Hazelnut Memory

On my way to work at night, I would pass Panera and think that someday I’d head out to work a few hours early so I could stop by there and get on my laptop. You know, just for a change of scenery, if it’s convenient. And the only way it’d be convenient is if I had an evening with nothing to do until work.

Tonight, I decided I’d go to Panera until they close at 9:00, then make my way towards the workplace.

I looked at the options: the same four types of coffee Panera has always had and usually it’s either burned or tepid. Luke-warm coffee is the trademark of Panera. But as it turned out, tonight I was in luck; the coffee was actually good! I wanted a dark roast, but I shrugged to myself, “It wouldn’t be the Panera experience without hazelnut coffee.”

So I’m here, at Panera, and it’s a blast from the past.

I used to go to Panera all the time at Bowling Green, then again at the one on the Country Club Plaza in Kansas City. Nothing special about it, nothing to get sentimental over, for sure. Just good sandwiches, bad jazz, and mediocre coffee.

But when I was living back home, working as a destitute—er, I mean substitute—teacher, I’d go to Panera in Columbia almost every Friday to job-search for a few hours before heading over to my friend Andrew’s house for a well-earned night of debauchery.

It was a miserable, nihilistic time, when hope was folly. Panera was less a sanctuary as it was the staging ground for my escape. Job-searching continues to be bleak, but at least now I have a reprieve from the urgency of it. Now, I don’t have to sweat bullets as the clock keeps ticking in the corner of my laptop screen.

I was trying to find a way to move to Austin. I remember, all too vividly, sitting at Panera on Nifong Boulevard, the snow coming down, listening to Michael Giacchino’s Lost (particularly season 4) or Harry Gregson-Williams’ Kingdom of Heaven or Bear McCreary’s Battlestar Galactica or other such bittersweet and urgent tunes as I kept trying and trying and trying to find a way.

Well, I’m here.

The other night, I had a NyQuil-induced nightmare about once again living with my parents and being a substitute teacher in Bumblefuck, Missouri. It was dreadful. I’m not being funny here. I mean it was really horrible. Like, actually traumatic. Bad, bad dreams.

But there was that silver lining to Panera on Nifong… chatting online with Juliet, followed by the inevitable liquor store run on my way to Andrew’s house. Mmmm, and let’s not forget the Flat Branch microbrewery. Columbia has its merits.

God, those were bad times.

Still, though, my unrelenting sense of frustration borne of undying loyalty to past friends and fond memories leaves me wanting. Stupid Austin is so far away… from pretty much everyone… and time is marching forward…

And now, surprisingly, my mind keeps going back to a walk-and-talk I had with one Aaron Marx, this past summer, on campus at Stevens Point, Wisconsin. We talked about the nature of moving on, and I hung on every word as he gave me his perspective as a new family man. Not sure what to make of all that yet.

It’s cold outside, and I’d like to be in Columbia, Missouri, just for one weekend.

But here’s to moving on.

Never stop fighting, and never lose perspective.

Listening List: Just one. You should download it. It’s called “Arise,” by E. S. Posthumus. It was my anthem for getting the hell out of Missouri.