The Coffeehouse

 

You know whenever you open the coffeehouse door and hear the bells clank against it, you will find someone you know, whether it’s a friend or just an acquaintance.  You know everyone who works there.  They are all young and alternative.  There’s the black guy who always smiles back when I smile at him before I order, the punk girl with the short dyed black hair and nose ring, the gay guy who wears super tight clothes, and the guy with brown hair who always looks tortured.

You remember how whenever your friend went to order a coffee, the guy who refused to sell her one unless it was decaffeinated would be there.  He thought she was too young to drink coffee.  Still, he gave her free drinks of Italian sodas or decaf lattes every now and then since she was such a loyal customer.  He’s doesn’t work there anymore.  You assume he got fired for not selling caffeine and then giving away drinks.

The people in the coffeehouse are very diverse.  They are mostly students from Yale, Neighborhood Music School, and ECA, among other places.  In the summers, it is filled with campers from Audubon Arts. There are lots of artsy intellectuals, many doing homework, studying, reading, and working on laptops.  Sometimes the fat homeless guy who wears suspenders and who asks everyone (including kids) for cigarettes comes in.  Everyone tries to ignore him. There’s also the homeless flower lady who sells wilting carnations that are wrapped in paper that she’s found from the dumpsters.  She stays just outside the coffeehouse and walks up and down the street much of the day.

You sit in the dim coffeehouse on a couch.  You and your friends chat while sipping iced lattes and chai teas, nibbling on brownies, huge chocolate chip cookies, muffins, and bagels.  You share each other’s food, sampling new flavors of iced coolers.  You carry musical instrument bags and heavy backpacks, knowing when you’re adults, your whole generation will have back problems. 

You and your friends make fun of the odd characters.  One of your friends says “Weeeezer, weeeezer” over and over in a funny voice until the guy with the Weezer band shirt looks your way, and you and your friends fake innocence. You spy on Blue Hat Guy, who is there all the time, working on his laptop.  Your tease your friend for thinking he’s hot.  He’s not; he’s ugly and creepy.

This is where you feel comfortable.  Everything is familiar.  You know what to order to satisfy any mood, you know to put your change in the Styrofoam cup that says “Help pay for my college tuition” as a tip.  You know where to get your cup top and straw and napkins for your baked good. This is where you grew addicted to chai teas, iced or hot, depending on the weather.  Afterwards, you know where to put your dirty silverware and plates if you don’t get your food to go.  Most importantly, you know when you leave, you’ll take that warm coffee feeling with you.