I LOVE coffee . . . but there's no place to park.

I love coffee.

I frequent this coffee place in the mornings and afternoons. It's pretty great. Good coffee, interesting people, always something crazy going on.

There are SO many things to like about it. It's a used book store - used book stores are on the top of my "fave store" lists - they make amazing coffee, Paninis, show free movies, have art exhibits, acoustic open mic nights and on occasion, puppet shows. I'm only scratching the surface, they do many great things. I like the creativity of the people who work there. The owner is pretty cool as well.

If I could change anything about the place it would be simple: more parking.

They have a rather small parking lot that is quite often full, there is parking along the street as well but it is kind of limited. Of course the coffee and atmosphere is well worth parking a little far away and hoofing it. If I'm in a hurry sometimes I try to steal an illegal space to save some walking. I know I shouldn't but I can't help myself, I was built for SIN, baby. Once in a while I'll park in the lot next door . . . or park behind someone in the lot or - like today - park behind the building next door.

Today was one of those days.

I park . . . hurry in to get a refill on my coffee, have a couple of laughs with the barista and scram back to my truck. As I'm walking toward my truck with my wonderful coffee, I notice that there is what looks like an aging Hell's Angel shoveling snow into the bed of my truck. He is wearing a leather vest over a white T-Shirt, his long hair is bouncing with each heave of the scoop. He looks a lot like Willie Nelson, or Edgar Winter. Both of whom I adore, that's NOT meant as an insult, it's just a descriptor.

I'm pretty sure that he's making a statement about me parking in his lot, only he has chosen the power of the shovel over the power of words. I stand back watching him pick up the heavy wet snow and ultimately launch it into the bed of the tall truck, sweat and anger are the by-products of his furious labor. He stops to wipe his brow and take a couple of deep breaths, leaning on the shovel like a kick stand.

I'm kind of wondering what I should do, I sip my coffee mulling over my options as the snow pile continues to grow. I certainly don't want conflict, after all, I did park where I shouldn't have. I don't want to offer him a soapbox by asking a question like, "Hey, what's up with the snow, Willie?" Instead I opt for door number 3.

I walk over to my truck with a big smile, unlock the door, tell the man as cheerfully as I can, "Thank You", start my truck and drive away, leaving him leaning on the shovel, sweating and wondering, "What just happened?"

Too Funny.

Anyhoo . . . I have a pickup load of snow I'd be willing to let go real cheap. Let me know.