to check it out, if you don’t fear passing out from all the smoke); and the Kiva Han on Craig (they have a neat loft area if you want some privacy). She prefers the Coffee Tree Roasters, while I adore the 61C, but this doesn’t cause any trouble—we always have an easy time compromising. What we’re really after anyway is the environment and the chance to be together amid our books, the music, the luscious aromas, and the tea and coffee, studying one moment, and chatting and guy-scoping the other.
We also love going out to eat together, and especially for Thai food. The food at the Thai House on Bellefonte Street in Shadyside is delicious (they actually have a dish made of hard, dried noodles that form a basket, filled with fresh, crisp, sautéed vegetables), but the place we like best is the Lemongrass House, which is located above a men’s clothing store in Squirrel Hill. We sit by the curving glass wall and enjoy looking at busy Forbes Avenue below and at the enchanting, mystical statues of Thai goddesses within. We start out with delectable Thai iced teas (if you’ve never had one, you’re missing out!), made with the perfect mixture of rich, orange-colored Thai tea and sweet, heavy cream. I nurse mine for as long as I can, but Teeli usually downs hers rather quickly and then requests a Thai iced coffee.
Next, we order. One evening we’ll have tom yum soup (lemongrass-heavy broth with succulent shrimp and tender-but-firm mushrooms) and fish cakes to start, then spicy tofu in a black bean sauce (for her) and green curry with chicken (for me). The next time, we share everything, enjoying corn cakes for the appetizer, a shrimp salad drenched in lime juice, chilies, and garlic for the main course, and, for dessert, sweet sticky rice. And we eat all of it with their beautiful, copper-colored, majestic cutlery with the curlicue flourish at the end of the long stems. But watch out! Their food is hot! (As in spicy hot.) I can eat hot food—don’t get me wrong—but the level of hotness contained in some of the dishes is just plain amazing (on a scale of one to ten, I’ve finally learned to order a three). Teeli, however…talk about amazing. She’s an order-a-ten-consistently type of girl. And there’s never any wincing. No downing all the water in her goblet. No taking a break for a few minutes to catch her breath. All I can figure is that the Thai blood running through her veins must have something to do with it.
It’s kind of surprising we get along so well, though. We’re very different young women, with very different looks and very different backgrounds. She has dark features, and mine are light; she’s agnostic or Buddhist (or something in between), and I’m Catholic; and she had a rather difficult childhood, and mine was, for the most part, carefree and happy. But that day, in February of 1992, when we met on the winding staircase in beautiful Fickes Hall, on our way to becoming freshman roommates, I had a feeling our relationship would be something special.
Rooming with her in that big, fancy dorm room did take a little getting used to, however. First of all, she stayed up until three or four in the morning studying, lying on her stomach and hiding within her covers (innocent eyes peeping out), books spread all over her bed, and her desk lamp (also on her bed, quite precariously) shining like a veritable spotlight. After a few weeks of enduring this (and not sleeping much), hiding within my covers as well (my head completely covered, though), I tried to talk to her about it, but I didn’t press her when she said that she studied best at night—“It’s always been that way”—and hated to be downstairs in the library or living room alone, it just made her too nervous. Secondly, she set her alarm clock to the heavy metal station—and never forgot to turn the volume up high. Therefore, each morning I’d be awakened by silence-thrashing Metallica, Ratt, or Mötley Crüe (take your pick!), which never failed to jump-start my heart. And thirdly, after taking a shower down the hall in the communal bathroom, she’d come back to our room and nonchalantly walk around naked as she decided what she was going to wear—in front of me, who hates to undress in front of even my mother.
But the more I’ve thought about it, I could live with those minor things, especially because the person who did them has such a heart of gold, and has done—and does—so many other things that truly do matter. Like when she never forgets to give Edward, the kind homeless man who sits on the short brick wall that’s adjacent to the bagel shop—just a couple of doors down from The Grill—a steaming, fresh cup of coffee, particularly when it’s freezing outside. Like when she tries to cheer me up by giving me “happy gifts,” as she coins them, such as a pretty, V-necked, button-up cotton top in a shade of yellow—my favorite color—or Trial by Fire, the just-released CD of Journey, my absolute favorite band. Like when I’m suffering in my dorm room with tonsillitis, and she brings me a plate stacked with food, even though it’s hard for her to carry it all the way from the dining hall with a brace on her leg and the use of only one hand. Or, like when it’s my birthday and she writes the sweetest, most earnest note to me, even though it’s so difficult for her mind to form the sentences sometimes.
But that Teeli, she’s a fighter. She grew up without her mother. She’s been through multiple surgeries. She goes to a reputable, four-year women’s college even though she was told not to. She continues going to this college, even though, again, many advise her to transfer. Plus, she works the graveyard shift at Eat’n Park as a hostess, and then walks all the way back to campus in the morning as the sun rises.
Whenever I can, I give her a ride to wherever she needs to go, in my yellow Dodge Shadow (and she always offers me gas money). I braid her long, wavy, beautiful black hair before she goes to work—and adjust and brush her short, straight, black wig when she goes through radiation and chemotherapy. Every once in a while I butter her toast in the dining hall. I edit her papers and help her to form ideas and transitions. And whenever she misplaces something, I try to find it.
But Teeli, she does so much for me, too—but it’s much more important stuff, I know. When I work as a live-in nanny for a wealthy doctor and his wife, the summer before my sophomore year, she keeps me sane. When I’m aching inside with a broken heart, she listens to me and comforts me when I think there’s no comfort.
Unfortunately, we do have our problems, though. For a couple of months she’s thoroughly mad at me and won’t say two words to my face. One day during this time she comes into The Grill with Amanda, my ex-roommate and a “friend” of ours from Chatham, and passes me coming out of the bathroom. “Teeli, what’s wrong?” I ask, desperate, but she hardly acknowledges me. Later that evening I call her and leave a message (she lives across campus in Woodland Hall), but she never returns my call. I can’t, even though I think and think about it, figure out what is wrong. All I know is that she’s not happy (to put it mildly) about my new love interest, and I just bet that Amanda is putting some weird ideas into her head.
Eventually, after a lot of heartache and unanswered questions, she comes cautiously into The Grill one evening—without Amanda, for once—her large, round, brown eyes welling up with tears. I give her a ride back to campus later, and she apologizes profusely, admitting that she doesn’t know what got into her. “I’m so sorry, Jenna. I was just so worried about you being with Joey—I was so scared for you,” she says. “Plus, Amanda was saying all of these mean things…about you…and for some reason I started to believe her, even though I knew in my heart that they were in no way true… But, finally, it all dawned on me that the only reason she wanted to hang out with me so much was because she had found a bank in me… I’m so sorry, Jenna. I’m so sorry… And I love you—you know that…don’t you?”
If someone truly wrongs me, I can never seem to completely get over it, and it is tucked within me forever. But with her, after she says those words to me, it’s never again an issue. The slightest tinge of anger or resentment against her vanishes forever.
Maybe it’s because she’s such a good soul, maybe it’s because she tries so hard, maybe it’s because she has so much to fight against…but I think it’s because she loves me, and because she tells me so—tells me so, more than anyone I know.
Originally, I hadn’t even planned to go to Pittsburgh for college. After a tumultuous two weeks at a college in Ohio, plus a few more months of embarrassment, shame, despair, and indecision, Chatham became my second college try. And Teeli, upon receiving the rejection letter from Juniata College in Huntingdon, PA—where she had longed to go—she was forced to go to number two on her list. Thus, it seems that somehow, at this raw, wonderful, explosive time of our lives, we are destined to be here—in Pittsburgh, at Chatham, hanging out at The Grill—together. And not just for the serious, heart-wrenching, scary, earth-shattering aspects of living, but for the fun, easy, simple, crazy, and utterly enjoyable stuff, too, which, in the end, turns out to be just as memorable and life-changing—if not more.
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The above excerpt is from my coming-of-age novel—The Grill on Murray Avenue—about the inhabitants of an unassuming bar-and-grill in Squirrel Hill, a vibrant neighborhood in the east end of Pittsburgh. The story is told by Jenna, a young waitress who dreams of becoming a professional dancer.
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