Note to the Reader

The Same Cycle

I reached the Arizona Inn at 5:30 a.m. and circled the inner brick walkways along with other early morning joggers attracted to the deep green and vibrant manicured lawns. I stole glances of the native plants I ran past. I loved the slender tinted green branches of the Palo Verde; the silly looking pancake of a cactus, the prickly pear; the spindly and winding ocotillo; and the stately soldier, the saguaro. The scent of creosote intoxicated me.

On my way home I focused on the dark peaks and curves of the Rincon Mountains. I preferred their mystery at this hour—silhouettes without texture, an unexamined pro³le of peaks, curves, and valleys— the beauty of the earth from a distance, like the view astronauts possess from space, the swirl of our existence. As the sun inched higher, darts of lavender and magenta, swirls of sa²ron and old gold tangled with one another. Soon the colors of the day’s early canvas would evaporate into blinding fumes of dust and light, and I would feel disappointed by what further illumination revealed: wrinkles and folds, weeds and smog.

Back home, as I styled my hair and applied makeup, I felt proud. Another day, another three miles, part of a regimen in my quest to get thin. Both my pride and the release of endorphins—those feel-good brain chemicals—made it worth the agony of getting up before dawn.

After a few prayers, I rode my bike to campus to make an 8:30 class. After physical geography, which frankly bored me, I raced to Modern Grammar and Usage—much more interesting for this English major. Brit Lit was next. However, this was one English class that didn’t captivate me. Where were the women writers? It seemed as if every “major” author

was named John or William. I struggled to pay attention in that class. And at times I felt guilty for struggling. I should love Lord Byron the way I love Margaret Atwood, right?

When I arrived at Bentley’s House of Co²ee and Tea, one of the most popular venues near campus, a line of customers stood all the way from the counter to the door, and every seat in the restaurant was taken. Jo, the manager, was preparing lunch orders in the back. “Hey Kim. Glad you’re here. We’re swamped,” she said. “Why don’t you help at the counter?” Jo had one eye on the crowd and one eye on the plate in front of her and still managed to sound friendly.

For the next hour and a half, I took and rang up lunch orders for professors, students, nearby storeowners and workers, stay-at-home moms with their kids, and doctors and nurses from the University Medical Center, who knew they couldn’t get co²ee as good anywhere else. Jo served the best iced and hot mocha and kept secret the prized recipe for these decadent and delicious drinks that drew in the customers.

Bentley’s was dreamed into existence by the managers, Jo and Willow. During a vacation several years back, they felt disheartened about returning to their respective jobs. They yearned for fun and meaningful work—not the nine-to-³ve drudgery that just so happened to pay the bills. “If we could do anything, what would that be?” they asked each other. While exploring possible answers, they gave themselves permission to dream without allowing any ³nancial worries to creep in. They both imagined opening a co²eehouse, and not just any ordinary co²eehouse— the best co²eehouse in town, a co²eehouse that would showcase the art and photography of local artists and would bring in local performers and poets, a co²eehouse where the customers could study and hang out, a co²eehouse that served the best co²ees, teas, pastries, and light meals. Excited by their vision, they returned home and started making concrete plans. Family and friends loaned them money. They secured a fabulous space near the University of Arizona’s main campus, and within several years they opened a second co²eehouse in downtown Tucson.

Their story gave me hope that perhaps I could dream. Perhaps I could achieve success. Maybe one day my fears about getting married would subside and I’d ³nd that special man, get married, and raise children