The dark chocolate colored floor of the Coffee Shop reflects the golden brown tiled ceiling. The flowers in the middle of each tile meet as squares and continue until they reach the walls. One is brick, the colors resembling what a mixture of the glassed in display of red velvet cake and cheesecake would look like. The wall carries the ordering boards, created by the mysterious Seraphina in 2008. My hot chocolate, medium at $2.75 with an extra quarter for my whipped cream, sits upon the counter and is truly some of the best I’ve ever had. I sit down at a table, a round wooden thing just perfect for my steaming cup and a book. I never sit upon the wooden chair they provide. Instead I lean against the pillows, maroons and greens with embroidered beards, they provide on the counter-like couches. The pillows lay against the khaki stucco walls.
The back corner of the Coffee Shop has 5 PCs for everyone to use with Internet access. Their screensavers are the prices of minutes being used. I’ve never used their Internet and turn my cell phone off the moment I enter and choose to listen to the music they provide. It’s calming, the old-fashioned 70’s beats that echo through the small space. The heaters chirp, the noise so similar to the croaking of frogs. It mixes with the hum of voices and the occasional outside street sound.
The girl next to me taps into her Macbook and studies. Her hair, the color of the light brown vegan loaf next to the register, is crimped and pulled back into a messy bun. She reminds me of a hippie, a studious one, as she highlights dutifully. Beside her sits a blonde haired motorcyclist. He’s a walking contradiction, his glasses against his edgy black shirts that scream the names of bands no one has ever heard of. He sits and writes, a lawyer in the making as he scribbles on his yellow legal pad. The girl behind the counter, Lauren, stares at him and smiles. He’s just her type. They make awkward conversation as she makes his second shot of espresso tonight. She’s on the verge of flirtation, that thin line both easy and hard to cross when his phone rings. “Hello baby,” he coos into the receiver. Foiled again by the omnipresent and invisible girlfriend, Lauren looks at me and shrugs. Another day, another taken guy. She goes back to fixing his espresso and leaves me to my reading.
As I finish a chapter, I glance up and see the cupcakes on the counter beside her. They are these large magnificent things, simply oozing with sweetness. The one that catches my eye is vanilla with icing the color of wood and a party of pastel sprinkles adorning the top. It’s the last one of its kind left, unsurprisingly. Its neighbors are all varieties of chocolate combinations. No amount of chocolate chips or promises of almond bites can sway my mind from the cupcake, which I debate getting. I’m about to stand up when I see him, a boy of about fifteen with chunky black headphones, stand at the counter and point to my exact cupcake. He snatches it into his hand as soon as Lauren slides it onto the counter. Then, with a wide grin, he sits down on at a table on the other side of the small café. His headphones slip from his ears onto his neck, creating a necklace of sorts. He sits down, awkwardly moving pillows from his chair, and begins to eat.
During the time it took for him to sit down, hippie girl has disappeared. In her wake she’s left two policemen, both young and clearly proud of what they’re doing. Their waists are filled with various gadgets and pockets. The guns are there too, the constant reminder that they can and will protect at any cost. One of them orders a café au lait as the other sits down at hippie girl’s now empty table. He’s tired as he leans against the wall and closes his eyes. Lauren, on her next crush of the day, chats up his partner. This time there is no phone call from an unseen girlfriend and their conversation flows until it’s evident to all observers that some type of meeting will result. He’s about to leave, staying only to promise that he’ll come back for more later but Lauren tells him her shift is over. Her replacement, a short brunette in a black fedora, has walked in and taken the next customer’s order during Lauren’s conversation with the cop. He waits as she runs to the backroom to grab her coat and walks out with her, talking a mile a minute as his partner trails behind.
Lauren’s replacement quickly settles into a rhythm, pouring drinks and talking to her friend who’s seated on the couch in front of the window. They talk about the party they went to last night, some big shindig (do people still say shindig?) and the boys they met. They talk as people place orders, laughing at inside jokes.
I think the reason why I like it here so much is because it reminds me of home, of the place I used to go when I was a little kid with my brother. He’d take me to a café inside a bookstore where he’d sit and study for hours while I read and read. There was some kind of massive appeal to sitting there and reading books I didn’t have to buy but could, if I wanted them. It was like having my own little library for which we paid the cost of hot chocolate. Granted the Coffee Shop is quite different from Joe’s where we’d go but it still had the same atmosphere. It was the same type of place, one where you could go to get lost in the crowd and the people but still retain that sense of personality. I jot down in my little notebook to bring with me for next time a book, some thick novel appropriate feeling for this place. Two other people are reading, the ones sitting in the back near the computers. They’re reclining upon the benches and staring at black words on white pages. One, the girl about fourteen, reads some copy of Gossip Girl while her friend has The Bell Jar in her hand. Both two utterly different books, they accurately represent the crowd here at the Coffee Shop. You don’t have to agree with everyone to get in, you just have to have your own idea.
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I wrote the piece my freshman year for my creative nonfiction class. The Coffee Shop I wrote about is no more. In between last year and now, it seems to have become a Jamba Juice. Rest in peace, little coffee shop. I’ll miss you.
S
