Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Broadway, Bagels, Poets, and No ADA Door : Characters I Have Known
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Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
Ok, for those who are interested, here is another character from my life. It started in my old neighborhood, Capitol Hill, in Seattle. Cap Hill is the most densely populated neighborhood in Seattle and was once a gay mecca, home of "The Only Gay Mall in America," which I lived next to in the mixed retail building I called home for 16 years. It had a main drag called Broadway, where the bus stops were, along with many store fronts. I liked to go out on Broadway at about 5AM every day of the week. I liked to just hang out there in the cubby holes and stairways of the buildings. (This was years before our mayor pushed the University area druggies to Cap Hill, and it still felt safe.) Noah's New York Bagels opened around 6AM, so I often went there on my scooter to get a 50 cent bagel. The problem was the door, not accessible. So I would push my scooter into it and shove my way in.
Yes, there were usually a few patrons sitting at small tables inside, no they didn't jump up to let me in. Fine, cool, whatever, but when it was raining and 35' outside---not cool. Anyway, one day the new store manager (the cashier and serving line were maybe 24 ft. from the door; they could see me, but chose not to look) told me not to push the door, that I would break it. I countered with, then make it accessible, ADA and all. She said, "I'll be sure to let you in." Right. (Like you have done so many times, er, NEVER, before.)
The next day I rode up, drenched in rain, and this street type person who had a sign I couldn't read and a long, worn, overcoat, no hat, stepped up to open the door for me. Neither of us looked like we had a dollar to our names. (A necessary look if you are a disabled woman alone in the dark on Broadway at 5AM and in fact I only carried enough change, exact change, for a bagel and a mocha that I would get later, back at the Broadway Market--the building I lived in.) Drat! Would he expect a tip?
"Thanks, Man," was always enough and he stood in front of Noah's Bagels for at least a year, always opening the door for me. One day our newspaper told his story: He was a published poet who sold his poems on the street now, having fallen on hard times. I think it said he had overcome addiction and divorce problems, but remained unemployed.
In other words, he was a somebody, though by all appearances just another street beggar nobody---except to a woman in a scooter who couldn't open a bagel store door.
After I read about him, I wanted to buy one of his poems. He never showed up again. The bagel store manager never let me in, even when I banged loudly with my fists on the window, bothering the customers until they had no option but to let me in, and THEY looked at me like *I* was the 'bad guy.' When I complained again to the manager, she just rolled her eyes and I just rolled out, never to return.
When I think of Noah's Bagels, it is not the door, bagels, or nasty mgr., that I recall, but the gentleman poet, who preferred to remain just another man on Broadway.
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